Seravax’s voice pulls me back. I smooth the parchment with deliberate care, refusing to acknowledge the lapse.
“Assemble the tactical council. War footing, full mobilization. If the Blood Regent wants to bind the city, we’ll find his infrastructure and burn it to the ground before he gets the chance.”
“And the Vireth witch?”
“What about her?”
“Her abilities would be invaluable in countering a binding ritual of this scale.” Seravax’s expression remains neutral, but I can see the calculation behind it. “Assuming she’s recovered from this afternoon’s engagement.”
She’s not recovered. I know this the way I know my own heartbeat—with certainty that bypasses logic and settles directly into instinct. I still feel the echo of her fear from the alley, the spike of her panic when the dampening field strangled her magic. Can still see the blood soaking through her shirt.
The scratch on her ribs, she called it.
The wound that was deep enough to scar.
“The witch will be available when I determine she’s fit for deployment.” Cold. Colder than I mean it to be. “Not before.”
Seravax’s eyes narrow fractionally. He sees more than he should, this one. Calculates implications that others would miss.
“Of course, Enforcer.” He inclines his head with the precise deference of someone who knows exactly when to retreat. “I’ll convene the council within the hour.” He pauses at the door. “One additional item. Corveth’s people tracked your witch’s informant—Maelin—to a safehouse in the harbor district. She’d been blood-oath bound for at least two weeks. The message was never hers to write.”
“And Maelin herself?”
“Freed. Corveth’s team dissolved the oath before it could be triggered. She’s been moved to a secure location outside the harbor district.” He pauses. “She asked about the witch.”
Another puppet. Another weapon the Blood Regent pointed at Alerie without her knowing.
I stand alone in the strategy chamber, staring at intelligence that should consume my attention, and think about nothing but the woman three corridors away.
The guardoutside her door stiffens when I approach.
“Report.”
“She’s resting, Enforcer.” The soldier’s eyes stay fixed on a point past my shoulder—the posture of someone who’s learned that meeting my gaze directly invites attention he doesn’t want. “She dismissed the healer two hours ago. Refused assistance with the wound treatment. Insisted she could handle it herself.”
Of course, she did.
The irony burns. She’s safer here than she’s ever been, protected by wards and guards and a dragon who would burnthe realm to ash for her, and she still can’t let herself be vulnerable.
I hate that I understand this about her. Hate even more that understanding changes nothing about my response.
“Return to your post at the corridor entrance. I’ll see to her myself.”
The guard doesn’t question the order. He simply nods and retreats, leaving me alone outside her door.
Knock.
Civilized creatures announce their presence instead of standing here fighting the urge to tear the door from its hinges and verify with my own eyes that she’s still breathing. I’m not civilized. This is her space—the chambers I assigned to her, yes, but hers, nonetheless. She deserves the dignity of a warning before I invade.
The dragon doesn’t care about dignity.
My hand finds the handle. Turns it.
The door opens silently—everything in my stronghold is maintained to perfection—and I step into her chambers without announcing myself. Without giving her time to compose her face or hide whatever she’s hiding.
She’s not resting.
She’s standing near the window, her back to me, and her shirt is pulled up to expose the wound along her ribs. Bandaging supplies are scattered across the nearby table—strips of clean cloth, a pot of healing salve she’s barely touched, a basin of water turned pink with diluted blood. She’s trying to wrap the injury herself, twisting to reach the angle, and even from here, I can see her wince with every movement.
