“How did the Empire know we were coming?” Ione snarled, turning to Seraavi. “Has someone in your group been compromised?”
“Never,” Seraavi gritted out. “Our people are fiercely loyal to the cause. We would personally vouch for every single one.”
“Why Emperor not show up himself?” Hella asked.
Felix ruffled his wings. “Our spies in Delos claim he hasn’t left the palace since he returned from the colonies. Not since the Delphine stole his prize.” A slow grin spread onto the male’s face as he eyed up Tristan.
Tristan’s hackles raised. Is that all Felix thought of him? That he was just a prize to be bandied about between sides? Had he not proven himself, fighting alongside them these past few days?
Tristan opened his mouth to protest before shame stilled his tongue. All the Fae in this room, with the exception of Hella, had been here on the continent laying the groundwork for this cause while he’d been down in the colonies doing what, exactly? A whole lot of fucking nothing.
As if she could sense the direction of his thoughts, Ione shot Felix a sharp look. “You will speak of your future Emperor with more respect than that, General Tanius.”
Tristan shifted on his feet. “It’s fine.”
Her wings rustled at his voice, even as she stared down Felix, who bowed his head in a silent apology.
Tristan turned back to Layla. “What’s the damage, do you think? How well stocked are the armories at our other bases? Can our plans to march on Delos withstand this blow?”
Layla grimaced. “Unlikely. Even with the weapons we have left, we don’t have anything powerful enough to maintain a siege or force Eamon to surrender. We’re going to have to come up with another way to take the city.”
Tristan dropped his head, shoulders flagging as he blew out a long breath. The tent was silent as he pondered their options.
“Anyone have any ideas?” he asked.
Seraavi raised a brow at Layla. “Do you still have the relic?”
Layla jolted, sitting up higher in her seat and running a hand along the corset of knives at her waist. “Yes, but… It’s neverworked. We’ve blown it hundreds of times with no results. No one knows how Arran Zephyrus was able to?—”
“You said you have a connection with his son, right?” Seraavi asked Tristan, cutting off Layla’s protests.
“I do.”
“How close are you?”
“He’s my closest friend in the world.”
His closest friend that he hadn’t seen nor spoken with in weeks. Guilt squeezed his chest.
“Close enough that he’d be willing to perform a covert mission for you?”
Tristan furrowed his brow. “What kind of mission?”
“The dragon of Typhon Mountain. It’s under Arran Zephyrus’s control.” Seraavi gestured to Layla. “Thanks to General Fetar, we are in possession of a relic of Adelphinae—a flute—that may summon the creature away from him. But we need more information about how he’s been able to keep it under his command all these centuries. Do you think your friend would be willing to help us ferret out that information?”
Tristan scrubbed a hand down his face, about to open his mouth to ask another question when Felix cut in.
“What use would the dragon be to our plans?”
Seraavi scoffed. “The creature decimated an entire territory with its fire. Enough fire to strike more fear into Eamon Erabis than five untested missiles, we’d say. He’ll shit his Imperial pants if he sees us marching upon his city with the creature.”
Everyone around the table laughed. Everyone except Felix, who grunted, color stealing across his cheeks as he folded his arms across his chest.
“It’s risky,” Felix ground out. “What happens if we can’t figure out how to acquire the dragon? What’s our back-up plan?”
Ione silenced him with a sharp glare. “There is no back-up plan.”
Felix wouldn’t let it go. And there was something petulant and personal in his tone. “What if we tried to contact Arran? Maybe he’d be willing to?—”
