I want to believe him. Looking at the silver veins threading through the ground, the Sanctuary alive and responding to me, the people who’ve come because they felt my call—I can almost see it.
But wholeness like this feels like standing on the edge of a blade.
The ground rumbles.
Not thunder. Not earthquake.
Marching.
“They’re here,” Wes says quietly.
I don’t need him to tell me. I canfeelthem—Council magic, sharp and sterile, ozone and blood. And underneath, something worse.
Phil.
Through the mist threading across the grounds, figures emerge.
He leads, of course. Smirking like he’s already won. Like showing up with an army makes him untouchable.
Behind him, the Council walks in formation—Valdris with flames licking her boots, Marcus cold and pristine, Eris’s blank gaze fixed on nothing, Nyx draped in shadows that move wrong, a raven perched on her shoulder.
And behind them—
Five hundred.
An army that stops just outside the Sanctuary boundary, held back by the pulsing silver veins that mark territory that isn’t theirs. The first ranks halt instinctively, sensing the hum of power underfoot.
My power.
The realization settles cold in my chest:They’re not here to negotiate. They’re here to reclaim.
Phil reaches the edge of the silver veins—the ones that pulse like a heartbeat through the ground. He stops, boot hovering over the nearest thread, and his smirk widens.
“Hello, Bree.”
The Etherflares.
Silver light explodes upward from the veins, a warning so bright I see several Council members flinch. The ground trembles. The air crackles.
My voice comes steady. “That’s close enough.”
Phil’s smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it sharpens. He spreads his hands like he’s being reasonable. “We only came to talk, Bree. Surely you can allow that.”
“Talk,” I repeat flatly.
“The Council has… concerns.” His gaze sweeps over the others, dismissive and calculating, before settling back on me. “About the chaos you’ve caused. Your scandalous interlude with someone harboring dark magic.”
The words land like poison.
He’s talking about Ethos. The name I can’t hear without tasting blood and lightning.
Twisting everything. Making me the villain.
My hands curl into fists. The mist around my feet darkens just slightly—not corruption, but storm-silver, charged and dangerous.
“The bonds you’ve formed,” Phil continues smoothly. “The power you’ve claimed without permission. The laws you’ve broken allowing Feeders to take the Oath. The instability you’ve brought to our carefully maintained balance.”
Carefully maintained balance.He means control. He means submission.
