We have information now. We have a path forward, however complicated its requirements.
And we have each other.
The thought surfaces unbidden, and I don’t push it away. Don’t analyze it, don’t categorize it, don’t try to make sense of it.
I let it exist.
His hand finds mine again as we walk. No pretense of accident this time. His fingers lace through mine—a grip that’s unyielding.
The ley-roads stretch ahead, corrupt and dangerous and full of hunters. The Arbiter’s attention presses down from above, patient and relentless. The path we’ve chosen—the implications of what we discovered in the archives—hangs between us like an unspoken promise.
But for now, walking beside a dragon who holds my hand like I’m territory he’s claimed, who looks at me like I’m prey he refuses to release, who positions himself between me and the world with a possessiveness he’ll never soften?—
For now, that will have to be enough.
ELEVEN
TYR
The archive’s entrance yawns behind us, a wound in the frozen landscape spilling dust and shattered magic into the gray afternoon light. The collapse has finally gone silent—no more groaning stone, no more shattering ice. The destruction is complete.
I should release her hand.
I don’t.
The ley-roads wait to the north, visible as faint scars cutting across the frozen waste. A few hours’ walk through territory the Arbiter controls. Territory it will have seeded with hunters after what we found.
“The paths look clear.” Zephyra’s voice breaks through my calculations. “No visible Arbiter’s soldiers between us and the first junction.”
She’s using her sight. I can tell by the slight tension around her eyes, the careful way she’s scanning the horizon. Each second she holds that focus costs her time she doesn’t have to spare.
“Stop.”
Her gaze cuts to me. “Excuse me?”
“The Auric Veil. Stop using it.” I keep my voice flat. “I can scout the terrain without you burning through whatever years you have left.”
“I have enough years.”
“You have fewer every time you read divine magic.” I start walking, keeping her hand in mine. The grip serves a purpose now—if she falls, if the ground gives way, if an attack comes from the flank, I’ll know instantly. I’ll have her. “Save it for when we need it.”
She doesn’t argue. The compliance should feel like victory. Instead it settles in my gut like a stone.
She’s conserving her strength. Which means she knows how depleted she is.
The terrain between the archive and the ley-roads is treacherous—frozen earth fractured by the Arbiter’s magic, ice formations that could hide a dozen Hounds, visibility limited by the perpetual haze that hangs over this region. Every step requires assessment. Every shadow requires evaluation.
I track her breathing without meaning to. Protecting what I’ve stopped pretending not to want.
When did this start?
The question surfaces, and I crush it immediately.Whendoesn’t matter. What matters is the now—her grip in mine, her presence constant at my side, the distance between us and the next threat.
“You’re quiet.” She matches my pace without effort. Her shorter stride shouldn’t keep up with mine, but she compensates with efficiency.
“I’m thinking.”
“About the texts? The implications of?—”
