We walk through passages I haven’t seen before, heading deeper into the fortress’s heart rather than toward the familiar areas where I’ve spent the past few days. The corridors here are older, carved directly from the living rock of the mountain rather than built with fitted stones. The walls bear the marks of ancient tools, and symbols are etched into the stone at regular intervals—protective runes, maybe, or clan markings that speak of ritualsI don’t understand. They seem to watch us pass with hollow eyes.
“You didn’t sleep.” It’s not a question—I can see the exhaustion in the set of his shoulders, the careful way he moves.
He runs a hand through his dark hair, the gesture betraying his fatigue. “No time. Oryx’s army isn’t the only threat we’re facing.”
The admission sends ice through my veins. “What else?”
“The fortress itself is failing.” He doesn’t elaborate, but the tension in his shoulders speaks volumes.
We reach a spiral staircase so narrow that his shoulders nearly brush both walls. The space forces intimacy whether we want it or not—I follow him up, acutely conscious of how close we are in the confined stone tube. The steps are worn smooth by generations of boots, slick with condensation that makes each one treacherous. The air grows thinner as we climb, colder, sharp with the scent of approaching winter.
Halfway up, my foot slips on a particularly wet stone. The sudden loss of traction sends me pitching backward, arms windmilling as gravity takes hold?—
Vlorn’s hand shoots out, catching my wrist in an iron grip. He hauls me upright effortlessly, his strength so casual it’s almost insulting. The momentum pulls me against his chest, and suddenly I’m pressed against the solid wall of his body, his arm around my waist to steady me, my hands flat against the warm leather of his shirt.
His scent surrounds me completely—smoke and steel and something purely him that makes my head spin. His breathing changes, grows deeper, and his grip on my waist tightens almost imperceptibly.
For a heartbeat, we’re frozen on the narrow stairs. His amber eyes look down into mine, close enough that I can see flecks ofbronze and gold in the molten depths. Close enough that I can hear his breath stirring the hair at my temples.
My cheeks burn. My pulse jumps. Every instinct screams at me to pull away from this dangerous proximity.
His voice comes out rougher than usual, barely above a whisper. “Careful.”
I push away from him quickly, hands fisting in my skirt. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t comment on my reaction, but I catch the flicker of something in his burning gaze—satisfaction, maybe, or awareness that mirrors my own—before he turns to continue climbing.
The rest of the ascent passes in charged silence.
Finally, we reach a thick door banded with iron, much like the door to his private chambers. Vlorn pushes it open and waves me inside.
I step over the threshold and pause.
The War Tower is circular, ringed with tall windows that offer commanding views of the surrounding mountains. Dawn is breaking beyond the peaks, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold, but the beauty of it is lost in the room’s grim purpose.
But it’s what hangs in the center of the room that steals my breath completely.
The Battle Standard of the Iron Warlord.
I’ve never seen anything of its kind. The banner is massive—easily twelve feet long and half as wide, suspended from an iron crossbar by silver chains that gleam in the morning light. The fabric is as black as a moonless night. Silver thread traces intricate patterns across its surface—wolf heads with gleaming eyes, protective runes.
It should be magnificent. A masterwork of textile art that would be the crown jewel of any collection.
Instead, it’s dying.
Even from across the room, I can see the damage. Tears in the fabric, some clean as knife cuts and others ragged as though clawed. Threads hanging loose or missing entirely, creating gaps in the intricate patterns. The silver work is tarnished in places, the metal thread gone dull and lifeless. What should be a continuous flow of protective symbols is broken, interrupted, bleeding power.
I move closer despite myself, my seamstress instincts already cataloging the damage. “How long has it been failing?”
Vlorn’s footsteps follow mine across the stone floor. “Five years since my father died and the last keeper was killed.”
There’s pain in those words, carefully controlled but unmistakable. Loss that still cuts deep, wounds that have never properly healed. I glance at him and see something vulnerable in his expression—grief he’s never been allowed to process, responsibility that sits heavily on his shoulders.
“The keeper was family?” I ask gently.
His jaw tightens. “My aunt. The last of our line who had the gift for ward-weaving. Oryx’s assassins got to her five years ago. Cut her throat in her own workshop while she worked on repairs to this very standard.”
The casual brutality of it makes me flinch. Not just murder, but the deliberate destruction of knowledge, the severing of a bloodline’s attachment to its protective magic.
