Oryx’s next wave is moving. The real attack, now that his inside intelligence has been severed and his conspiracy exposed.
Vlorn’s expression hardens back toward the warlord mask, but his arms come around me with fierce protectiveness. He pulls me against his chest, and I can hear his heart hammering beneath armor and leather.
“Stay with me,” he growls into my hair, voice rough with emotions he’s not ready to name publicly. “Don’t leave my sight again. I can’t—” He stops, jaw working as he struggles with words that reveal too much vulnerability for a commander to show his warriors.
I nod against his chest, breathing in his scent and the security of his strength surrounding me. But even as I agree, even as relief floods through me at being safe in his arms, my mind races with the implications of what we’ve discovered.
If Hadrun could be turned, who else among Vlorn’s captains has been compromised? What will Oryx do now that his inside man has failed to deliver me as promised?
The war horns sound again, closer now, and I realize this was the plan. Hadrun’s betrayal was meant to weaken us from within while Oryx’s armies prepared for the killing blow.
But they underestimated one crucial factor.
They underestimated what Vlorn and I become when we stand together.
“My lord,” one of the guards says carefully, approaching with obvious reluctance to interrupt our moment. “What are your orders regarding the other captains? If there are more traitors...”
Vlorn’s arms tighten around me for a moment before he forces himself to step back into his role as commander. But his hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with deliberate intent that speaks of claiming as much as comfort.
“Summon Korvin and Malthak,” he orders, voice carrying the cold authority that’s kept this fortress standing for years. “I want the remaining captains confined to quarters under guard until we can determine their loyalty. And send word to the walls—no one moves without direct authorization from me or these two captains.”
The efficiency with which his orders are carried out speaks to the loyalty that remains despite the conspiracy’s reach. But I can see the weight settling on his shoulders—the knowledge that he’s surrounded by potential enemies, that every face might hide treacherous intent.
“The real battle is just beginning,” I murmur, low enough that only he can hear.
The war horns echo again across the valley, and I realize Oryx’s final gambit is about to begin. But whatever comes next, whatever forces mass against these ancient walls, they’ll face more than just a warlord and his fortress.
They’ll face two people who’ve found reasons worth fighting for in each other.
The conspiracy has been exposed, but the real test lies ahead.
THIRTEEN
VLORN
The dungeon stones weep with condensation that tastes of iron and despair.
I descend the narrow stairs carved into Ironhold’s foundation, each step echoing off walls that have witnessed generations of interrogation. Torch flames dance in their sconces, casting writhing shadows across stone scarred by decades of violence. This deep in the mountain’s heart, the very air seems heavy with secrets waiting to be spilled.
The captured conspirators wait in cells designed to break spirits as much as bodies. Iron bars thick as my forearm stretch from floor to ceiling, set in walls that drink sound and hope in equal measure. The metallic scent of fear mingles with the sharper tang of old blood.
Captain Korvin stands guard outside the first cell, his compact frame vibrating with barely contained violence. Dark circles shadow his eyes—he hasn’t slept since Hadrun’s betrayal was revealed. The knowledge that traitors walked among us eats at him.
He snaps to attention as I approach. “Warlord.”
“Status?” I study the huddled figure beyond the bars—young, barely past boyhood, with tusks still sharp from youth.
“This one’s talking, my lord. Supply runner—turned three months ago. Claims Oryx’s gold was too tempting to refuse.”
Korvin’s voice carries disgust that runs deeper than professional disappointment. The betrayal of trust cuts him personally, as it does all of us who’ve bled to build this fortress into something worth defending.
I step closer to the cell, letting my presence fill the confined space. The prisoner presses himself against the far wall as if stone might offer sanctuary from my attention.
“Darvin,” I speak his name quietly, watching him flinch, “look at me.”
He raises his head reluctantly. Recognition hits—not just the Iron Warlord, but death personified. His face goes pale beneath the grime.
“Tell me about the supply caravans.”
