“Fine.” The surrender tastes less like defeat than I expected. “We go to the stronghold. You can play medic while I explain how a routine intelligence meet became an Ash Cardinal’s funeral.”
Something shifts in his expression. Softens without weakening.
“The intelligence meet was compromised.” His thumb brushes my jaw one last time before his hand falls away. “Maelineither sold you out or was used as bait. Either way, she’s become a liability.”
The words hit somewhere unguarded, but not because I disagree. Because I’d already reached the same conclusion and hadn’t wanted to admit it.
“I’ll deal with Maelin.” Steadier than I feel. “After we figure out how deeply she’s been compromised.”
“After you heal. After I’m certain you’re not going to collapse from blood loss.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“It’s deep enough to worry me.” He guides me toward the alley’s entrance, stepping over bodies and ash without looking down. “And things that worry me tend to receive extensive attention.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a promise.” His eyes meet mine, and the ember-glow in them has nothing to do with violence. “Every drop of blood you lose is a theft from me. I will have it back in the screams of the men who drew it.”
The words should make me angry. Instead, they make heat unfurl in my chest.
“Partners protect each other.” I hold his gaze as we emerge from the alley into the market’s remaining chaos.
He tests the word. “I make no promises. However you want to look at it, you’re mine.”
“You’re really aggravating, you know that?” I let myself lean slightly into his supporting touch. “But you need to know that if you’re going to play medic, I’m a terrible patient.”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all.”
We walk through Lower Pyraeth’s ash-choked streets, leaving the carnage behind us. The crowd parts around Izan’s presence, survivors who recognize a predator and know better than to draw attention. I should be cataloging the ambush—mapping what failed, what needs reporting, what Maelin’s silence means for the network.
Instead, I focus on the hand at my back. The warmth of Izan’s presence. The certainty—new and fragile and growing stronger with every step—that I’ve found what I didn’t know I was looking for.
TWENTY-ONE
IZAN
The intelligence report burns in my hands.
Seravax delivered it personally—unusual enough to make me pay attention even before I read the contents. The cold pragmatist doesn’t leave his tactical chambers for anything less than catastrophic developments.
This qualifies.
“A city-wide binding ritual.” I read the words aloud, letting them settle into the air of the strategy chamber. The volcanic glass table between us displays troop positions and ritual node locations, but none of it matters if this intelligence is accurate. “The Blood Regent intends to bind every citizen of Pyraeth simultaneously.”
“Our sources believe the infrastructure is nearly complete. The ritual nodes we’ve been destroying—they’re not the primary network. They’re decoys. Anchors designed to draw our attention while he builds a far larger working beneath the city’s notice.”
I stare at the map without seeing it. The strategic implications are staggering. If the Blood Regent succeeds, he won’t need an army. He won’t need allies or resources or careful political maneuvering. He’ll have a city of slaves bound to hiswill, and the Cinder Flight will face the impossible choice of slaughtering the population we’re sworn to protect or watching Pyraeth fall.
“Timeline?”
“Days. Perhaps hours. Our sources couldn’t confirm specifics before—” Seravax’s mouth thins. “Before they stopped responding.”
Compromised. Dead. Same outcome either way.
My hands clench around the intelligence report, crumpling parchment that probably cost lives to obtain.
“Enforcer?”
