The armory does not admit armies.
It admits bonds.
Nora and I are mated. If we reach the egg before my uncle’s hunters, it will recognize us as a single party and seal behind us. The hunters will not be able to follow if we get there first. My uncle would never risk entering himself. Not when the judgment might go against him.
No. He will send others to retrieve me.
And others will not be able to cross the threshold.
Even if they could, the armory does not grant its weapons freely.
For the first time since arriving in this world, something like control settles into place. This is not panic. Not instinct. Not blind flight. This is strategy. A problem I can solve. A path forward I can hold in my hands.
We reach the egg. We seal the door. Arm ourselves.
I save Nora.
And my kingdom.
Simple.
***
Nora
The botanical garden is over two hours away by car. I move quickly with Sorren trailing me from room to room as I grab clothes from my dresser and stuff them into a duffel bag without taking the time to fold them.
“My dad was big, not quite as big as you, but hopefully close enough,” I tell Sorren as I lead him upstairs to my mother’s bedroom. In the closet, there’s a stash of clothing left over from my father. Pieces Mom and I couldn’t bear to part with. “You can’t walk around in a glittery sweatshirt with your belly button sticking out.”
He plucks at the hem of the shirt, tugs it down. “Is it really a problem?”
I slam to a halt, and he almost plows into me.
“Wait.” I turn around slowly. “Youdowear clothing where you’re from, right? Like people don’t just go around…naked?”
Sorren looks offended. “Of course we wear clothing.”
I exhale. “Oh, thank God.”
A beat passes. “Sometimes,” he adds.
“What does that mean?”
“There’s no need in our rabbit form, because, you know, the fur.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, nodding slowly.
Sorren’s attention shifts past me to the closet, to the shirts and jackets hanging inside.
“These belonged to your father,” he says quietly.
It’s not a question.
I follow his gaze. Seeing them still catches me off guard. Memories roll over me, the slow tide of grief. “Yeah.”
His hand brushes over the sleeve of one of the jackets with surprising care, like the fabric might be fragile. Like he understands the weight of touching something that mattered to someone who’s gone. “Clothes carry memory,” he says softly. “They remember the shape of the person who wore them.” His hand stills, and he looks back at me. “Thank you for sharing these with me.”
“You’re welcome.” A strange thought comes to me. Unexpected, but solid.
