The bond shifts suddenly. Elowen’s attention brushes against my thoughts. A quiet warning.
No.
The single word carries unmistakable command. No preemptive violence. No slaughtering the council before they act. I close my eyes briefly. Every instinct in my body rebels. Slowly, deliberately, I exhale.
“She forbids it,” I say.
Corvin raises an eyebrow.
“She can do that?”
“You have no idea how persuasive she can be.”
“And you listen?”
“Against my better judgment,” I reply dryly. “Yes.”
The square erupts into another wave of shouting. Elowen still stands at the center of it. Holding the line. Corvin glances toward the noise.
“You’re going to stay up there and watch?”
“I am going to remain close enough to intervene,” I correct.
“And if they try to drag her away?”
I spread my wings slowly, the hellish light washing across the alley walls in quiet crimson fire. Corvin watches the glow with careful stillness.
“Then,” I say softly, “this village will discover exactly how fragile restraint truly is.”
17
ELOWEN
The crowd leaves slowly. Fear rarely retreats all at once; it withdraws in cautious steps, the same way it gathered earlier that morning. Voices remain tense as the villagers disperse along the marsh path, their warnings lingering in the air like the fading echo of thunder.
“This is your last chance, Elowen,” Matron Yselle tells me before turning away. “If another incident occurs, the council will not hesitate to intervene.”
The words are meant to sound measured and reasonable, yet the threat beneath them is unmistakable. They believe they are being merciful.
I watch until the final lantern disappears around the bend in the road, until the last pair of suspicious eyes turns away from my cottage. Only when the quiet settles fully over the marsh do I allow my shoulders to lower.
The bond hums faintly. He is already inside. I close the door behind me and turn toward the hearth.
Threxian stands beside the small wooden table as though he has always belonged there. The fading morning light catches the dark curve of his horns and the quiet ember-glow beneathhis skin, though the infernal presence that once filled every corner of the room now feels strangely… familiar. Somehow comforting. His golden gaze lifts when I step into the room.
“Well,” he says mildly, “that could have gone worse.”
I lean back against the door with a tired breath, pressing my palm briefly to the wood as though the solid surface might help hold the weight of the morning outside.
“Your standards for ‘worse’ are very different from mine,” I reply, glancing toward the window where the last of the villagers are disappearing down the marsh path.
“True,” he admits, his voice calm and almost reflective. “In my experience, most hostile gatherings end with considerably more fire and death.”
I turn back toward him immediately.
“That,” I say, crossing my arms, “is exactly what we’re trying to avoid.”
His mouth curves faintly at the firmness in my tone, as though he finds the reminder more amusing than reprimanding.
