But we’re both exhausted. Both wounded. Both changed in ways we’re only beginning to understand.
“This shelter won’t hold.”Zephyra’s voice is steady, the analyst returning as her body finishes healing. “The Arbiter will send more soldiers. Or come itself.”
“Soon.” I don’t release her yet. Not ready to let go, even knowing she’s right. “Let me check your wound first.”
She shifts, allowing me access to her stomach. The impalement site has closed completely—accelerated healing and the bond’s stabilizing influence combining to repair damage that should have killed her. Pink scar tissue marks where the blade entered, but even that is fading.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore.” She touches the scar with curious fingers. “I feel the healing happening. Like my body finally has the resources it needs.”
“My resources.” I trace the edge of the scar, then move upward to the mark on her shoulder. The bite has scarred into a permanent pattern—the shape of my teeth, marked by lines of power that pulse when I touch them. “My years. My power. Yours now, too.”
It makes me want her all over again.
But she’s right—lingering is a luxury we can’t afford. The shelter has served its purpose. The mating is complete, the bond sealed, her life saved. Now we need to survive long enough to make that sacrifice count.
I stand first, offering her my hand. She takes it, letting me pull her to her feet. Tests her balance, her strength, her body’s new limits.
“The Arbiter’s stronghold.” Her voice is steady again, stripped of warmth. The warrior returning to replace the woman who screamed my name minutes ago. “That’s where we need togo. The archives mentioned a crown-heart—a core that holds its authority together.”
“Destroy that, we destroy the Arbiter.”
“Yes.” She looks at me, and I see the calculation in her expression. The assessment. “Our power has evolved. The question is whether it’s evolved enough.”
“Only one way to find out.”
She nods. Gathers what remains of her clothing—less than she’d like, after our claiming—and begins making herself presentable for combat.
I watch her for a moment. My female. The witch who chose to stand beside the monster rather than run from him.
The dragon purrs with satisfaction. I let it.
We leavethe shelter as the light outside shifts—not a true sunset, not in this place where divine authority controls even the sky, but a dimming that suggests time is still passing. The Divine Gate ruins stretch before us, scattered with the remains of heralds and divine soldiers.
Zephyra moves beside me. Not behind, not in front. Beside. Partners.
Her knuckles knock against mine as we walk. Not holding—she’s not the type—but intentional. A reminder that she’s there.
I feel her location through the bond. A permanent tether that will never fade, never diminish, never be severed by anything short of death.
And death, for both of us, is much further away than it was this morning.
“The stronghold is mobile.” She’s thinking out loud, her tactical mind already working on the next challenge. “We’ll need to track it. Force it to manifest.”
“Killing its heralds might help with that.”
“Two heralds destroyed. That’s resources the Arbiter can’t replace quickly.” A ghost of a smile crosses her face. “It’ll have to engage directly. No more proxies between us and the crown-heart.”
I’ve spent centuries resisting what the gods tried to force on me. Avoided mating because I feared what it would cost, what it would change, how it would make me vulnerable in ways I couldn’t control.
Now I understand what I gained instead.
Not weakness. Not vulnerability.
Purpose.
The stronghold won’t be where we left the gate ruins. It never is—the Arbiter moves it between confrontations, anchoring it to places of divine resonance rather than fixed geography. But the archive diagrams showed a pattern: the stronghold always manifests within a day’s travel of its last known site, drawn back by the pull of whatever divine infrastructure it needs to sustain the crown-heart. We know where the gate stood. That narrows the search considerably.
TWENTY-SIX
