Not just acceptance of protection offered, but partnership acknowledged. We’re in this together now, for better or worse. Her magic and my sword, her courage and my strength, bound together by necessity and something else I’m not ready to name.
I rip my great-sword free from the stone and turn toward the stairwell that leads to the battlements. The weight of the blade feels right in my hands, familiar and comforting. Whatever comes next, at least I’ll face it with steel in my grip and purpose in my heart.
Behind me, she speaks—just two words, soft but clear enough to carry over the growing din of preparation.
“Be careful.”
The simple concern stops me mid-stride. I almost turn back, almost say something that would change everything between us. Almost cross the line from protector to something else entirely, something that has no place in the middle of a siege.
Instead, I force myself to keep walking, though every instinct screams at me to stay, to guard her personally instead of trusting others with her safety.
“Finish the work,” I tell her without looking back, my voice quieter.
As I stride toward the sound of war drums and clashing steel, enemy horns echo across the mountains in a rhythm that speaks of death approaching. The siege of Ironhold begins not with a roar but with music—the bone songs of the dead, calling the living to join their ranks.
I bare my teeth in a grin that has nothing to do with humor and everything to do with the promise of violence. My blood sings with anticipation, with the joy of battle finally joined after days of waiting and planning.
When they come, they’ll find the Iron Warlord waiting, and he has debts to collect.
TEN
ZORAYA
Vlorn is gone from his protective posture at my door. Fear for him coils in my chest, an aching concern that has nothing to do with my own safety.
I press my palms against my eyes to focus. My fingers ache, and my back protests the hours spent hunched over the standard. The massive black banner should be magnificent, but as I watch, the silver threads continue to flicker weakly. The fortress magic is unraveling faster than I can repair it.
Thunder crashes across the mountains—not weather, but war. The tower vibrates to its bones. I rush to the narrow window and see the enemy spreading across the valley. Leading them in bone-white armor is Oryx Blackmaw.
But my eyes find the lone figure on the main gate, great-sword raised in defiance. Vlorn. Even at this distance, I see his absolute defiance.
Then the first volley hits. Burning pitch splashes against the walls, and the fortress shudders. Each impact sends fresh disruptions through the battle standard, undoing my work in seconds. I need to strengthen the connection. I need more than thread.
My hands shake as I reach for the small knife in my kit. I press the blade to my palm and slice. Pain explodes up my arm, sharp and clean, demanding respect for the sacrifice. Blood wells, flowing freely onto the black fabric.
The response nearly knocks me off my feet. The threads come alive with brilliant light. Stone hardens; cracks seal themselves with audible snaps. Through the windows, I hear enemy mages shriek as their spells rebound off the strengthened walls.
But the effort drains me. My vision blurs, and I have to grip the frame to keep from falling. I wrap my bleeding palm in a strip of wool torn from my skirt, the fabric darkening instantly.
I am so focused on the throbbing of my hand that I almost miss the whistle of the arrow. Instinct makes me duck as the black-fletched shaft thuds into the stone behind me.
That shot came from inside the fortress. Someone has a clear view of the tower and knows exactly where I am. I pull the arrow from the wall; the fletching is precisely bound with dark silk—professional work.
“Zoraya...”
The voice from the stairwell is cold, carrying a casual cruelty that speaks of someone enjoying my fear. I clutch my sewing awl, my palm screaming with every movement, and scan the shadows.
“Little seamstress won’t see dawn,” the voice whispers.
Oryx’s war horns sound again from the valley. Death is calling from the outside, while an assassin stalks me from the dark. I am running out of strength, and fire is at the gates.
ELEVEN
VLORN
The acrid smoke of battle still clings to my armor when I climb the War Tower stairs, expecting reports of victory. The outer walls held against Oryx’s first assault. My warriors fought with the ferocity their bloodline demands. The siege engines lie broken in the valley, testimony to courage and steel and the strength of Ironhold’s ancient stones.
But when I push open the tower door, triumph dies in my throat.
