“The Eyrie reports SoulTaker movement along its borders,” he says without preamble.
“Fuck,” I mutter,
“Castletide has taken two raids to its outlying forges. Kael has them contained for now, but the tides are fouled for leagues. They’re not probing anymore, Dagan. They’re pushing.”
“The Broken Plains are under direct assault,” I answer grimly. “Varen says Thorne is holding, but one of the Plains sanctums is dark. Idris is moving his pieces.”
Alaric’s jaw clenches. “The Ember Vein?”
“Ward intact.” For now.
“Dagan?” another voice cuts in as the mirror’s view widens.
Kael steps into frame beside Alaric, sea-salt and storm-dark, eyes wary.
“We’ve also had whispers of attempts near the crown’s last reported location. Idris doesn’t know Thorne moved it from Ashfell. Not yet, anyway.”
“Yes.” I feel the weight of that choice settle heavily on my shoulders. “Well, it’s only a matter of time before he learns the Prime’s crown is here at The Barrow.”
“Hidden?”
“Buried deep. Wrapped in wards older than all of us.”
Alaric exhales sharply. “Then The Barrow will be next.”
He is not wrong.
The Rooted Marches are the marrow of Nightfall’s body.
The Barrow is its spine.
And now it houses the crown Idris covets like a rabid beast.
For the first time since bringing Alina here, doubt claws at me hard enough to sting.
I look out over the terraces again—at the people already up and moving in the half-light, loading seed and tools, preparing for another day of work.
They trust the land.
They trust me.
And inside, in my bed where I left her, lies the woman whose presence quiets quakes and steadies fault lines.
I have brought her into the very heart of the coming storm.
“What is it?” Kael asks, watching my face. “You have that look like rocks grinding together.”
“I am considering,” I say slowly, “whether I have made a mistake bringing a human woman here.”
A beat of silence.
“You mean bringing your viyella here,” Alaric corrects sharply. “We are past pretending these women are incidental to this fight, Dagan. The Fates—Nightfall—chose them for a reason.”
“Nightfall has a shit sense of timing,” Kael mutters. “But Alaric is right. Without Jules, the Eyrie would have collapsed the last time Idris came sniffing. Without Phoebe, Castletide’s wards would still be cracked. And Thorne…” he huffs, something like a reluctant grin flickering. “Well, you’ve seen what Delia does for him.”
Yes.
I have.
