"Three days to prepare. To train. To plan." Daemon's forehead touched mine. "And whatever happens, you won't face it alone."
The journal felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
Somewhere in the caves beyond, five hundred warriors prepared for war, believing in a prophecy. Trusting a plan. Waiting for someone who had no idea if she could deliver what they needed.
I opened the journal to the first page.
My mother's handwriting greeted me like a ghost.
My dearest Seris,
If you're reading this, I'm gone. And you're exactly where you need to be.
CHAPTER 21
SERIS
The tent flap fell shut behind me, muffling the sounds of the encampment. Outside, five hundred soldiers prepared for war, sharpening blades, checking armor, speaking in low voices about tactics and formations. Inside, silence pressed against her ears like water.
I stood motionless in the center of the small space. A bedroll lay neatly arranged against one canvas wall. A lantern hung from the central pole, casting warm light that did nothing to ease the cold settling into my bones.
Five hundred.
The number circled her thoughts like a predator. Five hundred Fae who believed I would lead them to victory. Who trusted that prophecy had marked me for greatness. That my bloodline made me worthy. That destiny would guide my hand when the moment came.
I lowered myself onto the bedroll, legs folding beneath me. My hands rested in my lap, fingers interlaced. The roughness of the wool blanket barely registered, paling in comparison to the chaos in my mind.
What if they were wrong?
The question surfaced without permission, flooding my mind with images I couldn't stop. The resistance breaking against the capital's walls. Arrows falling like rain. Screams echoing through stone corridors as soldiers cut down warriors who had believed in me. It would be the same as Vaelthorne.
I saw Kaelen falling. Kane and Kael bleeding out in some forgotten hallway. Zephyr's laughter silenced forever.
Daemon, his shadows disappearing forever.
My breath shortened. The tent felt smaller, the canvas walls leaning inward. I pressed my palms flat against my thighs, trying to anchor myself in something solid.
Vaelthorne burned behind my closed eyes. I saw the Festival of the Veiled Night with the same Fae, but this time bloodied and missing limbs. Lifeless bodies dancing without vigor. Veil-bloom petals withered, colorless, falling like ash. Lyralei's face as the arrows struck, eyes wide with surprise.
"I can't do this."
The whisper escaped before I could stop it. My voice sounded thin, childlike, and pathetic.
I was supposed to be the one to free my people. The daughter of Lyanna. The daughter of prophecy who would save them all or damn them trying. But sitting here in the quiet, stripped of spectacle and ceremony, I felt only the crushing weight of what I didn't know. My mind latched onto the potential disaster of my own inadequacies.
Loneliness settled over my shoulders like a cloak woven from all the losses of my people. My mother's execution. My father's death. The months in Blackstone's cells, muzzled and shackled, reduced to a weapon with no will of its own. The warmth of belonging I had found in Vaelthorne, ripped away in fire and blood.
Everything I touched crumbled and burned to ash. Everyone who trusted me paid the price.
The tent flap shifted.
Daemon stepped inside, moving with the same quiet grace that made his presence feel like shadow made solid. He let the canvas fall closed behind him, sealing us in together. His dark eyes found mine immediately, reading my expression, not in the way he had been trained as an assassin, but with open worry.
"You're spiraling."
I looked away, fixing my gaze on the lantern's flame.
Daemon crossed the small space, settling onto the bedroll beside me. Close enough that I felt his warmth, far enough to give me space.
