I’m no longer just the human tribute whose skills might save the fortress. I’m the woman who kissed the Iron Warlord and made him retreat. The one who might have more influence over him than anyone realized.
The political implications make my stomach clench with worry. If I’m seen as having power over Vlorn, then I become either an asset to be courted or a threat to be eliminated. Neither option sounds particularly safe.
But there’s satisfaction underneath the worry—I was the one who kissed him, who made him lose control for just a moment. Who proved that beneath all his armor and authority, he’s still just a man who can be affected by touch and simple human contact.
The standard pulses with growing strength under my hands, magic accepting my repairs with increasing eagerness. Silver threads gleam in patterns that seem to move with their own inner life, protective wards slowly returning to full power.
If I can finish in time. If the saboteurs don’t strike again. If whatever I’ve started with Vlorn doesn’t destroy us both before we have a chance to see what it might become.
Too many variables, too many unknowns. Too many ways for everything to go wrong.
But for now, all I can do is stitch and hope and try to ignore the crawling certainty that someone in the darkness is planning my destruction.
The moon continues its journey across the sky, marking time that we don’t have enough of. Soon, Oryx’s army will arrive at the gates. Soon, we’ll discover whether the repairs I’m making will be enough to save the fortress.
Soon, we’ll learn whether the kiss that changed everything between Vlorn and me will be our salvation or our doom.
I bend over the banner again, needle flashing in the silver light as I race against time and approaching war. Each stitchcarries the weight of hundreds of lives, the hope of survival, the desperate need to prove that sometimes the impossible can be achieved through determination and skill and the refusal to give up.
The ceremonial shackles catch the moonlight as I work, bound to a man whose kiss still burns on my lips, whose protection might not be enough to keep me safe from the enemies gathering both outside the walls and within them.
But I’ll keep working until my hands fail or the enemy arrives or the magic is complete.
Because sometimes, that’s all you can do.
NINE
VLORN
The single bell chime cuts through the fortress, sharp and urgent.
Not the thunderous war bells that summon all to battle, but the quiet, coded tone that means something worse—betrayal from within. One measured stroke echoes through stone corridors and seeps into sleeping chambers, carrying news that makes veteran warriors reach for weapons before their minds fully wake.
The sound reaches me even through the thick walls of my private chambers, jerking me from restless sleep. Dreams of silver thread and gray eyes dissolve into cold reality as instinct takes over.
I roll from my bed, bare feet hitting stone that bites with mountain cold. The chill shocks me fully awake, banishing the last wisps of dreams that have grown too frequent since a certain seamstress entered my fortress.
My hands move without conscious thought, muscle memory honed by decades of midnight alarms.
Sword first—the weight of the blade steadies my mind while my body catches up to consciousness. The steel whispers against leather as I draw it, testing the edge with my thumb. Sharpenough to split hairs, as it should be. Blood beads where I press too hard, crimson reminder that everything in my world has edges.
Leather pants slide over my legs with practiced efficiency. Boots follow, the thick soles muffling my footsteps on stone. The chest piece takes longer—complex buckles and straps that require attention even in the dark—but I’ve done this dance a thousand times.
No time for full armor, but the steel plate will turn aside most blades and all but the strongest arrows.
The corridor beyond my chambers buzzes with activity when I emerge. Torches flicker in their sconces, casting dancing shadows that make every alcove a potential hiding place. Guards move with purposeful haste, their faces grim masks in the orange light.
Mail rings softly as they adjust weapons, and I catch the underlying scent of fear-sweat beneath the familiar fortress smells of stone and smoke.
They press themselves against the walls as I pass, fists over hearts in salute, but their eyes remain alert, scanning shadows for threats.
“Report,” I growl at the nearest captain—Korvin, his compact frame vibrating with nervous energy.
“Intruder in the high tower wing, Warlord. Caught outside the human’s quarters.” His words are crisp and professional, but I catch the undertone of concern that he’s trying to hide.
Not for Zoraya—for what my reaction will be.
Dread pools in my stomach, followed immediately by heat that has nothing to do with exertion. Someone was hunting her. Again. The second attempt in as many days means the conspiracy isn’t just bold—it’s desperate.
