The needle flashes in her skilled fingers, weaving magic and thread into patterns that might save us all.
Or might damn us if my captains decide their warlord has lost his way.
Time will tell which way the balance falls.
EIGHT
ZORAYA
The moon hangs full and cold above Ironhold, its pale light streaming through the War Tower’s tall windows to pool across the stone floor in silver patches. I sit cross-legged beside the hanging standard, my legs long since gone numb from maintaining the same position for hours, but I refuse to move. Not when Oryx’s army could arrive at any moment.
The massive black banner spreads before me, a tapestry of shadow and silver that absorbs the moonlight and transforms it into something else entirely. Under my hands, the runes pulse with faint silver light—stronger now than when I began this morning, but still far from the blazing power they once held. Each stitch sends tiny vibrations through my fingertips, magic responding to my work with increasing eagerness.
My fingers cramp and ache from hours of delicate stitching. The needle weighs more than it should, and I have to blink frequently to keep my vision clear. But stopping isn’t an option. Not when I can sense how much the standard needs, how many sections still require repair.
“Needle sharp and thread so true, bind the magic, make it new,” I murmur under my breath, repeating one of the rhymes my grandmother taught me when I was small enough to siton her lap and watch her mend fishing nets by lamplight. The familiar words help keep exhaustion at bay, give my tired mind an anchor while my hands work.
The rhythm of the rhyme matches the rhythm of my stitching. “Thread of silver, thread of night, weave protection, hold us tight.” The words aren’t magical—just village wisdom passed down through generations of women who understood that repetitive work needed familiar phrases to keep hands steady and minds focused.
Below in the fortress, Ironhold hums with dread and preparation. The distant clang of armor echoes up through the stone as guards change shifts, their movements more frequent than usual. Somewhere in the depths, siege engines rumble across cobblestones as they’re positioned for defense—the heavy wooden wheels of catapults, the iron-shod feet of ballistae, the ominous scrape of shields being moved into position.
The wolves in their kennels pace restlessly, their low whines carrying on the night air through the gaps in the stonework. Even they can sense the approaching storm, the weight of hostile intent pressing against the fortress from beyond the mountains.
Snow dusts the arrow slits, and cold air seeps through the gaps in the ancient stonework to bite at my cheeks and hands. I pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders, grateful for the thick wool. The cold makes my fingers stiffer, harder to control with the precision this work requires, but I force myself to continue.
Each sound from below reminds me that war is closing in, that time is running out, that these repairs might be all that stands between the fortress and destruction. The weight of that responsibility should crush me, but instead, it sharpens my focus. Every stitch matters. Every thread could mean the difference between life and death for hundreds of people.
I’m so absorbed in the work that I don’t hear the footsteps on the spiral stairs until they’re almost at the door. The heavy ironportal creaks open behind me, its ancient hinges protesting with a groan that echoes through the circular chamber. I don’t turn to look—I know that tread, recognize the weight of those footsteps on stone.
My heart skips despite my best efforts to remain calm, and I force my needle to continue its steady rhythm. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how his presence affects me.
Vlorn steps into the tower carrying a wooden tray, his massive frame filling the doorway completely and blocking the torchlight from the corridor beyond. He’s wrapped in black wolf pelts that make him seem part of the night itself, amber eyes catching the moonlight as he surveys the chamber with the careful attention of a predator checking his territory.
When his gaze finds me, his expression shifts—concern, maybe, or surprise that I’m still working. His eyes take in the scattered spools of thread around me, the sections of banner spread across my lap, the obvious signs that I haven’t moved from this spot in hours.
“You haven’t stopped.” His voice rumbles across the space between us, neither question nor accusation but simple observation tinged with worry.
“Time doesn’t stop for exhaustion.” I tie off a thread with perhaps more force than necessary and reach for another spool, trying to ignore the way my pulse jumps at his presence. “How long until dawn?”
“A few hours.” He moves closer, setting the tray on a nearby table with careful precision. The wooden surface is scarred from years of use, marked with ink stains and knife cuts that speak of countless late nights spent planning campaigns.
The scent of fresh bread and hot broth reaches me, making my stomach clench with sudden, sharp hunger. I hadn’t realized how empty I was until the aroma hit me, rich and savory and utterly tempting.
“When did you last eat?” His question comes with the kind of controlled patience that suggests he already knows the answer won’t please him.
I have to think about it, which probably tells him everything he needs to know. “Yesterday evening, I think. Maybe yesterday afternoon.” The admission makes me realize how lightheaded I’ve been, how much effort it’s been taking to focus on the fine details.
He makes a sound that might be disapproval or frustration, low in his throat and barely audible. “You’ll make mistakes if you work while starving. Your hands will shake, your vision will blur.”
“I’ll make mistakes if I stop to rest while Oryx approaches.” I glance up at him, taking in the tension around his eyes, the way his hands rest on his weapon hilts even here in the supposed safety of the tower. “Besides, you don’t look steady on your feet either.”
The observation makes his jaw tighten, and I see him catch himself before responding with his usual dismissive authority. “I don’t need—” He cuts himself off, jaw working as he visibly reconsiders his words. After a moment, he tries again. “The defenses require constant attention.”
The admission costs him—acknowledgment that he’s not invincible, that the approaching siege weighs on him as heavily as it does everyone else. For a moment, the Iron Warlord facade slips.
I set down my needle and really look at him, noting the lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the way he holds himself with careful control that speaks of muscles kept tense for too long. There’s a tightness around his mouth that suggests stress held rigidly in check, and his hands move restlessly even when he’s standing still.
“Sit.” I gesture to the floor beside me. “Help me with this section while you tell me what has you so worried that you can’t sleep.”
