Voss’s soldiers integrated into the perimeter in tight formations. Council representatives clustered near the ravens, dictating notes that would reach Veyndral within hours.
Wyatt’s converted hunters held their ground at the eastern tree line, weapons visible, posture broadcasting that the alliance applied to them too, whether the newcomers accepted it or not.
Percy hadn’t come back from the forest. The bond channel pulsed with a fury so concentrated it made my ribs ache. Somewhere in those trees, he was either breaking his hand against bark or shifting into his wolf and running until the rage burned off. Possibly both.
Solomon’s channel had gone silent. Not closed. Silent. His version of a scream, turned inward. He’d vanished into the tree line seconds after the handshake, a blur of motion that even Voss’s soldiers tracked with unease.
I stood at the supply station and reorganized my jacket pockets because my hands needed a task and my brain needed a minute to catch up with what my mouth had agreed to.
If I fail, you can kill me.
Bold words for a woman who couldn’t keep her breakfast down most mornings.
Perhaps I have sniffed enough mud from the tunnel that I lost my mind.
Farmon appeared beside me. He didn’t speak. Just set a cup of herbal tea on the supply crate, pressed his ruined hand to my shoulder once, and returned to his station. The gesture said everything:I disagree with what you did. I understand why you did it. Drink the tea.
My fingers wrapped around the cup and the warmth seeped into my palms.
“Mira.”
Lucian’s voice. Behind me. Low enough that the soldiers twenty feet away wouldn’t catch it.
Turning, I found him at the entrance to the command tent, one hand holding the flap open, his expression carrying thecontrolled stillness that meant everything underneath was anything but still.
“Can I have a minute?”
“You’re a king. You can have several.”
The corner of his mouth moved. The ghost of a smile, haunting a face that had forgotten how to wear them.
The tea went back on the crate. I followed him inside.
The command tent was Solomon’s domain. Maps pinned to every surface, patrol schedules in his handwriting, the broken pen from three days ago still sitting in the supply kit because Solomon kept broken things close until he decided what to do with them.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
Lucian let the flap close behind us. The sounds of camp were muffled to a murmur, and it was the first time since I’d arrived at the relocated site, we were alone. Fully alone.
No briefings to interrupt, no tactical updates to exchange across a fire pit, no war to manage from opposite ends.
Just a man and the woman he’d hurt standing in a tent full of someone else’s maps.
“The speech,” I said. “In front of the camp. The cowardice line.”
“Every word.”
“That was a lot, Lucian. In front of your soldiers. Your council. Voss.”
“It was the truth. The truth doesn’t require a private audience.”
I studied him.
The scar on his chest was hidden beneath his shirt but I knew exactly where it sat. The permanent reminder of the blade he gave me, the night I’d put a dagger in a king.
“You said you chose wrong. That you were afraid.” I kept my voice even. “Afraid of what?”
The composure cracked. Not the controlled fracture from the speech, calculated for public consumption. This was the real thing. The wall behind the wall, the one he’d maintained for two centuries because kings didn’t show the architecture of their fear.
