Alina makes a soft sound and reaches for me instinctively, fingers brushing the space where I was.
For a moment all I want is to go back.
To lie down, let her curl against my chest, and pretend we are just a man and a woman in a fortress that will never crack.
But that is not who I am.
And Nightfall does not allow such luxuries.
“Sleep, Oona,” I murmur, brushing a kiss across her temple.
She sighs and burrows deeper into the pillows, the bond between us quiet and warm for now.
I drag on trousers and a tunic, shove my feet into boots, and step out onto the balcony that overlooks the Marches.
Dawn here is not like dawn on Earth. The sky is still mostly dark, the Glowworm Moon low and smoldering, but the land glows from within.
The terraces shimmer with faint green light as roots wake and stretch. Mists rise from the ravines, catching on the stone bridges like torn veils.
It should be peaceful.
It is not.
A raven waits on the railing, feathers slick and shadow-dark, eyes bright and too knowing.
Varen’s familiar.
It hops once as I approach, then opens its beak.
“Lord of Earth,” it croaks, but the voice that issues forth is not its own. It is Varen’s, threaded through the root path. “Strike at the Broken Plains. Miners fleeing. Flame on flame. SoulTakers in numbers we have not seen.”
My spine stiffens. “What of Ashfell?”
“Smoke. Signals. Thorne fights.”
Of course he does.
“Any word from the Plains’ Dreamwright sanctums?” I demand.
The raven’s head twitches. “Two stand. One dimmed. The third—” A pause, and grief bleeds through the link. “The third is dark.”
I swear under my breath.
Dreamwright sanctums do not go dark easily.
For one to fail this abruptly means sabotage, slaughter, or both.
I send Varen steadying earth through the roots—a promise that I have heard and will answer—then release the connection.
The raven shakes itself, suddenly just a bird again, and takes off into the morning air.
Behind me, the stone on the wall stirs.
A mirror extrudes from the rock itself, its frame a ring of carved sigils: wind, wave, flame, and root.
At its center, the surface shimmers, then resolves into Alaric’s face.
He looks as he often does these days—half furious, half exhausted. His silver eyes burn bright even through the link.
