Upward. Inward.
To her.
“I need a moment,” I mutter.
No one tries to stop me as I turn on my heel and stride from the war table.
The corridors of The Barrow part for me, stone rearranging subtly, opening the shortest path to the solar where I know she’ll be.
Earth likes her.
It is already learning her steps, her weight.
Mine, it whispers, in its own way.
Ours, I correct silently.
I find her by the high window overlooking the Verdant Strata—terraced fields glowing softly under the strange daylight of the Marches.
She has one hand on the stone sill, fingers splayed, eyes distant as if she’s listening to something only she can hear.
Maybe she is.
She turns before I speak, as if my footsteps are louder to her than anyone else’s.
“Let me guess,” she says softly. “You’re about to tell me you have to go.”
I exhale slowly. “Stone’s Edge is under attack. SoulTakers. You remember Masielle? The Dreamwright there.”
“Of course.”
“She is an elder. If Idris takes her, he will gain knowledge we cannot allow him to have.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “So you’re going.”
“Yes.”
“With Thorne and Kael,” she says, not a question.
She must have felt the shift through the bond or the stone. Or both.
“Yes,” I repeat.
She looks back out at the terraces. For a moment, she is quiet.
The urge to touch her is a physical ache.
To hold her.
To hide her in the deepest vault I can carve.
Instead, I force my hands to remain loose at my sides.
“The Barrow is safe,” I tell her. “Its wards are older than I am. Alaric and Jules, Phoebe and Delia will all stay. The Crown is here. The SoulTakers will not breach this place easily.”
Her mouth quirks, humorless. “Trying to convince me, or yourself?”
“Both,” I admit.
