Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bells had been ringing since dawn. Rainer counted them like curses under his breath.

It was Dawnbreak Festival, the fifth one since the war ended—the fifth parade, the fifth year of noise and garlands and bad music. It celebrated the reconstruction of Zolya, the once-proud city, home of the Cliffsbane Flight Academy, now stitched together with stone and stubbornness. The city had burned under wyvern fire. Rainer still dreamed of the smoke some nights.

He and his wife had survived by running. Some called it cowardice; Rainer called it the only damn smart thing they’d done that year. After the war, they came back. Reopened the old shop and picked up the pieces. He repaired what he could. His wife planted vines where the walls had cracked. Zolya bloomed around them, louder each spring.

Now, the street outside his shop was filled with streamers, carts selling fried sweets, and children too excited to walk properly. Rainer hated it. The shouting, the drums, the way people smiled too much—as if forgetting were a virtue. He leaned on the counter with a scowl, eyes flicking toward the window every few seconds like a man expecting thunder.

And then he heard something that didn’t sound like chaos.

Laughter. Honest, uneven, unchoreographed laughter.

Curious despite himself, Rainer pushed open the door and stepped outside.

A group of young people spilled down the street, dancing to a rhythm that barely existed. One boy tripped, caught himself, and kept twirling like he’d meant to do it all along. A girl with flowers in her hair sang off-key, beaming like she didn’t care. Their joy was messy, unrehearsed—and real.

Rainer paused on the threshold. Something in his chest shifted. It wasn’t warmth, not quite, but something close.

He smiled.

Later, when his wife identified his body, she said she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him smile. It would haunt her, that smile. Because it was frozen on his lifeless face.

When the explosion tore through the festival square, it wasn’t fire that swallowed the streets.

It was silence. And cold.

People froze mid-step, ribbons caught in the air like suspended breath. The fountains turned to glass. The joy was gone in an instant, flash-frozen in a scene too perfect to be real.

It was the first strike.

And it wouldn’t be the last.

Chapter Text

SLOANE

I’m familiar with pain.

I’ve had my nose and ribs broken on the sparring mat… more times than I’d like to admit. I’ve burned my hands and torn muscles climbing up the stupid Gauntlet. I’ve dislocated my shoulder and puked from exhaustion during flying maneuvers. I’ve ridden on Thoirt’s back through skies so cold the air felt like fucking daggers stabbing every inch of my skin.

Yes, I’m familiar with pain. But this… this is different. This is worse than anything I’ve ever felt before.

Where am I? What happened?

My head is so muddled I can’t even think—let alone move. I just lie still, eyes closed, trying to focus. I hear voices before the darkness swallows me again. They’re close, urgent… but I can’t make out what they’re saying.

****

How long have I been unconscious? An hour? A day? It’s kind of hard to tell.

Pain blooms behind my eyes, sharp and deep, it comes in pulses and builds with every heartbeat. There’s a sour taste in my mouth and a wave of nausea that crawls up my throat. Everything aches—bones, muscles, even my fucking skin. It feels like—like I’ve got the mother of all hangovers.

Gods, was I drunk? I’m never drinking again. Ever. Especially not that disgusting liquor Lynix sometimes smuggles into the dorms. I’m going to kill him. If this isn’t alcohol poisoning, I don’t want to know what it is.

I’m trying hard to remember, but everything’s blurry.

Where am I?

I’m lying on a bed, at least that I’m sure of. I can feel the soft pillow beneath my throbbing head, and cottony sheets draped over my aching body. The air smells of herbs, ointments, and something sharp and sour… vinegar?

Am I in the infirmary?

“She hasn’t woken up.” A deep voice I’d recognize anywhere speaks to my right, followed by footsteps approaching.

What is Dain fucking Aetos doing here? Am I in trouble?

Suddenly, images and memories begin flashing through my mind, jumbled and out of order:

—A red Swordtail dragon with golden eyes flying behind us.

—A coastal city perched on a raised plateau, high walls wrapping around it, a spiraling tower at its center.

—Aaric handing me a cylindrical package, which I tuck inside my flight jacket.

—A river of blood running down Mira Sorrengail’s throat.

“Try,” Aetos says, rolling up the sleeve of his uniform.

I’m paralyzed. I can’t do it. Last time, I killed General Sorrengail. I hated the bitch, but I didn’t want her dead. She was Violet’s mother.

“Just try,” I hear Aetos again.

“You owe them. And yourself. At least try” Thoirt tells me through our bond.

She’s right. I owe them this much. I kneel between Aetos and Brennan, who looks pale, drained from trying to mend Mira. He’s running out of power. I glance at Violet—her uniform soaked in her sister’s blood.

“One hand on my wrist,” Aetos says as he lifts his sleeve higher. I reach out slowly. And then I see it. A gray handprint scarring his forearm.

Venin. A venin did that. A dark wielder tried to drain him. Just like he wants me to do now.

“I don’t want to do that. Become that,” I whisper as a chill creep down my spine.

“You won’t.” His voice is steady. “You can hate me later. But trust me now, or she dies.”

I wrap my hand around his wrist, and I feel it—his power. He’s too strong. It burns under my skin.

“Someone like you shouldn’t have this much power,” I mutter.

“Good thing for Mira that I do,” he replies. “Put your other hand anywhere he’s exposed.” He nods at Brennan and I press my hand to the back of his neck, hesitating.

Fuck. I can’t do this. What if I kill them both? My heart is pounding so hard I can barely breathe. My hands are trembling, and sweat is beginning to cover my temples.  

“Eyes here,” Aetos commands. His voice is sharp, unwavering, it compels me to look at him. His brown eyes stare back at me, full of certainty, there's not the slightest trace of doubt in them. As if he believes with every fiber of his being that I'm capable of doing this. Suddenly I'm able breathe again.

“Pull from the excess you feel in me, and push to the deficit in him. You’re not a weapon of destruction. You’re not Venin. You’re the artery power chooses to flow through. You’re life.” He looks straight into my eyes and his words resonate in my very core, moving something deep inside me.

Aetos flinches as I start pulling power from him.

“I’m going to hurt you,” I warn him.

“Gods, don’t I know it,” he mutters. “But you’re not going to kill me. No matter how badly you want to. Now do it.”

I pull again—harder, and his jaw clenches.

Moments pass, feeling like a lifetime, until the wound on Mira’s throat starts to close. Brennan finishes the healing.

Aetos stands and offers me his hand. Like I’d take it. What now? Does he think this is redemption? That helping me siphon, and throwing out a few well-placed words, is going to undo what he did? I mean it was kind of hot, but no.

No.

He doesn’t get to be the hero. He’s responsible for my brother’s death. And I’ll hate him forever for it.

“Fuck off, Aetos,” I bark as I push to my feet.

He stares at me for a long moment before finally saying, “Get back across the wards, Mairi. And stay there.”

I turn on my heel, flipping him off as I walk away. Thoirt is waiting. I climb on her back, and we take off. The battle still rages behind us as we fly toward safety.

A serene female voice I don’t recognize pulls me back to the present. “Her body is still healing. She needs time.”

I hear footsteps—soft, deliberate. A warm hand presses gently against my forehead.

“The fever’s gone,” says another female voice.

Was I injured during the flight? Did I fall off Thoirt’s back? Oh Gods, please don’t let that be it. I’ll die of embarrassment.

“Thoirt?” I call her, but… nothing. I can’t feel our bond. Panic coils in my chest. Did something happen to her? No—no. If she were gone, I’d be dead. And the pain tells me I’m very much alive.

“It’s been a week now,” Aetos’ voice again. His tone sounds… tight. Worried? Angry?

Why is he here? Why would he even care? Or maybe… maybe I’m imagining things. Maybe none of this is real.

“You look tired, Colonel Mairi” the woman says. “I think you should get some rest. We’ll inform you if anything changes.”

Colonel Mairi? Mom?

No, it can’t be, she’s been death for six years… I’m definitely hallucinating.

Or dreaming.

Or both.

I should sleep more… 

****

I’m semiconscious, basking in that blissful moment between dreams and reality. Those few precious seconds when everything feels… right. Until that creeping sense settles in— That nagging feeling that you should be worried about something. Then your brain kicks in and reminds you of the little detail you were trying to ignore.

“How long has she been unconscious?” a female voice asks nearby.

Right. That little detail— Something happened to me. I just don’t know what.

“Nine days,” another woman replies as I lie still, scanning my body from the inside out. My head still aches. My throat is still sandpaper. But the rest of me? Almost healed. I can feel sunlight through my eyelids, warm against my face.

“Poor thing, she looks so young. How old is she?” the first voice asks as I test the fingers on my right hand. Then my toes. Everything moves. Slowly, but it moves.

“Thirty, I think.”

THIRTY?

My eyes snap open. No one has ever insulted me like that before. Thirty? I’m twenty-one, thank you very much, and I definitely don’t look a day over it.

“I’m…” I try to say, but my voice comes out hoarse and broken.

“Oh gods, she’s awake! Vania, go get Healer Ravenna—hurry!” the first woman shouts, and suddenly there’s a face hovering over mine. Gray eyes stare at me with concern.

“I’m…” I try again and this time I cough.

“Here, drink this.” She lifts a glass to my lips, and I take a sip. Relief floods my senses as the fresh and cool water rolls down my throat.

“I’m twenty-one,” I rasp, finally as I force myself to sit up.

She raises her eyebrows, then chuckles softly and sets the glass aside.

“How do you feel, sweetheart?” The woman asks me as she puts a pillow behind my back.

“My head’s pounding.”

“That’s because you took quite the hit. Do you remember what happened to you?”

I blink slowly, trying to focus.

“I don’t know… I was…” I trail off, squinting through the fog. “I was at Draithus…”

“Draithus?” she repeats, now clearly alarmed. But I ignore her. Too many questions crowd my mind.

“Where’s Thoirt?” I blurt  “I can’t feel her—she’s not talking to me.”

She looks at me with concern and confusion, maybe a little afraid too.  

“Who’s… Who’s Thoirt, sweetheart?” she asks in that patronizing tone people reserve for small children and the completely unhinged.

“My dragon,” I snap. “My dragon.”

“Oh gods,” she breathes, standing up in a panic. “What is taking them so long? I’m going to find Healer Ravenna myself.”

And then she storms out like I’m contagious.

What the fuck?

“Thoirt,” I call out again. Still no answer. But she’s here. I know she is. I can’t feel the bond, not like before, but there’s something— a flicker, a warmth buried deep in my chest. She’s not gone I can still feel her power inside me.

I scan the room. Small, but functional. White stone walls. A geometric tiled floor. There’s a window, but the light is too harsh—I can’t make out what’s outside. I’m lying on a single bed, and beside it, there’s a wooden desk with a vase of fresh flowers and a chair that looks like it’s been used recently.

Ther’s a knock at the door. A woman with long brown hair enters. She’s followed by the gray-eyed woman from before and another one with tighter features and a curious gaze.

“Hi there,” the newcomer says with a smooth, reassuring voice. “I’m Healer Ravenna. These are Vania and Corinne—they’ve been caring for you since you arrived.”

She approaches my bedside, her presence calm and steady.

“So, how are you feeling?” she asks, gently taking my wrist and counting my pulse.

“My head’s pounding,” I admit. “But everything else feels… normal.”

“I’m going to ask you a few questions. Some might seem obvious—it’s standard procedure after a head injury,” she explains as she leans in to check my eyes. “Can you tell me your name?”

“I’m Sloane Mairi,” I answer without hesitation.

“Very good.”

She pulls a pen from her pocket and holds it up in front of me.

“Follow this with your eyes.”

I do as instructed, left to right, right to left. She nods.

“Can you tell me what year it is?”

“634” I say and Ravenna stills. Just for a second. Then she lowers the pen.

“Can you tell me the name of the king?”

“King Tauri,” I reply, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

There’s a heavy silence.

“Okay.” She sits down on the edge of the bed, folding her hands. “Sloane… today is July 16th, 642. The king’s name is Aaric Graycastle.”

I blink, then glance at Vania and Corinne. They’re not smiling. No winks. No gotcha. Just serious, patient stares. Then realization hits.

“You’re kidding,” I say. “Who put you up to this? Was it Baylor? No, it was Avalynn, right? Gods, she loves this kind of drama. Ha-ha. Very funny.”

“I don’t know who Baylor or Avalynn are,” Ravenna says gently.

“She’s not joking, Sloane,” one of the other women murmurs—Vania or Corinne, I can’t tell.

“No, it can’t be.” I’m keeping my cool, because obviously this is bullshit.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Ravenna asks.

“We were at a battle. At Draithus. I—”

“Draithus was destroyed eight years ago,” she cuts in, quietly. “The Venin were defeated a year after that.”

I freeze. Eight. Years?

She takes a deep breath, her tone softening. “Sloane… sometimes this happens after head trauma. Memory loss. Disorientation. It doesn’t mean it’s permanent—”

I stop hearing her. Her lips are still moving, but the words don’t register. Everything inside me is sinking, spinning, unraveling.

This isn’t real. It can’t be real. I must be dreaming. I pinch my arm, hard.

Still here. Still hearing this nonsense.

“You’re saying…” I rasp. “I’ve lost eight years of my life?”

“You haven’t lost them,” Ravenna corrects me. “You’ve… forgotten.”

Eight years. Eight years. How do you forget eight years? Wait, if today is July 16th, 642, and I was twenty-one in 634. It means… It means…

Oh Gods, I’m Twenty-nine… I’m old.

“Thoirt? Please, you have to answer me!” I plead inside my head. Silence. Nothing. She feels distant, muffled—like trying to shout underwater.

I swallow hard, trying not to panic. “Where’s my dragon?” I ask louder, looking straight at Ravenna. My voice cracks with desperation.

She sighs. Not a long sigh, but the kind that says this is going to be hard. That’s not a good sign. My heart pounds—fast, frantic. My hands grow clammy. My breath catches in my throat.

“Is she dead?” I choke out. “Was she harmed? Did I—?”

“I need you to calm down, Sloane,” Ravenna says gently, standing and raising both hands like she’s trying not to startle me. “Nothing bad happened to your dragon. She’s safe. But I think it’s better if we wait for Colonel Mairi to explain.”

Colonel Mairi. No, no, no. I blink, confused. That... that can’t be right. She keeps talking, but her voice fades into the background. My gaze flicks between the women in front of me, studying them with growing suspicion. They look too perfect. Too composed. These aren’t real healers, are they? Come to think of it, this doesn’t look like the infirmary at Basgiath—or the Healer’s Quadrant, for that matter. This is fake.

I let out a shaky laugh.

“My mom died six years ago,” I say, daring her to argue. “Nice try… It was Baylor, wasn’t it? He put you up to this.”

Ravenna hesitates. “No, Sloane. Colonel Mairi is… your husband.”

HUSBAND?

My brain screeches to a halt. There’s a buzzing in my ears. A slow, creeping static that builds into a roar. I sit bolt upright—too fast. The room lurches sideways, and a sharp pain stabs behind my eyes, but I don’t care.

“My what?” I gasp. “My what?”

“You’re married,” Ravenna says carefully, like she’s speaking to a cornered animal. “To Colonel Dain Mairi.”

DAIN?

No.

No way.

There are surely millions of Dains in Navarre—or the Continent. It can’t be him, right?

“That’s not possible,” I whisper, my throat going dry. “You—You don’t mean to say I’m married to Dain fucking Aetos, right?”

No one moves. The room holds its breath.

“That’s not possible,” I repeat, louder this time. Panic laces every syllable. “I’m twenty-one. I hate Dain Aetos.”

Vania shifts uncomfortably. Corinne’s lips twitch like she wants to speak but thinks better of it.

“Please,” I whisper. “Tell me this is a mistake. A sick joke. Just tell me the truth.”

Ravenna lowers herself to the edge of the bed again. Her voice is softer now. Almost kind. “I promise you, Sloane. We’re telling you the truth. You’ve been missing for over a week. And when you were found, it was Colonel Mairi who identified you.”

My chest tightens.

Missing?

Found?

I press both hands to my face, as if I can physically shove all this madness out of my brain. But the buzzing’s still there. So is the name.

Dain Mairi.

Chapter Text

SLOANE

They’ve given me a cup of lemon balm tea. Because lemon balm tea cures amnesia, right? Any second now and my memories will come flooding back.

No. Stop it. I can’t be bitchy right now.

Healer Ravenna is explaining that I’m suffering from retrograde amnesia, since I can’t remember past events. Somehow, I manage to nod, to act like I’m following, like I’m not spiraling. I even force a small, polite smile. But inside? I’m losing it.

Eight years.

War.

King Aaric Graycastle.

Colonel Mairi.

Each word is a punch to my brain, echoing louder than the last. I clutch the teacup tighter, trying to keep my hands from shaking. The warmth seeps into my palms, grounding me just enough to stay upright. Okay… maybe the tea wasn’t such a terrible idea.

Ravenna keeps talking about some studies. Gods, I can’t be talked at right now. I’m not even pretending to pay attention anymore.

This isn’t real. It can’t be real.

Maybe if I just sleep a little more, all of this will go away. If I could just flop back into the pillows without seeming rude—

“She’s awake?” Dain Aetos’ distant voice hits me like a cold wave. Footsteps follow—fast, purposeful—and my gut twists.

“No,” I whisper, almost too low to be heard as I put the teacup aside. “Tell him I can’t see him.” The words scrape out, raw and desperate. I look pleadingly at the three women standing in front of me and lock eyes with the youngest one—the only one who hasn’t spoken yet.

“Sloane, you’re his wife,” Vania says gently, stepping closer. “You’ve been missing for a week. You were found barely breathing. He’s been—he’s been worried sick.”

 I want to say I’m not ready. That I need more time. But it’s too late. A second later, he is standing in the doorway.

The blood drains from my face the moment I see him. My breath catches. I can’t speak. I can’t think. All I can do is stare.

If I’d had any lingering doubts about the whole you’ve-lost-eight-years circus, they vanish. Because he’s—him. Only not the version I remember.

His posture hits first. The straight spine. The squared shoulders. He looks taller. No—broader, maybe?  His feet are planted evenly, like the ground answers to him. One hand hangs loosely at his side, the other curls around the doorframe like it belongs to him just because he touched it. He doesn’t look around. Doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t shift his stance. He just stands there, like nothing and no one could move him.

He’s traded his leather flight uniform for a black military coat with polished brass buttons. The thing fits like it was stitched onto his skin.

He still wears the same trimmed beard, but his jaw looks sharper now. Tighter. Same full lips. Same scar on his chin. But now there’s a new one, near his right temple.

And his eyes—those stupid, striking sandy-brown eyes—look at me in a way they never did before.

My stomach knots. And for one brief second, I swear the ground shakes.

Fuck.

This is real. I’ve lost eight years.

Because the Dain Aetos I know is a twenty-something Wingleader with a stick so far up his ass he can barely breathe—trying too hard to look like he belongs in command.

But this Dain Aetos? He looks like a man who owns the sky. A man the world answers to.

The silence between us is so thick it claws at my skin. He’s staring. Lips parted, like he wants to say something—but doesn’t. Or can’t.

Did they tell him? Does he know I don’t remember?

Then he exhales—loud and sharp—like he’s been holding his breath for days. And before I can blink, he’s crossing the room in long, determined strides.

“Colonel—” someone calls behind him, but he doesn’t hear or doesn’t care.

He reaches me and I tense. My hands are gripping the sheets so tightly my nails dig into my palms.  And then—he wraps his arms around me. The smell of fresh soap clings to him, mixed with wood, and something warmer. Something oddly… familiar.

His embrace is firm. Crushing, almost.

Too much, this is too much. I freeze under the weight of it, and something cracks in my chest—a sensation I can’t name. Not pain exactly but not comfort either.

“Damn it, Suza,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice hoarse and trembling. “When are you going to stop putting me through hell?”

Suza? Is that a nickname?

I am rigid. I don’t know what to do or what to say. My brain is stuck somewhere between don’t move and don’t scream. My eyes desperately dart toward Healer Ravenna.

She clears her throat delicately and steps forward.

“Colonel,” her tone is carefully composed, “there seems to be… a complication.”

Aetos pulls back instantly—but his hands linger on my arms a beat too long, like he can’t quite make himself let go. He looks into my eyes, searching. For what, I don’t know. Recognition? Love? Whatever it is, he doesn’t find it. I notice how his gaze falters, his shoulders tense. And then… something in him shutters. His expression shifts from relief to something colder and controlled.

He lets go and turns to Ravenna, who’s now stepped to the side of the bed.

“What is it?” he asks with a tight voice.

“It seems…” she begins with clinical calm, “Major Mairi is experiencing a selective memory loss—retrograde amnesia, most likely caused by the head injury she sustained.”

Major Mairi? Is that supposed to be me?

“She doesn’t remember anything from the last eight years,” Ravenna continues. “That includes your marriage, the war, her service in the capital and… several other personal events. From her perspective, time jumped forward in an instant.”

Aetos rubs the bridge of his nose with two fingers, stepping slightly to the side. And that’s when I see it—a golden ring circling the base of his annular finger.

What in the actual fuck happened in those eight years? Why would I ever marry him? How could I forgive him?

“Ahh, I see…” he mutters under his breath, casting a sharp glance in my direction, like I’ve personally insulted him.

Wait, what’s happening?

“Will it come back?” he asks flatly, almost bored. “The memories?”

Ravenna nods—not hopeful, not grim. Just factual. “There is a strong possibility,” she says, looking at me now. “But not through force. The mind doesn’t respond well to pressure or urgency when it comes to memory retrieval. What we usually recommend is a gradual return to familiar places, routines, people. Sensory triggers can help—smells, voices, music, even certain weapons could do it for her. In some cases, emotional connection is the strongest guide.” Her gaze flicks toward Aetos, and I follow it instinctively.

He definitely looks broader. I’m really seeing it now, I can practically see the muscles in his chest through that—

Oh Gods. I’ve had sex with Dain Aetos, haven’t I? The realization slams into me like a runaway horse.  

He’d seen me naked, hasn’t he? We’ve done who-knows-what, who-knows-how many times.

I feel heat spreading through my cheeks.

“Is something wrong, Sloane?” Vania asks with furrowed brows, suddenly all heads turn in my direction.

Damn it.

“Nothing,” I mutter, lowering my gaze. “Nothing. Please continue.”

“What should she do?” Aetos asks again. “Should she rest? Should she stay here?”

“She can leave tomorrow,” Ravenna replies, calm as ever. “She’s stable. Some disorientation is expected. We’ll monitor—”

“I need to speak to my wife. Alone.” he cuts her off.

Ravenna hesitates. Then clears her throat. “Major Mairi is under a lot of stress right now. She needs to rest. But tomorrow… you can take her home.”

Home? Am I supposed to live with him?

My heart thunders. I realize I’m still clutching the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping me anchored.

Aetos nods and exhales again. Then he turns to me.

“There’s been some issues I need to take care of,” he says, tone stiff. “I’ll come back tomorrow—with clothes. I’ll take you home.”

“Thank you. For everything.” He says nodding to Ravenna.

And without another word, he turns and strides out the door

I sit still, in silence for a moment. My head’s starting to throb again and I’m a bit dazed. I’m still gripping the sheets, staring at the space where Aetos just stood, like the ghost of him is lingering in the room.

The three women are still here, standing quietly. Watching me.

I clear my throat. “Is there… anywhere else I could go? Other than—” I pause, fumble for the word.“—home?”

Ravenna studies me. “I understand,” she says gently. “I really do. But going back to your routines, your life, is the fastest way to trigger recovery. Familiar environments, habits, people… that’s how memory returns, if it’s going to.”

I look away. “And if it doesn’t?”

“Then we take it one day at a time.”

She steps closer and rests a hand lightly on the side of the bed. “But right now, what you need most is rest. We’ll let you sleep. I’ll have someone bring you food later.”

The three women file out quietly, and I’m finally alone again.

I lean back against the pillows and exhale. Maybe if I fall asleep again, I’ll wake up in the right version of reality. Maybe this is just some fever dream and tomorrow I’ll be back in training, covered in mud, cursing Aetos from a healthy distance.

Maybe I’ll wake up and be twenty-one again and none of this ever happened.

****

Damn it.

It wasn’t a dream. I wake up later and I’m still here. I’m still twenty-nine. I still can’t reach Thoirt, and I’m still married to Dain fucking Aetos. 

There’s a soft knock on the door and Vania walks in carrying a tray of food, balancing it like she’s done this a hundred times. She gives me a small, cautious smile. I hadn’t paid much attention to her earlier, but now I notice the faint freckles on her nose, the smudge of ink on her wrist, the tight braid that’s starting to unravel at the ends. She looks older than me… and tired. Oh—No, that’s right, she’s probably about my age… my new age, maybe now I look tired too.

“Hi, brought you something—soup, bread, and tea.”

She sets the tray on the table beside me and drops onto the nearby chair with a quiet sigh, folding her hands in her lap. I eye the tray. The soup smells... decent. Thick and savory, with a hint of something warm and spiced. My stomach growls before I can stop it.

Vania watches me in silence for a moment before asking, “How are you feeling?”

“Like someone rewrote my life and forgot to let me read the script,” I say honestly, reaching for the bowl and taking a tentative sip. Gods, this is good. Or maybe I’m just starving.

She winces. “That bad?”

“That confusing,” I mutter. “I’m twenty-nine. I don’t know who I am anymore. Apparently, I’m a Major. I can’t talk to my dragon. Oh—and I’m married to someone I hate. And now I’m supposed to leave with him tomorrow and… just what? Live happily ever after?”

Vania lowers her gaze and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, picking at a frayed edge of her sleeve. I can tell she’s turning over words in her head, trying to find something meaningful, maybe even comforting.

“I wouldn’t want to be in your place,” she says finally, voice low. “And I wish I had something wise to say, but I don’t.”

I nod and take another sip. The warmth of the soup does nothing for the knot in my chest.

“But…” she adds, eyes softening. “I do know he was here. Every single day. Day and night. Didn’t sleep. Barely ate. He looked awful. Wouldn’t leave your side until Ravenna threatened to sedate him if he didn’t go get rest.”

I blink. My spoon hovers midair. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” she says, offering a crooked smile. “He must really love you.”

“Well, he didn’t look very ‘devastated’ earlier. More like... annoyed. Or constipated.” I say as  grab a piece of bread and tear off a corner.

Vania snorts a laugh. “Everyone reacts differently. Maybe he just didn’t know what to do. Can’t be easy on him either. Maybe you could give him a chance.”

I chew slowly, pondering her words, but then glance sideways at her. “He killed my brother.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. I… I didn’t know that.”

“Well, he didn’t kill him kill him—not with his bare hands or anything. But he’s the reason he’s dead.”

Vania’s mouth opens like she wants to say something—then closes again. Her fingers go still in her lap. The silence thickens, sharp around the edges.

I hate it.

I kind of like her. Her presence is… comforting, and I didn’t realize how much I needed that until now. So, I push the words aside and shift the mood with forced lightness.

“Anyway,” I say, waving my spoon, “you said there was tea, right? Please tell me it’s not the bitter stuff Ravenna gave me this morning, because that tasted like wet moss—and regret.”

Her shoulders relax. She exhales a quiet laugh, and just like that, the tension breaks.

“No moss this time,” she says. “Promise.”

We fall into a quieter rhythm for a minute. I go back to the soup, the steam curling around my face as I take a slower sip, and the knot in my chest starts to loosen—just a little.

“So, tell me—how is the future like? Is Aaric really king? How did that happen? I bet he’s thrilled to wear a crown” I say sarcastically.

Vania hums, thinking. “Well, King Tauri died about five years ago, and Prince Halden was killed during the war. I can’t tell you if he’s thrilled—I’ve never met the King. But people love him. Especially the commoners.” She shrugs. “The nobles… not so much, especially now with the wedding and all that.”

I glance up at her. “What wedding?”

“Oh—the King is marrying Queen Cordella.”

I choke.

Literally choke. The soup goes down wrong, burns the back of my throat. I cough violently and slap my chest, eyes watering as I try to breathe.

Vania’s eyes go wide. She half-rises from her chair. “Are you okay?”

“You don’t mean—” I gasp between coughs, “Catriona Cordella, do you?”

“Yes,” she says, easing back down but still watching me with concern. “It’s all political, I think. To secure the alliance between Navarre and Poromiel.”

I stare at her like she’s lost her damn mind. And then—against my will—I burst into laughter. Real, breathless laughter. The kind that bubbles up from somewhere deep, sharp and incredulous and maybe just a little unhinged.

“Aaric and Cat?” I manage between laughs. “You have to be kidding me.”

“Nope.” Vania lifts her hands like she’s surrendering. “Swear on my mother’s carrot cake.”

“Oh, gods. This could not get any weirder.” I sink back into the pillows, still chuckling, the sound almost foreign in my own throat. But welcome.

****

The next day I wake up disoriented.

It takes me a solid minute of blinking at the wooden beams above me before the weight of everything sinks back in.

Amnesia.

I let out a groan and press the heels of my hands into my eyes, as if I could scrub this entire version of reality out of existence.

No such luck.

“Thoirt?” I try again, reaching out with every part of me that still remembers how. I stretch my mind toward the space where she should be. Nothing. Just the cold, echoing silence of my own thoughts. Why can’t I reach her?

A moment later, the door creaks open and Corinne steps inside. Her hair’s pulled into a knot so tight it’s probably holding her entire soul hostage. She starts bustling around in the corner of the room.

“Hi, Corinne,” I croak, my voice scratchy and dry. “What time is it?”

“Good, you’re awake,” she says brightly, sweeping across the room like she owns the place. She throws open the curtains and the light stabs through my skull like a blade. 

I wince, shielding my eyes.

 “It’s a little late, actually.” She adds.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize, dear. You needed to rest.” She moves towards the bed and starts smoothing the sheets with practiced hands. “Colonel Mairi stopped by earlier. He brought you some clothes for your departure.”

My stomach twists into a tight, sour knot. I force myself to inhale slowly, grounding myself, because I already worked through this during the endless hours of night. 

I didn’t sleep much. Just laid there in silence, watching shadows crawl across the ceiling like they might whisper answers if I stared long enough. 

At first, all I could think was no. No, I won’t go. No, I won’t play wife to Dain Aetos, no matter what they tell me, I can’t be married to him.

But the thing about ceilings is—they give you time. Time to unravel. Time to face truths you don’t want to say out loud.

Like the fact that I probably don’t have anywhere else to go. No family waiting for me. I don’t even know who else survived the war, and who did not. What I do know is that no one visited me yesterday.  No one looked at me and said thank the gods, you’re awake.

Except for him.

And maybe—maybe I should hate him for that, too.

But the truth is… I need answers. I need to know what happened.

Which would be a hell of a lot easier if I could just reach Thoirt. But I can’t. And no one will explain why.

When I asked Vania about it, she muttered something about not knowing the first thing about dragon bonds. Said Colonel Mairi would explain everything.

So I’ll go with him.

Not because I want to. But because I need to.

And once I can reach Thoirt again—once she fills in the blanks—I’ll know what to do next.

“Don’t you worry, honey. You’ll be just fine.” Corinne pats my shoulder, her voice warm but a little too cheerful. “Why don’t you start with a bath? I’m sure it’ll help you feel better. I’ll bring your clothes and something to eat in the meantime.”

She gives me a sympathetic glance and leaves me to it.

The moment the door closes, I swing my legs over the bed and wince as a dull ache shoots up my side. I move slowly—still stiff, but functional.

The washroom is small and clean.

I turn the lever on the wall and water begins to stream from the spout in the aqueduct overhead. While I wait for it to warm, I start to undress, deliberately avoiding the mirror, as I did yesterday.

But as I remove the robe, I freeze.

There’s a scar on my thigh that wasn’t there before. Pale and old, carved across the outside of my right leg. Crooked and jagged—like something tore through layers of skin and someone stitched it back in a rush.

I crouch slightly to get a better look, brushing my fingers over it. It feels numb.

This must have hurt. I can almost feel it.

Yeah… definitely don’t want to remember that.

I can’t help it and I glance toward the mirror. It’s fogged from the rising steam. I walk slowly toward it and swipe a hand across the glass. And there I am.

I mean, it’s me… but it’s not me-me.

My face looks different. Not dramatically—just enough to make me do a double take.

Is that a—?

I lean in closer. There’s a faint crease between my brows that wasn’t there before. Like worry decided to move in and never left.

Oh gods. I’m old. I’m definitely old.

No. No, I’m not old. I’m… older. Just older.

I examine the corners of my eyes for more lines. They look the same.

My hair’s longer than I remembered. Lighter at the ends, like it’s been sun-bleached over years. My arms look stronger. My shoulders, broader. My hips too.

I exhale when I realize everything is still in its place.

Then I notice something just beneath my jaw. Left side. Another scar—clean, almost surgical. You’d miss it if you weren’t looking.

But I am looking.

It sits right at the spot where a knife would kill you if it went just half an inch deeper. I tilt my head, press my fingers to the line, and swallow.

Not fatal, clearly. Since I’m standing here. But that was way too damn close.

I stare at my reflection. These scars—these quiet markers on my skin—they’re evidence. Proof that I fought. That I bled. That I survived. Even if I don’t remember how.

And despite everything… a flicker of pride stirs in my chest. A defiant, burning thread of it.

I meet my own eyes in the mirror and let the faintest smile curl on my lips.

Yes, I’ll be just fine.

****

I’ll be just fine as soon as I can get rid of Dain fucking Aetos.

The ride home is quiet. Too quiet. And long, way too long.

When I step out of the hospital and saw a horse waiting for me instead of Thoirt I thought it would be a short ride.

It’s not.

The chestnut mare he’s brought for me—not Thoirt. It’s a quiet, sturdy animal with no bond humming in the back of my mind. The emptiness feels like a missing tooth I keep prodding with my tongue.

Aetos rides his own stallion with ease, the kind of practiced grace that comes from what seems like years of experience.

The path is narrow and muddy, winding through the trees, still slick from last night’s rain. The woods smell of damp earth and wet bark, and every now and then, my horse’s hooves splash through a puddle, sending ripples across the surface.

I keep my eyes ahead. Not on him.

I can feel his presence just behind my left shoulder, solid and quiet and watching—but not speaking. He could ride ahead. Or beside me. But no. He stays just far enough behind to keep me in sight. Like I’m something breakable… or dangerous?

The road slopes downward and levels again, and neither of us breaks the silence. It's not the comfortable kind. It's the dense kind. The kind that prickles at the back of your neck.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. His posture is perfect. Back straight. Hands steady on the reins. Jaw clenched so tightly it’s a miracle he hasn’t shattered a molar.

His face gives nothing away. But he wants to ask. I can feel it. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

What feels like both a relief and an insult.

We finally crest a ridge, and I see it in the distance— A castle rising, stark and commanding, white stone glowing against the sunset. It towers over a city like a watchful sentinel, flags snapping crisply in the wind. Is that where Aaric rules now?

King. Still sounds like a joke in my head.

As we enter through the eastern gate, I brace myself. The city unfolds beneath us like something out of someone else’s life.

Stone streets curve around the hills, narrow and winding. Terracotta rooftops stack together like puzzle pieces. Wrought-iron balconies hang over alleys, heavy with ivy and flowerpots. All kind of scents drifts in—salt, fish, oil, baked bread.

Merchants begin disassembling their stalls. Some glance up as we pass. A few recognize Aetos. They nod or salute. Others look at me too long.

Do I know them?

We pass a training camp where young, retrained infantry soldiers perform formation exercises. Aetos' eyes flick toward them for a heartbeat, then away. Not a word.

As we climb toward the upper quarter, the noise of the lower city fades. The streets here are cleaner, the air cooler. The buildings are older—guard posts, administrative offices, and housing for higher-ranking officers.

We stop in front of a tall, narrow stone house, built into the slope of the hill. Three stories, dark gray walls, modest but solid. Military-issued, no doubt. The kind of home assigned, not chosen.

The shutters are functional iron, not decorative. The door is reinforced. There’s no garden—just a small courtyard, paved and clean. A place built for discipline. For survival. Not comfort.

Aetos dismounts first. He loops the reins over the iron post and walks to the door.

For a second, I don’t move. I just stare at the house, all of this seems surreal. But then I force myself to slide off the horse. My legs feel sore from the ride, but I manage to follow him through the gate and up the stone steps. My boots echo with each step.

The door swings open with a low groan.

I stand there on the threshold, staring into a place that’s supposed to be mine but feels completely alien

The entryway is dim, the stone floor cool beneath my boots. The ceiling beams are tall, worn smooth from age. Hooks line the left wall—two cloaks hang side by side. One is black and sharply folded, like it was hung with military precision. The other is softer, plum-colored, a little wrinkled. Mine, I think before I can stop myself.

Aetos doesn’t wait. He steps inside, unfastens his coat, and puts it over the arm of a nearby chair. I follow, slowly, my fingers brushing the wall as I move through the hall.

The house smells of old wood, citric and something faintly floral. I pause in the living room. It’s… oddly warm. Not in temperature, but in feeling.

There’s a fire lit in the hearth—small, controlled. A sturdy bookshelf takes up half a wall, filled with war manuals and—

My heart jolts. That's not possible.

I move closer to have a better look. Are those my mother’s poetry books?

Then my gaze lowers to a worn armchair that sits angled near the fire. A blanket is folded over its back.

I spot a ceramic mug on the side table beside it. It’s painted in shades of cobalt and sky blue. Clumsy brushstrokes. A dragon with crooked wings. It’s cracked at the rim and looks like it’s been used a hundred times. That’s my dad’s cup, Liam painted it.

I take a step closer.

On the mantel are two framed sketches. One is unmistakably of two little kids—me and Liam. I remember that image. We were maybe seven and eight. He’s smiling at the artist. I’m looking off to the side, arms crossed.

The second one… takes the breath from my lungs.

It’s me and Aetos.

I don’t know when it was drawn, but I’m laughing. Actually laughing. He’s seated beside me, turned just enough to look at me instead of the artist, and there’s this almost-smile on his face. The kind that lingers in the corners of the mouth, quiet and private. Like it was for me only.

I stagger back a step and glance around the room with new eyes.

There are pieces of me here. In the books. In the blanket. In the mug. In the art. It is real, but somehow it feels like I’m walking through a ghost’s life—and that ghost is me.

I turn slowly toward Aetos, who’s standing in the doorway, watching me.

I clear my throat. “How long have we been… together?”

His jaw tightens. He crosses his arms over his chest, feet shoulder-width apart, like he’s preparing for battle.

“You can drop the act now,” he says, voice low but sharp. “I’m not falling for that one, Sloane.”

I blink, taken aback “What the f—?”

He steps fully into the room now, closing the distance between us like a storm rolling in. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says, raising a finger. “You’re going to tell me exactly what the fuck is going on. No. More. Lies.”

I instinctively take a step back as he approaches me. “I don’t—”

“Where’s Levere?” His tone is sharp now, almost desperate. “Did he hurt you?”

“Who the hell is Levere?!” I snap. Without understanding what’s going on. He’s never spoken to me like that before. It’s unsettling.

“Don’t” he snarls “Don’t you fucking play dumb with me.”

My hands go to my hips automatically “I’m not playing dumb, I don’t remember anything! And I’m guessing this is not a happy marriage.” I add with a biter laugh.

His eyes flash, a muscle twitches in his temple. “This was a happy marriage,” he says through gritted teeth. “Until a month and a half ago, when—for reasons I still don’t understand—you started lying.”

He raises a finger again. “Coming home late. Or not at all.”

Another finger. “Avoiding me. Shutting me out.”

Another. “Giving me excuses so weak I couldn’t believe they were coming from you.”

I open my mouth. Then Shut it again.

I stare at him. Something ugly coils in my gut, my pride urges me to fight back, to defend myself. But defend what?  I don’t even understand what’s he talking about.

Heat crawls up my neck. “I’m not lying” I say, trying to stay calm. “I don’t remember.”

His eyes darken, and for the first time his mask slips. He looks wrecked. He takes a shaky breath, runs a hand down his face.

“Suza… you’re my life.” His voice drops, rough and breaking “And you’ve put me through hell these past five weeks. Just tell me the truth. That’s all I’m asking. That’s the bare fucking minimum I deserve.”

 The silence between us stretches taut.

My hands tremble, and I hate that they do. Why am I reacting? I shouldn’t care.

But I don’t flinch.

“I am telling the truth,” I snap. “I don’t remember anything. Not the war. Not this house. And surely as hell not how I ended up married to you.”

He looks at me like I just slapped him.

His jaw works as he exhales sharply. For a moment, he closes his eyes. Then, slowly, he turns his back on me and starts walking.

“Where are you going?” I call after him as he heads for the staircase.

“To sleep,” he says, not turning around. “I’m not wasting my breath talking to someone who doesn’t even have the courage to admit what she did.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shout, storming after him. “You can’t just dump all of this on me and then walk away—”

“I am walking away.” His voice cuts like steel. “I’ll be in the guest room.”

He climbs the stairs two at a time. I follow, still fuming, but also desperate—for answers, for anything that makes this nightmare make sense.

The second floor opens into a long corridor with arched ceilings and warm mage lights. Thick rugs muffle our steps.

“Where’s Thoirt?” I shout after him, my voice echoing louder than I meant.

“You know exactly where she is.” he throws over his shoulder, stepping into a room. “With the rest of the dragons” And then the door slams shut behind him.

I stay still in the middle of the hallway, heart pounding.

That was… not how I thought this would go. But then again—what exactly did I expect?

I stand there like an idiot until the silence becomes unbearable.

One of the doors down the hall is slightly ajar. I walk toward it and push it open.

The room is large—dim, but warm. A wide bed sits against the wall, dressed in sheets that look extremely soft, in deep navy and charcoal tones. There’s a wooden table on either side of the bed, cluttered in that neat kind of way that says someone sleeps here.

I sit on the edge of one side and glance at the book resting on the nightstand. Black cover. Gold lettering down the spine.

Navarre’s Military Codex.

You have got to be fucking kidding me. I roll my eyes and walk to the other side of the bed.

There’s another book there—Modern Rune’s Guide—and next to it, a glint of metal catches my eye. My knife. The one I train with.

My fingers twitch at the sight of it, some reflex buried so deep it pulls at me.

But I’m too tired.

Too raw.

Too confused.

I sit, then let myself fall back onto the bed, legs still hanging off the side, eyes fixed on the ceiling beams above me.

What now?

****

The sound wakes me first.

Not loud—just wrong. A faint creak. Wood shifting. Weight where there shouldn’t be any.

My eyes snap open.

It’s dark. Moonlight filters through the curtains, pale and silver. The heavy drum of rain pounds outside, steady and relentless.

There’s someone in the room.

On the bed.

A silhouette looms over me—tall, broad, close enough to touch. My breath catches in my throat.

Aetos.

That’s my first thought. But then a voice—low, cold, and entirely unfamiliar—slides through the darkness.

“You weren’t supposed to survive that fall. Seems you’re harder to kill than I was told.”

Every cell in my body lights up in warning. I roll hard to the side just as something sharp slices through the pillow where my head was.

Instinct takes over.

I hit the floor hard, grab the edge of the nightstand to steady myself. A lamp crashes behind me as the figure lunges again.

I dodge left. Fast. Faster than I used to move. My body reacts like it knows the rhythm—like it’s done this before. Like I’ve done this before.

The man comes at me with a short, serrated blade. I block with my forearm, twisting at the last second. The blade grazes my elbow instead of my throat.

What the fuck is happening?

My hand closes around a candlestick and I swing, catching him in the ribs. He grunts. Stumbles. Recovers quick. I duck low, sweeping his legs with a strength I didn’t know I had. We crash into the dresser. Glass shatters around us.

“Sloane!” Aetos’ voice—muffled and frantic—just outside. “What’s happening? Open the door!”

I don’t have time to respond. The attacker charges again. I dodge, but too slow—his elbow clips the side of my head. Stars explode in my vision.

Damn it. This asshole’s going to make my amnesia worse.

I hit the floor, hard. His boot lands on my chest, pinning me down. The knife gleams above me.

I can’t move.

“SLOANE!”

The door crashes open. Aetos barrels in, fury written in every line of his body. He tackles the man off me. They slam into the wall with a sickening thud. The knife clatters across the floor.

I scramble up just in time to see Aetos punch the attacker—once, twice—before the man pulls something from his belt and slashes across Aetos’s side.

Blood blooms through his shirt as he stumbles back, gripping his side, leaning against the wall.

The stranger bolts.

“Don’t let him get away!” Aetos gasps, already pressing a hand to the wound. “Go!”

I hesitate—just one second.

But I go.

I storm down the stairs, barefoot and breathless. The front door is wide open. Rain slices through the night like needles.

I run.

The cobblestones are slick and uneven beneath my feet, but I don’t stop. I see him ahead, turning a corner. And I chase.

I’m done being kept in the dark. I want answers—now.

He veers left—I follow. Another alley. Another turn. Everything blurs into wet stone, silver puddles, winding arches. I’m soaked. Panting.

And then—he’s gone. Just… vanished.

I spin in place, eyes scanning, breath shallow.

Is this a trap?

I try to head back, turn right—dead end. Left—another.

Fuck.

I try retracing my steps, walking backwards through the labyrinth of unfamiliar streets.

How many turns did I take? Was it two streets down and then a right? Or was it three?

Everything looks the same. Ancient stone walls. Sloped roofs. Narrow windows. Rain pouring in sheets. No sound but my own heartbeat and the slosh of water beneath my steps.

I stop.

Chest heaving, hands trembling. My feet ache, my head’s spinning. I’m soaked to the bone and I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how to get back.

Someone just tried to kill me—again—and I’m alone in a city that feels like a stranger’s dream.

“Aetos,” I whisper, almost against my will.

Then louder. “Aetos!” No answer.

I spin in place. Rain slicks my hair to my face.

“AETOS!” I scream into the dark. Because I don’t know what else to do.

But the only thing that answers is the storm.

Chapter Text

SLOANE

I think I could be having a panic attack.

Why wouldn’t I? There’s only so much a person can take in two days. My chest feels tight, I feel like I’m suffocating. I bent down, placing my hands on my knees, take deep breaths and wait to feel better.  

Okey, I’m not feeling better. I’m feeling worse. I need to keep moving.

I scan for anything—any landmark I might recognize, any sign of familiarity. But the streets feel like they’re shifting around me, hiding exits, turning every corner into a dead end.

“Aetos!” I shout again, but my voice is swallowed by the rain. He’s not answering.

Of course he’s not answering.

Maybe I’m too far. Maybe he dropped unconscious—bleeding out— while I’m standing here like an idiot, screaming his name into the darkness.

I keep walking, directionless.

“Aetos!” My voice cracks—raw from cold and fear.

 I’m not even sure if I’m still in the same district. The buildings look old and quiet. I slow down. What if I’m getting further away?

Then there’s movement. I catch it out of the corner of my eye. There’s a faint creak. The low groan of hinges.

I turn sharply. A door has opened across the street. Warm yellow light slips out through the crack, soft and flickering, like candlelight. It barely touches the steps—but it’s enough.

A man steps out, his pace is slow and cautious. He’s tall and muscular. His frame fills the narrow doorway before he starts descending the steps.

I narrow my eyes, trying to make out his face, but the shadows cling to him like fog. His shoulders are hunched forward and there’s something gleaming in his hand.

A dagger.

My stomach drops as he gets closer. My fingers twitch—I’m ready to bolt. But then I freeze.

That face. I know that face.

Even blurred by rain and shadow. I can make out the sharp jaw, the high cheekbones, the rebellion relic that winds around his arm.  

Victor Vester .

Rain drips from his hair, trailing down the sharp line of his cheek. He looks just as I remember: composed, cold, eyes like a locked door. Like someone who doesn’t belong to the chaos around him.

“Vester?” I breathe, unsure if I said it loud enough to reach him. My fists slowly unclench as I take a cautious step forward.

He stops at the bottom of the steps. The dagger is still in his hand.

“Vester, it’s me—”

“Sloane?!” A voice—sharp, familiar and unmistakably female—cuts through the rain at the same time someone barrels past Vester and throws their arms around me.

I’m tackled into a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of my lungs.

“Avalynn,” I gasp.

She is here. She’s alive. I cling to her like I've been drowning, and someone finally threw me a life jacket.

She pulls back just enough for me to see her face, and for a moment, it’s like nothing has changed.

Her wild red curls are damp and clinging to her cheeks. Her freckles are dusted across her nose like cinnamon over milk. Her wide blue eyes are already scanning me, like she’s trying to detect the smallest injury.

“You’re Okay!” she blurts. “Victor just told me tonight—tonight!—what happened to you. I was going to stop by tomorrow but you’re here and—where were you? I knew something was wrong the moment you stopped writing.

She looks down and gasps. “You are barefoot. And is that blood?” She points at my elbow. “Oh gods, why are you bleeding? Why are you walking around in the middle of the night? Were you the one screaming?”

Her words tumble over each other breathless and unstoppable, and despite everything—my panic, the rain, the blood—something inside me eases.

Because this is Avalynn—Loud-unfiltered-fire and loyalty, tangled up in reckless care—Avalynn.

“Ava—”

“Seriously, what happened to your shoes?! Are you sleepwalking now?” Were you wandering like this for hours? Honestly, Sloane—”

“Avalynn!” I yank my arm free—not hard, just enough to make her stop. “Someone tried to kill me,” I say. “Aetos was hurt.”

“Aetos?” she echoes, and stares at me like I just started speaking in another language. “Wait. You mean Dain?”

I don’t answer. I just look at her. Behind her, Vester finally speaks.

“Where is he?” he asks with that eternally unreadable expression.

“At the house” I say. “He was bleeding—stab wound to the side. He told me to go after the attacker. I didn’t think—I just—”

“Did you recognize him?” Vester interrupts. He takes a step closer, staring right into my eyes. His tone is controlled but urgent. “Do you know who it was?”

 “No, I don’t know who he was” My voice cracks again. I wrap my arms around myself without realizing it.

“Height? Build? Masked?” His questions come like rapid fire. His hands twitch at his sides. His eyes are focused, intense, already calculating.

“No—he was tall, broad, but fast. I didn’t get a good look. His voice was low and unfamiliar. I didn’t recognize it.” I try to picture it again, but it’s like smoke, already slipping away. My fingers curls in frustration.

“Which way did he run?”

“I—I don’t know. He turned left. Then another left—I thought I was close, but I lost him in the alleys.” I shake my head. “It all looked the same”

Vester exhales through his nose, sharp and controlled, already turning away.

“Go to your house,” he says. “Check on Mairi. I’ll find the bastard who did this. I’ll meet you both there.”

And just like that—he disappears into the rain.

The walk back is fast and tense.

Avalynn keeps close, a steady presence at my side, even as the rain falls in cold, unrelenting sheets. Neither of us speaks much—she’s shivering, I’m freezing, and my heart refuses to settle. But I follow her. She clearly knows the way back.

The second we reach the house, I spot movement through the windows—shadows shifting behind the glass. I push the door open first, and my eyes go straight to the stairs.

Aetos is there. Halfway down, gripping the banister with one hand and pressing the other against his side. Blood has soaked completely through his shirt—dark and wet, clinging to his skin. His fingers are stained red.

His face is pale and strained. But the moment he sees me, something breaks in his expression—relief, sharp and fleeting.

“What happened?” he rasps. “Did he get away?”

Before I can answer, Avalynn slips in behind me and shuts the door with her hip.

“Well,” she says mockingly  “we’re definitely getting slower, aren’t we?” She nods toward Aetos’ side. “Thought you didn’t lose fights anymore.”

Aetos exhales, something between a scoff and a groan.

“Always a pleasure, Avalynn,” he mutters sarcastically.

Avalynn is already moving, climbing the stairs without hesitation.

“Found your wife wandering barefoot through the streets, by the way,” she says as she slings one of his arms around her shoulders. “At first I thought you’d finally driven her completely insane—” She throws me a grin over her shoulder. “—but then she told us what happened. Victor went after the attacker. Why in all the realms would someone try to kill you?”

Together they make their way down, one step at a time. Aetos grits his teeth with every movement but doesn’t complain.

I blink. I’m really not getting something here. Are they like friends or something? They can’t be friends, we hate Dain Aetos.

When they reach the bottom, he limps toward the couch and starts lowering himself with a groan of effort.

Avalynn makes a sharp, horrified noise.

“Absolutely not! You are not bleeding all over that couch. That thing is white.”

“It’s beige,” Aetos mutters, exhausted.

“It’s dead if you sit on it,” she shoots back.

Okay this is …weird. They almost banter like it’s nothing. Like this is normal. Familiar. Comfortable. I’m feeling a little betrayed here.

Avalynn snaps her fingers toward the fireplace. “Sloane—blanket. That one, over the armchair.”

I jump at her voice, then hurry to grab the folded throw draped over the armrest, which, by the way, I had decided was mine just earlier.

I lay it almost unwillingly across the couch, and Aetos sinks down with a grunt. His head falls back, eyes shut, and his jaw tight.

Avalynn kneels beside him, already peeling back the fabric of his blood-soaked shirt with efficient, practiced hands. She clicks her tongue.

“Well he still breathes. That’s a good sign.” She glances at me. “Not deep enough to kill him, unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” Aetos cracks an eye open.

“Just checking if you were still listening.” She turns her attention back to the wound. All business now.

I take a step back, arms crossed tightly over my chest. And watch her work.

Avalynn stands with a huff and wipes her hands on her pants.

“Stay put,” she mutters, then disappears into the next room. “I’m getting alcohol.”

Aetos exhales through his nose and leans his head back again, breathing shallowly. I’m still near the fireplace, soaked and trembling. He opens his eyes and looks at me for a long second.

“You okay?” he asks. His voice is soft but rough at the edges.

I nod as a knock splits the quiet—three sharp raps against the door.

Vester.

I spin around with my heart lurching and cross the room quickly, ignoring Aetos’ muttered warning.

When I pull the door open, Vester steps inside without wasting time. He’s damp from the rain and water trails behind him.

Aetos straightens slightly. “Did you find him?”

Vester shakes his head once. “No. Whoever he is, he knows these streets better than I do.”

Avalynn returns right then with a bottle in hand.

“Alright,” she says, already pulling the cork loose. “Time to clean that wound.”

Aetos raises a brow. “We have medicinal alcohol. No need to waste that.”

She narrows her eyes, clutching the bottle to her chest.

“This is for me,” she says flatly. “I need it to survive whatever ridiculous explanation you two are about to give me.” She kneels beside Aetos again. “Let’s review: Victor tells me you went missing.” She points at me. “Then you were found barely alive five hours from here. And tonight, the first night back, someone is stupid enough to sneak into your house—your house—and tries to kill you in your sleep?”

She throws her free hand in the air. “Make it make sense.”

Aetos watches her, then turns to me.

“I’d like an explanation too.” His voice is low, controlled, but with a thread of anger pulsing underneath.

For fuck’s sake. I’m tired. My teeth are chattering, there’s blood on my arm, and now I’ll have to try to make him understand that I have fucking amnesia again.

“I told you,” I snap, “I don’t. Remember. Anything.”

He stares at me. This time the anger is plain. Then he runs a hand down his face and turns to Vester.

“Sloane claims she has amnesia,” he says, flat as stone.

Vester lifts an eyebrow and steps forward. The room quiets instantly. He stops in front of me, and his eyes lock onto mine.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” His tone is calm. Casual. But I can feel the weight behind it.

For a moment, I’m confused—then it hits me. The rumors.  I do remember the rumors.

Victor Vester. Truth-sayer.

He’s not just asking. He’s reading me. And Aetos just put him up to it, didn't he? That was some code between them.

I glare at Aetos and try to kill him with my stare. Then look back at Vester, defiantly.

“The last thing I remember,” I say, “is being in Draithus and telling Aetos to fuck off.”

There’s a beat of silence. Vester’s mouth twitches. Barely. But I see it. He’s hiding a smile.

He doesn’t look away from me when he steps to the side, but when he glances at Aetos, he gives a single, measured nod.

Aetos goes still. Entirely. His eyes widen and he suddenly seems even more pale and strained.

Avalynn lowers the bottle, setting it on the table. “Wait,” she says slowly, her voice softer. “You… don’t remember anything? Nothing at all?”

I shake my head. My throat tightens. “I remember everything before Draithus. And then—just waking up yesterday.”

Vester’s still watching me. Unreadable as always.

Avalynn blinks. Once. Twice. Then— “Waitwaitwait—okay, hold on. So you do have amnesia? Like, real, confirmed, memory-loss amnesia? Is it permanent?  Did you hit your head? Oh gods, did someone—?”

“Avalynn,” Vester says gently. Like he’s guiding a horse away from panic.

She lifts both hands. “Right, sorry. I’m just—processing.”

Aetos shifts. Slowly and painfully. He pushes himself upright, still holding his side. His eyes are on me. He takes a step, then another.

“Suza,” he says. His voice is low. Rough. There’s something raw in it—guilt, maybe. Something that tugs just a little.

“I’m so—so fucking sorry.” His eyes search mine. “I didn’t believe you. I should have. I just… I couldn’t understand.”

He reaches out—slowly. His hand hovers between us, waiting for contact. But my body moves on its own. I step back. Just one step. His hand falls limply to his side. And something in his face crumbles.

“You hate me,” he says softly. Almost like he’s realizing it aloud.

Avalynn scoffs, stepping in quickly, tone light and pointed. “Oh come on, don’t be dramatic. She doesn’t hate you. She’s mad. There’s a difference.”

Aetos doesn’t answer right away. He keeps his eyes on mine.

“No,” he says finally. His voice is quieter now. Broken in a different way. “She hated me eight years ago. That’s all she remembers.”

The room is so quiet you could hear the firewood shift in the hearth. And I don’t know what to say. Because he’s not wrong. That’s the last version of him I remember. The Aetos I swore I’d never forgive. The one responsible for everything I lost.

“Oh gods,” Avalynn’s trembling voice cuts through the silence. “She doesn’t remember the war. Or… what happened after.” She sinks onto the couch like her knees gave out, clutching the bottle tightly to her chest. She’s staring at me with something that looks far too much like grief.

 “Fuck,” Vester mutters under his breath.

Aetos speaks next, almost to himself—his voice low, strained. “You were trying to reach Thoirt.” His gaze lifts—meets mine—and I see it in his eyes: the realization clicking into place.

“That’s why you asked where she was.”

Panic strikes like lightning. My chest hollows out, leaving only the thundering beat of my pulse and the awful weight of knowing I was right. I’ve felt it from the beginning. That something was wrong. So, so wrong.

 “What happened?” I ask, my voice cracking with urgency. “Tell me what happened.”

Silence.

Vester clears his throat and turns toward Avalynn. “His wound still needs stitching.”

“Oh. Right.” Avalynn blinks, grateful for the distraction. “I’ll need a suture kit.” She glances at Aetos. “Where do you keep it?”

I stare at them, disbelief burning through me. Are they seriously trying to skip past this?

Aetos doesn’t answer right away. His eyes haven’t left me. Finally, he speaks.

“Guest room. Top drawer in the wardrobe.”

Avalynn nods and starts to move, but before she takes a full step—

“No.” The word rips out of me, loud and sharp, almost like a physical shove. “No. You don’t just get to move on to stitches and med kits and pretend I didn’t just ask you what the hell happened.”

All eyes snap back to me.

“What happened?!” I demand again, louder this time. “Every single time I’ve asked about Thoirt, everyone’s looked at me like someone died.”

Verper flinches, barely.

“You can’t hide whatever it is from me.”

Aetos exhales slowly, like it hurts to speak. His expression changes—not pity, not guilt—just weight. “I’ll tell you,” he says quietly. “Everything. I promise.”

Avalynn nods. “We’ll explain,” she says. “But first let me patch that hole in his side before he starts leaking on the rug.”

****

After what feels like hours later, Aetos’ wound is finally stitched. Avalynn and I have changed into dry clothes, and the warmth of the fire is finally starting to seep into my bones.

I'm curled into the armchair across from Aetos, arms crossed tightly over my chest, like they’re the only thing holding me together. My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from speaking first—because I know I won’t like what they’re about to say.

Avalynn pours herself a glass of that dark liquor and takes a slow sip.

“Okay,” she says at last, settling beside the hearth. “I’m all set now.”

Aetos doesn’t meet my eyes. “Draithus was… a disaster,” he starts. His voice is low, careful. “After that battle, the war with the Venin broke out. We fought alongside Poromiel, but we began losing ground. Badly.” He pauses, clearly choosing his words with care “Aaric, he looked through every path he could see, and all of them led to defeat—except one. One that wasn’t very clear. Or at least, that’s what he told us.”

I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean ‘every path Aaric could see’?”

“His signet manifested as precognition.” Vester answers leaning against the wall.

I blink. “Precognition? Like General Melgren?”

Aetos shakes his head. “No. Melgren could only foresee outcomes of battles—predict tactical patterns. Aaric’s signet was… more complex. He could see every possible future. Like gazing into a broken mirror, each shard reflecting a different outcome.”

I stare at them, stunned. That kind of signet hasn’t been recorded in centuries. My heart thuds against my ribs. Aaric could see the end before it came.

Avalynn sets her drink down, her jaw tight. “Anyway, in every path he saw, the Venin won. It wasn’t just likely—it was inevitable. Except for that one. In that one, the Irids fight with us.”

She pauses, glancing at Aetos and Vester. They’re all suddenly tense, as if they’re about to confess a crime.

“And after a long, very long negotiation… they agreed to help.” Aetos’ voice is so low now I have to strain to hear it. “Under one condition.”

I shift forward slightly, dread crawling up my spine like frost.

Aetos looks straight at me this time.

“The Empyrean agreed to end the bonds with humans. And to leave the continent… once the Venin were defeated.”

The words hit harder than a fist. I can’t breathe.  No, I heard him wrong. That’s not what he meant. That can’t be what he meant. My lips part, but no sound comes out at first.

“They… left?” I whisper. My throat is raw. “Just like that?”

Avalynn winces. “Well, it wasn’t just like that. It took time, years, for all of them to leave.”

Aetos nods slowly. “The last sighting of a dragon was reported three years ago. Near Lewellen. The war ended three years before that.”

Thoirt is gone?

I feel the world tilt beneath me. If they had stab me right into my heart, it wouldn’t have hurt as much as this. I stand abruptly, the armchair scraping back. My hands are trembling.

“But— But why? Why would the Irids want that?”

“They said it was unnatural,” Aetos says flatly.

Avalynn snorts. “An abomination. Can you believe that?”

Victor folds his arms tightly across his chest. “They claimed the bonds were the reason the Venin existed at all. That our link to the dragons created the unbalance that opened the door and gave the Venin access to the Source.”

The words settle like ash in my lungs. I can’t breathe around them.

“No,” I whisper, my eyes locking on his. “The bonds can’t be broken. You just read me. You can still wield. I— I still feel her. Inside me.” My voice cracks on the last word. My fingers press against my sternum as if I could reach inside and prove it—prove that she's still there, still mine.

Vester glances away as he scratches the back of his neck. Aetos draws a long, heavy breath. Avalynn doesn’t even try to hide her discomfort—she lifts the bottle and takes a deep pull straight from it.

“I really don’t like this part of the story,” she mumbles, voice thick.

Aetos’ voice drops lower, like the weight of it is too much to carry aloud.

“The Irids could brake bonds. But the only one that had ever been broken before was between Andarna and Violet. And she had another dragon.”

My breath catches. “And?”

Aetos looks up. There’s a hollowness in his gaze that makes my stomach turn. “In the path Aaric saw, Molvic was supposed to die. And Aaric with him.”

My blood turns to ice. I don’t even feel the room anymore—just the deafening silence in my ears.

“They didn’t tell anyone,” Aetos continues. “But they agreed. They knew what would happen. And they accepted it. They were willing to die for the cause.”

I stare at him. I don’t blink. I can’t.

“But when Molvic was fatally wounded,” he says softly, “one of the Irids realized what they were truly giving up. What they were willing to lose. And at the last moment… he made a choice. He ended the bond before Molvic died. To at least save Aaric.”

The silence that follows feels sacred.

My lips move before I can stop them. “Aaric survived, but Molvic did not.” It comes out as a whisper. My hand flies to my mouth.

Aetos speaks, voice low and careful. “The path Aaric saw wasn’t clear… not because our defeat wasn’t certain, but because the bond was going to end. And with it, his signet.” He pauses. “The vision was unstable. Not because the outcome was unknown—but because the power was. Aaric misread it. His signet—it was new to him. Too new.”

I try to process that—how a vision meant to save us cost him everything.

“But we won,” I say, almost in protest. “The Venin were defeated.”

“Thanks Sorrengail and Riorson for that,” Avalynn exhales sharply taking another swig.

“I don’t understand. What does any of this have to do with the fact that he can still wield?” I ask, snapping back to Vester.

Vester doesn’t flinch. “Aaric survived,” he says, “but he was as good as dead.” And his words settle like iron in my stomach.

Aetos picks up from there. “He believed he had sent Molvic to his death. That he had betrayed him. But it wasn’t just guilt. His body—” He swallows, looking away for a moment. “There were consequences. Physical ones. Attacks of unbearable pain. Convulsions. Insomnia. He would lose days at a time. Collapse mid-sentence. The list went on and on.”

“It was horrible,” Avalynn says softly, her voice breaking a little. “Like… like withdrawal. From something your body can't survive without.”

Silence stretches, heavy and suffocating.

Then Aetos continues. “The dragons realized it was because after the bond was formed, our bodies become dependent on their power. On the flow of it. When it was severed without care, without preparation… it unraveled him.”

My heart thunders in my chest.

“So,” Aetos says, meeting my gaze at last. “In order to break the bonds safely—without risking what happened to Aaric—they left a part of themselves behind. A final gift.” His voice is soft now, almost reverent. “That’s what you feel inside you, Sloane. It’s not Thoirt. It’s just a piece of her power. A fragment. That’s why we’re still able to wield.”

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. His words land like a blow to the chest, knocking the air out of me. Something sharp coils tight in my ribs, a vice squeezing around hope—hope I didn’t even realize I was still holding onto.

The echo I’ve felt since I woke up. The presence I thought I still sensed in the quiet moments, like warmth flickering at the edge of my mind—It wasn’t her.

It wasn’t Thoirt.

The thought loops in my head, again and again, louder each time. It’s not Thoirt. It’s not Thoirt.

“She’s gone,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “And I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

I sink onto the couch, my legs no longer steady enough to hold me. Heat crawls up my throat. A lump settles just beneath it, thick and immovable. My eyes burn. Everything blurs.

“Oh no,” Avalynn says, gently, crossing the room. “No. We got years to say goodbye. You just… don’t remember.” She sits beside me, her voice soft but full of conviction. “And every time a bond was broken, there was a ceremony. A way to honor the Dragons and their last Riders” Her voice falters. “We called it the Last Flight and…” she swallows hard, blinking rapidly. “It was beautiful. Gods, it was beautiful.”

Silence follows—long, aching, heavy. I realize then it isn’t just my grief filling the room. They’re still mourning. Even after three years.

“Why did they have to leave?” I ask, my voice thin, almost childlike. “Couldn’t they just… break the bonds and stay?”

Aetos’ jaw tenses. He looks toward the fire, shadows dancing across his face. “The Irids feared we’d bond again. That one day, after enough time had passed, after the wounds faded… we’d try to forge new connections. Repeat the cycle.”

“So where are they now?” I ask, barely more than a breath.

Aetos doesn’t look at me. “No one knows,” he says. “Wherever the Iris live… we presume that’s where they are.”

A pang of pain slices through me—deep and slow. I bite down on it, but it leaks out anyway. A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. I turn away, wiping it quickly with the back of my hand. But it doesn’t matter. They’ve already seen. And for once, no one says anything.

The fire crackles softly behind us. Rain still patters against the windows, steady and cold. The silence that settles over the room isn’t awkward or empty. It’s the kind of silence that only comes when everyone knows exactly what’s been lost.

****

I refuse to open my eyes. Why would I? This life sucks.

It’s morning—I can feel it in the warmth leaking through the curtains, the faint chirp of birds that should sound peaceful but just make me want to scream. My body aches like I was hit by a wagon, which… isn’t entirely inaccurate.

A knock sounds on the door.

Aetos’ voice follows. Low and Careful. “Sloane?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I roll to my side and pull the blanket over my head, burying my face into the pillow.

Thoirt is gone.

****

The second time I stir, it’s because something smells… edible.

When I open one eye—just barely—I see a tray on the dresser. Bread, eggs, bacon, and some fruit.

Aetos is standing beside it, arms crossed. He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just looks at me like he’s trying to decide whether to reason with me or just leave me to it.

“You have to eat.” He finally says with a calm tone. Gentle, even. “I know this is… a lot. But you can’t stay in bed forever.”

Watch me.

I glare at him through a narrow slit between the blankets. “Go away.”

Then I pull the blanket over my head again, dramatic as a child, and suffocate in cotton and self-loathing.

How broken or desperate did I have to be to marry Dain Fucking Aetos?

He sighs—one of those deep, I-knew-this-was-coming sighs—and walks out. The door clicks shut softly behind him.

My stomach is growling but I refuse to eat.

Sometime later—minutes, hours, who knows—the door creaks open again. I don’t look.

“I need to go to the barracks,” Aetos says. His voice is closer this time. “Just for a few hours. We’re assigning two infantrymen to the house. After last night, I’m not taking any risks.”

Right. Last night. The assassin. I almost forgot someone tried to murder me. Lucky me.

I grunt. That’s all he gets.

“If you need anything, Mrs. Litman Is going to stay here until I come back”

I flip over and bury my face in the other pillow. Again, the door shuts quietly. Again, I sleep. Or drift. Or rot. I’m not really sure anymore.

****

It’s dark when I feel his presence again. A soft shuffle. The faint clink of porcelain.

“I brought fresh food,” he says, voice low. Tired. “I know you don’t want to eat. But you have to.”

I stay still.

“Suza…”

“Don’t call me that.” It comes out like a groan. Half-asleep, half-feral.

He’s quiet for a beat.

“Ravenna said that if you return to your routine—just small things—it might help trigger your memory.” He pauses. “When it comes back, everything will make sense again. I promise.”

I don’t answer. Because I don’t believe him. Not really. I wait until I hear the door close again.

Then I sigh and I go back to sleep.

****

I’m awake. Unfortunately.

I haven’t moved. Haven’t eaten. Haven’t done a single productive thing except continue my one-woman protest against existence.

The blanket over my head has become my new identity. I am Blanket. Blanket is me.

At some point, I hear footsteps. Heavy ones. Determined. The door swings open. I don’t even flinch. Then, suddenly—rip. Cold air floods my skin as the blanket is yanked off me in one violent, merciless motion.

“What the actual fuck?” I snap, sitting up with hair in my face and murder in my eyes. “Have you lost your mind?”

Aetos stands at the foot of the bed, holding the blanket like it’s infected.

“That’s enough,” he says, voice firm. “Three days. You’ve barely eaten. You won’t speak. You won’t move. I get it, Sloane. I really do. But this can’t go on.”

“Oh, really? What are you going to do? Court-martial me? You’ll have me scrubbing dinner dishes for a month?” I cross my arms. “Newsflash: you’re not my Wingleader anymore.”

His jaw clenches. “No. I’m not. But I am your husband. And I’m not just going to stand here and watch you disappear piece by piece.”

That shuts me up for a second. Not because I agree. But because the word husband still hits like a punch to the ribs.

I open my mouth—ready to tell him to fuck off—when someone knocks on the front door.

Aetos holds my gaze for another second, his brown eyes daring me to keep sulking, then tosses the blanket back at me and turns toward the hallway.

“Don’t touch my stuff,” I mutter under my breath.

A moment later, I hear the front door open. Muffled voices. Then footsteps again—lighter, faster.

I gasp, as Avalynn throws her arms around me with zero regard for personal space or the state of my hygiene.

She pulls back just far enough to wrinkle her nose.

“Okay. Ew.” She fans the air dramatically. “You smell like a teenager”

“She’s acting like one too” Aetos says as he leans against the door frame and folds his big muscular arms.

I groan and fall back against the pillows. Avalynn sits on the edge of the bed and nudges my knee with hers.

“You don’t have to pretend this doesn’t suck,” she says softly. “Because it does. But you can’t let it swallow you whole either. That’s not you. You’re the one who punches problems in the face. Remember?”

“I don’t remember anything,” I deadpan. “Kind of the problem.”

She sighs and yanks the pillow from behind me like she’s about to weaponize it.

“Come on, stink bug. You’re getting up. Shower, food, then you can sulk all you want. But not like this.”

I throw an arm over my face and groan again. She’s right, obviously. Which is honestly the most annoying part.

Half an hour later I step out of the bathroom with clothes I don’t remember owning and wet hair dripping down my back. All I want is to crawl back into bed and disappear for another three days. I’m halfway to doing exactly that when the door flies open.

Avalynn marches in with a tray of food and the kind of expression that makes you want to run purely out of self-preservation.

“No,” she says without preamble. “Absolutely not. I saw that. Don’t even think about getting back in bed.”

She lifts the tray slightly. “I brought food and wine. Dain had to leave, apparently something extremely important came up.” She grins. “And since he’s gone, we can go to your favorite spot. You can sulk all you want there, after you eat.”

“I’m not in the mood to go out,” I mutter, folding my arms.

“Perfect. Because we’re not going out,” she replies, turning on her heel. “Follow me.”

I narrow my eyes. “What part of ‘I have no energy to move’ was unclear?”

She’s already halfway down the hall. “The part where you thought I’d let you rot in peace without interference.”

I sigh. Because I know if I don’t follow her, she’ll come back with a bucket of cold water or, worse, a motivational song sung terribly off-key.

So, against my better judgment, I drag my feet after her.

We climb the stairs and head up to the third floor.

Or… what’s left of it.

My frown deepens as soon as I step in. The ceiling is partially gone, exposing a maze of old beams. Some walls are still standing, though many are stained black—burn marks, I think. Evidence of a fire. There are cracks in the floor, missing tiles, jagged patches of stone that force you to watch your step.

But despite the ruin, it feels… alive.

Plants spill out from every corner—ferns, vines, small blooming things I don’t recognize. Some grow from pots. Others have taken root in the gaps between stones, climbing up trellises made of warped metal that lean into the light. There are window frames without glass, open to the breeze, and the sunlight filters through the holes in the ceiling like scattered gold dust.

It smells like earth and something faintly sweet.

Avalynn doesn’t stop until we reach a far corner where part of the wall has completely collapsed. The edge is protected by a low railing and a few tall plants that act like a natural barrier. There’s a pair of worn, mismatched chairs and a small wooden table, sun-bleached and scuffed by time.

I stop in my tracks.

Because the view is… It’s breathtaking in the quietest way.

The city stretches out beneath us in layers of stone and color—terracotta rooftops, crooked chimneys, winding streets. Smoke curls lazily from a few chimneys—one of them probably a bakery. Farther out, beyond the last ring of buildings, a valley unfolds in soft, rolling green. A silver thread of river cuts through it, winding toward the base of a distant mountain range. The peaks sit like giants resting on the horizon.

I lower myself slowly into the chair, eyes still fixed on the view.

How could I forget this?

Avalynne settles into the chair beside me and starts uncovering the food she brought—still warm, from the smell. Something buttery and flaky. The sight of it makes my stomach clench, but I ignore it.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner,” she says, pouring herself a drink from a metal flask. Her voice is light, but there’s an edge of exhaustion beneath it. “Had to attend some meetings. It’s been crazy.”

“It’s okay,” I mutter, picking at a piece of bread. My appetite is somewhere buried under layers of dread, but I force a small bite anyway.

“What do we do now?” I ask her “I mean—” I glance down at the bread. “We’re not riders anymore.”

Avalynne leans back in her chair, balancing it on two legs like she’s done it a hundred times in this exact spot.

“No,” she says with a small sigh. “We’re not. They call us Dragon’s Souls now.”

“Dragon’s Souls?” I echo, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah.” She takes a swig from her flask and winces slightly, like whatever’s inside burns. “Because we have ‘a part of them inside us’. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. Eventually.”

I blink. A part of them. As if that’s supposed to make it better.

Avalynne shrugs. “We train. Stay in optimal combat condition in case something goes to hell. Some of us are assigned to border surveillance, civil defense, internal patrols. Social support too—medicine, infrastructure, field healing. Some even do diplomatic work. Deterrence missions. I swear there’s a whole list.”

I nod slowly, trying to wrap my head around it. “And me? What exactly do I do?”

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “You’re in Research and Development. Something with runes. Please don’t hate me, but I honestly stop listening after the third word every time you explain your projects.”

That almost makes me smile. Almost.

“And you? And Aetos?”

“Dain and Victor, they’re in Intelligence. Internal security or something fancy like that.” She waves a hand vaguely. “Which makes sense, right? With their signets and everything.”

Yeah. It does.

“What about you?” I ask.

“Oh, I’m a professor at Basgiath.” She grins. “I come to the capital now and then to submit reports, pretend to understand budgets, that sort of thing.”

“You don’t live here?” My eyes widen and my eyebrows rise.

“Nope.” She pops the “p” and stretches her legs in front of her. “I’m actually leaving tomorrow night.”

The words hit harder than I expect.

“You can’t leave me here with him.” I say, more panicked than I mean to sound.

Avalynne laughs. “Don’t be dramatic. He’s not a venin.”

“Ava, he sleeps with a copy of Navare’s Military Codex next to him” I scowl.

She leans forward, propping her elbows on her knees, eyes dancing with something between sympathy and amusement. “Sloane… you love him. I swear, you’re so in love with him it’s actually annoying.”

I stare at her like she’s grown a second head. “I don’t understand. How could I marry him? How could I forgive him? It doesn’t make sense.”

She doesn’t laugh this time. She lowers her gaze to her hands, quiet for a moment before saying softly:

“I think… you didn’t forgive him. You forgave yourself. For falling for the man you held responsible for your brother’s death.”

The breath leaves my lungs.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” she adds. “It wasn’t easy. It took you a long time.”

She leans back again, eyes tracing the broken beams above us, the cracks in the floor, the vines curling through the ruins like they belong here now.

I follow her gaze, letting my shoulders drop. For a moment, we just sit there, surrounded by quiet and crumbling beauty—the wind threading softly through what’s left of the walls, sunlight catching on the plants like tiny gold coins.

My stomach knots. There’s a question clawing at the back of my throat, but I can’t bring myself to ask it.

I want to know about the rest of our squad. But I don’t dare. Not yet. I don’t think I can take it right now—if someone didn’t survive.

So instead, I poke at the food in front of me, tearing off a piece of bread and chewing slowly.

I clear my throat. “What about Aaric? Does he still… suffer?”

Avalynne lets out a breath, pouring herself another glass of wine. The dark red liquid swirls in the cup, catching the light.

“Oh, no. The healers found ways to control his—” she rolls her wrist, searching for the right word “—episodes. The pain. The seizures. Physically, he’s stable now.” Her eyes drift toward the horizon, somewhere beyond the mountains. “The guilt lasted longer, though. Even after he was crowned.”

She tips the glass to her lips, takes a sip, then offers it to me. I hesitate for half a second, but take it. The first swallow burns down my throat, stronger than I expected. I cough once, blinking.

“Gods, Ava. What is that?”

She shrugs, lips curving into a grin. “The good stuff.”

I set the cup down carefully, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

Avalynne’s smile fades, her gaze softening.

“He became a puppet of the Senarium for a while,” she continues. “Did whatever they told him. Until Cat called him a fucking useless coward in the middle of a sessions where Navarre's help to Poromiel was discussed.”

I nearly choke again—this time from laughter.

“She did not.”

“She did.” Avalynne’s eyes sparkle with mischief now. “Right to his face. In front of the entire world.”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “And now they’re getting married?”

“Yep.”

I arch a brow. “He fell in love with her for that?”

Avalynne laughs, tossing a piece of fruit into her mouth. “Oh, no. It’s not love. It’s all politics. But, honestly—” her smile fades again, just a little “—after everything he went through, I wish he could’ve married someone for love. He deserves at least that.” She takes a deep breath “But I guess he is too committed to his new cause”

I watch her, fingers toying absently with the edge of my plate.

“What’s his new cause?” I ask, my voice softer now.

Avalynne leans back in her chair, eyes closing briefly as the sun brushes over her face.

“Dismantling the family business” Her eyes open, locking onto mine. “From the inside out.”

****

Avalynne and I linger on the terrace for a while, sipping slowly, watching the sky turn gold and then a dusky pink. She tells me about Basgiath—how it’s quieter now, how the new first-years still walk too fast and act too brave. We talk about our dragons. Not for long, just enough to make the silence feel honest.

When she finally leaves, there’s a hollow space beside me where her warmth used to be. I don’t move. I just stay there, elbows on my knees, cover with a blanket, eyes on the fading horizon, trying not to feel anything.

I hear footsteps behind me.

“I see you found your spot,” Aetos says softly.

I don’t look at him, but I hear the way he says it—like it means more than just a location. A part of me bristles at that. Another part... doesn’t.

“Avalynne brought me,” I say.

He walks over and sits beside me, not too close. Just enough that I can feel the edge of his presence. “When we moved to the capital,” he says, his voice low and steady, “you hated the city. Said it smelled like horse shit and old metal.”

I huff, almost amused. That does sound like something I’d say.

“They showed us two houses. You didn’t like either. Too fancy. Too perfect. Then they mentioned a third one but said it was damaged in a fire and probably not worth our time.” He pauses, and I glance sideways. There’s a fond smile tugging at his lips. “Which meant, of course, that you had to see it.”

That also sounds like me.

“They didn’t even want to show us the third floor. Said it was dangerous, unfinished. You ignored them, marched up the stairs, and when you saw this place—” he gestures to the open terrace, “—you just stopped. You said it was the first time the city looked real.”

I shift slightly in my seat, uncomfortable with the tenderness in his voice. Like he’s talking about a memory he’s visited a thousand times.

“You turned this mess into something beautiful,” he finishes quietly. “You come up here almost every day.”

Silence stretches between us. I keep my eyes on the skyline. Eventually, I speak.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I whisper. “But I don’t remember any of that. I’m not the person you married.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “No. You’re not.”

I look over at him, startled.

“But you’re exactly the person I fell in love with.”

That throws me off completely. I blink, unsure whether to laugh, scoff or run.

“Our relationship started a week after Draithus,” he adds, his eyes still on the horizon.

I turn to him sharply. “That’s a lie.”

His brow lifts slightly.

“There’s no way I fell in love with you a week after Draithus,” I say. “The last thing I remember is hating you. With passion.”

He chuckles under his breath. “You didn’t fall in love with me in a week, Sloane. It just... started then.”

I cross my arms. “Fine. How did it ‘start,’ then?” The sarcasm drips off every word.

Aetos grins, like he’s been waiting for this.

“Everyone was stressed after the battle and it’s outcome,” he begins. “One day, you were in a mood—furious about something. You decided to take it out on me. Like always.”

“That does sound like me,” I mutter.

“I was tired of it. So I told you if you had a problem, we were going to settle it right then. Took you to the sparring mat.”

My eyes narrow. “You what?”

“We started fighting. You didn’t hold back.” His voice turns a little amused. “Neither did I. We were both exhausted and pissed off and you were too proud to quit. Eventually I ended up pinning you.” He pauses. Then adds, “And I kissed you.”

I stare at him, stunned. “You kissed me?!”

“Yes.”

“That’s—” I throw my hands in the air. “That’s assault, Aetos.”

“One. That’s not my name anymore. Two. You kissed me back. And three you gave me a knee to the balls five seconds later. I think we were even.”

That gets a laugh out of me before I can stop it. I cover my mouth, but it’s too late.

“Good,” I mutter. “I hope it hurt.”

“Oh, it did,” he says, grinning now. “Dropped me like a rock. I was down for a full minute.” His eyes lock on mine. “Still worth it, though.” and then he winks at me.

He fucking winks at me.

I blink, stunned. What the hell?

Dain Aetos does not wink.

Not at me. Not at anyone.

And certainly not in a way that could be considered… almost charming.

For a second, something flickers in his expression—warmth, familiarity, a kind of ease I’ve never associated with him. It softens him. Makes him look younger, lighter. But then it vanishes.

Like someone flipped a switch, the light in his eyes dies. His posture shifts, just slightly. Straighter. Guarded.

“There’s something you need to know,” he says quietly. “Things between us... they weren’t good. Not right before you disappeared.”

I turn toward him slowly. “Yeah. I kind of figured that out.”

His voice drops a note lower, more brittle now. “You started lying to me. Not just small things. Real lies. You’d tell me you were at one place when it was obvious you hadn’t been there at all. You started locking doors. Avoiding questions. Pushing me away. One night, you even disappeared for two days. No word. No message.”

I frown. “So we fought?”

“We argued. A lot. And I knew you were meeting someone in secret.”

That catches me off guard. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Keelan Levere. Does the name ring any bells?”

I sit up straighter, heat rising to my cheeks. “Were you spying on me?”

“I work in Intelligence,” he says calmly. “I don’t need to spy on you. I hear everything.”

The indignation rises, thick and fast. I open my mouth to argue—but then something coils in my stomach. Tight and uncertain.

Levere. The name means nothing to me. But the way he says it, like it should. Like it did.

Is it me? Or does this sound like I was having an affair? The thought makes my stomach turn. I’m not someone who cheats.

...Am I?

But then again—am I really someone who would fall for Dain Aetos? Maybe Avalynne was wrong. Maybe I never really loved him. Maybe I was miserable. Maybe Keelan made more sense than he does.

Aetos is watching me closely, like he can see every thought flickering across my face.

“He disappeared two days before you did,” he says finally. “This morning, they found him.”

My breath catches.

“In his home. He was murdered.”

Chapter Text

SLOANE

Okay. I need my memory back. I’m done with amnesia. Done with not knowing what the fuck is going on.

I’ve been awake since before dawn, staring at the ceiling. Doing exactly what Ravenna told me not to do. Stressful thoughts. Overthinking. Running mental laps like a dog chasing its own tail—except the tail is me obsessing over whether or not I was sleeping with a man named Keelan Levere, who, by the way, is now dead. Murdered.

And how is that related to someone trying to kill me?

I’ve tried. I’ve really tried to remember. I’ve closed my eyes, thought about the name, try to conjure a face, a voice, maybe a flutter of warmth in my chest.

But there’s nothing. No face. No voice. Not even the vague oh yeah, that guy feeling. Just blank.

It’s kind of funny, isn’t it? I don’t remember falling in love with Dain Aetos, or my wedding day, or why the fuck I would’ve made that particular life choice— But why not? Let’s add cheating wife to the list.

Maybe I wasn’t happy, right? Maybe Keelan Levere was my grand escape plan. My dirty little secret.

Or maybe it wasn’t like that at all.

Maybe he wasn’t a lover. Maybe he was an ally. A contact. Someone helping me with something I can’t remember because somebody decided to crash my head  and wiped the archives clean in the prosses.

…Or maybe… maybe this was revenge. Maybe I decided to make Aetos fall in love with me just to ruin his life. Maybe I’m committed, just like Aaric. Because that sounds committed, doesn’t it? Also, pretty fucking stupid. But… committed.

And why does the thought of his death twist my stomach like this?

Should I be devastated? Crying into a pillow somewhere? Maybe he was the love of my life.

Perfect. Now I’m not just an adulteress. I’m tragic, too.

I rub my temples, trying to claw the headache out before it buries itself any deeper. I need to stop thinking about this.

No—actually, I need to do the opposite. I need answers. Evidence. Proof of who the hell I was or what the hell I was up too.

Suddenly inspiration hits. I get up. My feet move before I’ve even finished the thought, carrying me toward the wardrobes.

My gaze shifts to the second one. The one Aetos said was mine. If there’s anything left of the old me, it’ll be in there. If I was hiding something—notes, letters, secrets—I’d have been smart enough to stash it somewhere safe.

I stand in front of it, chewing my nail for a moment. Then I open it.

Inside, I find uniforms. Neatly folded …which is kind of weird.  Boots lined at the bottom. Some civilian clothes too—not black, at least. A couple of softer fabrics, a deep green shirt that caught my eye. A long gray coat that looks warm and cozy.

I open the first drawer. Socks. Lots of socks. I pull them all out, drop them on the floor in a pile. Shuffle through the empty drawer with my hands just in case—Nothing.

Next drawer. Underwear.

Of course.

If I were hiding secrets, I’d stash them in the underwear drawer. I start pulling things out. Faster this time. More frantic. Pantys, folded tops, all of it goes flying to the floor until—Oh, Lace.

I hold it up between my fingers, stretch the fabric to see it better.

Lingerie. Tiny, black and transparent. I blink at it. Since when do I wear this? Who the fuck trains in lingerie?

Oh, gods. Did I just find my adulterous lingerie?

I’m still holding the thing up like it’s a crime scene exhibit when the door clicks open. And I’m suddenly petrified.

Because not only is Dain Aetos standing in there. He is also half naked. His hair is wet, his skin gleams from the shower and a towel slung low around his hips.  

Okay this is not fair.

The body of the person you hate shouldn’t look like it was carved out of stone by a particularly vengeful god.

Like…broad chest, shoulders resembling armor, arms that could probably break necks without trying too hard.

I force myself to look at his face. And definitely not at his abs. Which are, by the way, perfectly cut. Like someone chiseled them just to spite me.

“What… are you doing?” He says as his gaze sweeps over the disaster zone at my feet—socks, underwear, the entire contents of my drawers scattered across the floor—then lands on the thing I’m holding. The evidence I’m still widely displaying between my hands.

Shit. He knows.

Don’t be stupid. He already knows.

“I was just looking for… some memory triggers.” My voice comes out tight. I try to hide the lingerie between my hands like it’s going to dissolve if I squeeze hard enough.

Aetos’ eyes flick down to my hands, then back up to my face. His mouth twitches—like he’s trying really hard not to smile.

“Has that one triggered anything?” he asks, one corner of his lips barely lifting.

I stare at him, speechless. Is this my marital lingerie? Did I wear this for him? Heat creeps up my neck, blooming across my cheeks.

“I—don’t you know how to knock?” I snap, more defensive than necessary.

His eyes narrow just slightly. “I thought you were asleep. I need clothes.” He says as he steps further into the room, crossing to his wardrobe.

Ok let’s not be adolescent about this. So he’s half-naked while I’m holding lace panties. No big deal. 

“Listen,” he says, rummaging through his things. “If you’re looking for something… or if you have questions… you can just ask me.”

I hesitate for a moment, still clutching the lingerie, then clear my throat.

“Is there… anywhere else I keep my stuff?” I finally ask as I try really hard not to look at the towel that’s hanging dangerously low, like gravity is this close to finishing the job.

Aetos pulls a shirt from the wardrobe and slings it over his arm along with his pants.

“You keep your stuff all over the place,” he says with a faint exhale of laugh. “But mostly here. Or in your office.” He closes the wardrobe and looks at me again “Next door. Down the hallway.”

Then he starts to leave but pauses, turning just slightly.

“I forgot to tell you” His tone shifts, a little more formal now. “I spoke with Mira. She agrees, the sooner you get back to headquarters, the better. She said you could take the rest of the week, but after that you’ll be expected to reintegrate. Gradually, of course”

“Mira… Sorrengail? Am I under her line of command?” I ask, forcing myself to meet his eyes and not to look again at the big nasty scar that’s way too close to his heart.

“We are all under her line of command” He adjusts the clothes in his arm, like this is just another simple update, nothing big.

“Oh, sure,” I swallow hard. “That sounds… great.”

He lingers for a second longer, then tilts his head. “I was wondering if you wanted to come by today. Just to get familiar with everything.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why is he still talking to me like this when he’s basically naked? I can’t have this conversation while he’s standing there like that. My brain is short-circuiting. Which is completely ridiculous because I’m an adult. Right?

“I—um—Avalynn said she’d stop by today before leaving,” I mumble. “So… I think I’m gonna stay here.”

Aetos’ gaze softens just a fraction. “Okay.” He nods.

And then he walks out of the room—Thanks Amari — leaving the door wide open behind him, like he owns the place. Which, technically, he does.

I sigh and turn back to the drawers. The next one has pajamas, nothing in there either.

Last drawer.

I swear, there are a million different things crammed in here. Belts. Scarves. A dagger. Once I’ve taken everything out, I reach in again, sweeping my hand across the bottom just to be sure— That’s when I notice it.

The drawer feels… off. More compact than the others. I lean closer, squinting into the corner. There’s a button.

I have a secret drawer?

My heart kicks up, faster now. Slowly, I press it. There’s a tiny click. Then the bottom panel shifts, revealing a hidden compartment.

I stretch out my hand and start pulling things out, one by one. A letter signed by Aetos. A dry flower—pressed between wax paper. Something metal that looks like a rune. Coins. Lots of them. Random currencies from everywhere like I was collecting pocket change from other lives. And then—my hand brushes against something else. It feels hard, smooth and cold. I pull it out.

Handcuffs. Covered in black leather.

I stare at them while I hold them in my hand.

Why the fuck do I have handcuffs in my secret drawer? Do I arrest people?

Suddenly that awful sixth sense buzzes at the back of my neck. I turn. Aetos is leaning casually against the doorframe, now wearing his polished uniform, arms crossed and one eyebrow lifted.

“You might not want to leave those where Mrs. Litman can find them,” he says and a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. Amusement. Real amusement this time.

“I’m leaving now,” he adds. “Have a nice day.” And just like that—he turns and walks away.

I stare at the doorway, mind racing. He knows about the handcuffs. And he wasn’t shocked. Actually, he sounded entertained. Which would mean—

No.

No. Way.

No way no way no way no way.

I shove them back into the drawer like I've just grabbed a poisonous snake, slam it shut, and stand there, heat threatening to spread through my body.

What exactly happens? Does he…? Or do I…? No. I’m not even going to start thinking about that.

Gods, I think I need a huge glass of whatever Ava was drinking yesterday.

***

Two and a half hours later, I’m no closer to answers. I’ve torn the house apart looking for evidence of my slutty affair.

The guest room? Nothing.

My office? More locked drawers, but no love letters from Keelan Levere. No secret trysts. No coded messages tucked behind bookshelves.

I even checked the kitchen. Because… who knows? But I found nothing.

Just more Dain Aetos. More marriage. More… us.

I found letters from him—several, actually. Did I read them? Absolutely not.

I also found our joint bank accounts. Apparently, I’m not only married to him—I’m financially entangled. Which feels like a much bigger commitment than handcuffed sex, to be honest. And… there’s no mistress account. No hidden savings. No fuck-off fund.

I sit back on the floor of my office, exhaling slowly. Not only can I not prove I was having an affair, now I’ve somehow found more evidence that I am deeply, legally, depressingly married to Dain fucking Aetos.

“Gods!” A sharp voice hits me like a slap. I look up.

There’s a woman in the doorway—older, maybe fifty or sixty. Her gray hair is twisted into a tight bun that’s coming slightly undone, like she’s been rushing. Her green eyes are wide. One hand clutches her chest like she’s bracing for a heart attack.

“Sloane!” she gasps. “Are you alright?”

I stare at her. Brain scrambling. I have no idea who she is. But she said my name. So… apparently she knows me. Is this Mrs. Litman? The one Aetos keeps mentioning?

“Did someone—did someone break in again?” she asks, voice low but edged with panic.

I follow her gaze. Yeah, the mess tracks. Paperwork everywhere. Drawers flung open. Books stacked in chaotic piles. The rest of the house probably looks just as ransacked. She must’ve walked in and thought we’d been robbed. Or worse—thought whoever broke in before came back to finish the job.

“No,” I say, rubbing my temple. “Nobody broke in. That was all me.”

Her eyes flick from the chaos to me—still half-sprawled, hair wild, probably looking like I just lost a fight.

“I was… looking for something.”

“Gods, child. You nearly gave me a stroke.” Her lips press into a thin line. Her gaze narrows slightly, like she’s assessing whether I’ve completely lost my mind.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asks, stepping into the room.

“Not yet.” Then, cautiously: “Are you Mrs. Litman?”

“Yes. I’m your housekeeper.” She reaches out and lays a hand gently on my arm. It feels warm and familiar. Too familiar.

“Dain warned me. I’m so sorry, dear.” Her eyes linger on me, thoughtful. Searching. Measuring how fragile I really am.

Then, with surprising ease, she kneels beside me, and I notice she smells faintly of lavender and flour.

“What is it you’re looking for? Maybe I know where it is.” She says as she begins to gather some papers.

I hesitate. Because I can’t exactly say ‘Well, I think I cheated on my husband and I’m looking for evidence to confirm it.’

“I don’t think you can help me,” I say instead. A little too fast. “But thank you.”

Mrs. Litman doesn’t press. She just nods like she’s used to picking up unspoken things. Then slowly rises to her feet.

“Well,” she says, brushing off her knees. “I think I’ll start in the kitchen. If you need me, I’ll be there.”

Guilt stabs me right in the chest. I made this mess. Now she’s going to have to clean it up?

“You don’t have to do that,” I say quickly. “Really. I’ll clean it.”

She gives me a look. The kind that says she’s indulging me, but only because she finds it mildly entertaining.

“Did you have any breakfast?” she asks me.

“Not yet. But I was going to make something later.”

“You? Cook?” Her brows lift, scandalized. “I’m not the one with amnesia, child.”

I straighten up, a little offended. “I can cook.”

“You can’t cook anything edible.” She says with a laugh.

I open my mouth to argue—

“Let’s not fight,” she says briskly, already heading down the hall. “I’ll make you something while you clean my kitchen.”

I push myself up from the floor, brushing dust off my pants, and trail after her while she mumbles something about eggs and me nearly burning the house while boiling water.

Mrs. Litman bustles around the kitchen with practiced ease, her hands moving on instinct as she set a pan on the fire and cracked eggs into a bowl. The scent of butter hits the air and my stomach growls on cue.

I move toward the mess I made earlier—stacked plates, overturned bowls, a few forks on the floor.

“Mugs go by the stove. Plates to the left,” she says not even looking as I pick up a cup and turn to put it away.

“Right,” I murmur, adjusting my path. I open the next cupboard and try again.

“How long have you worked for us?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“They assigned me to your house the moment you arrived. Two years ago, I think.” She doesn’t miss a beat as she whisks the eggs, then adds herbs and salt.

Two years. That’s enough time to see things. To notice cracks.

“Mrs. Litman?” I set a bowl on the shelf and glance back at her.

“Yes, dear?”

“Have you ever found something… odd?”

She pauses mid-stir. “Odd?”

“Something weird. Or off.”

“Like what?” she asks carefully, eyes narrowing just a bit.

“Like…something that would make you think I was… unhappy.” I whisper the last word.

Her expression shifts. And for a second, I think she’s going to dodge the question. But then—

“I see where this is going,” she says as she pours the eggs into the pan. “I know the story, Sloane. You’ve told me. Your dead brother, how you hated him, and all that. And now you’re wondering why you married him, right?”

My breath catches. She knows. She knows everything.

“You were more than happy with Dain,” she says gently. “You love each other. Deeply. You’ve landed a good man… and a gorgeous one too,” she adds with a wink.

I roll my eyes.

“Oh, please.” She flips the eggs effortlessly. “You don’t have to pretend you don’t think he’s stunning with me. I know you had a crush on him since the first time you saw him.”

“I did not!” I blurt, as if she just accused me of high treason.

“You told me yourself,” she replies, utterly unbothered.

I stare at her, shocked. Why the hell would I admit something like that?

“It lasted, like, five seconds,” I say, defensive. “And it wasn’t a crush. I just thought he was… attractive.”

“Uh-huh.” She smiles knowingly and plates the eggs like a queen serving a royal breakfast.

When she finally sets the dish in front of me, I sit down and take one bite.

Holy shit. They’re the best damn eggs I’ve ever had. I think I might be in love with this woman. And, apparently, I trust her too. Which is... unsettling. Suddenly a thought hits me out of nowhere.

“Mrs. Litman,” I say, looking straight into her eyes, “Have I ever mentioned a man named Keelan Levere to you?”

She pauses mid-step. “The man they found dead yesterday?” Her voice pitches a little higher. “Why would you have mentioned him?”

Damn it. I’m never going to figure out who he was to me, am I?

“The name just... sounds familiar,” I mumble, stabbing another bite of egg.

“Keelan Levere. Poor thing,” she says with a sigh, settling into a chair like we’re about to discuss last week’s market prices. “They found him at his home after he went missing. Awful business.”

My stomach twists again.

“He has a sister, you know.” she adds casually, as if she isn’t shattering my already fragile nerves. “Poromiel war refugee. Runs that little bakery in the square. Levere’s—that’s what it’s called. Poor girl.”

A cold shiver prickles down my spine.

I force my voice to stay steady. “Where exactly?”

“Oh, just past the grain market. Across from that dreadful tailor you hate.”

****

The sun hangs low in the sky by the time I manage to talk Avalynn into a walk through the city. I tell her it’ll do me good to get some air, stretch my legs, learn the streets so I don’t get lost again—and see something other than the inside of a house I don’t remember choosing.

What I don’t tell her is that I’m looking for a bakery. Or a grain market. Or a tailor shop that looks like I could hate.

I didn’t tell her about Keelan Levere either. She seemed so certain I loved Aetos—it felt weird. Invasive, even.

The two infantrymen he assigned to the house now trail behind us like loyal dogs—silent, heavy-footed, and about as subtle as a hammer. They keep their eyes forward, but I can feel them watching. I wonder if they have any idea Avalynn could burn the entire city down with a flick of her fingers. Probably not, considering they’re treating us like glass.

This side of the city is… beautiful. We pass narrow stone alleys that open into sunlit squares, each more picturesque than the last. The walls are warm-toned, kissed by time, the color of sunbaked clay. Flower boxes spill from wrought-iron balconies—violets, ivy, tiny yellow blooms I don’t know the names of. A woman waters hers with a tin jug, nodding politely as we pass.

My eyes flick to every shop sign.

Butcher shop. Apothecary. Clockmaker.

I slow subtly at each corner, scanning the windows, searching for any trace of the bakery Mrs. Litman mentioned.

“Can I ask you something?” I glance sideways at Avalynn just as a pack of children sprints past us, barefoot and shouting with joy as they chase a scuffed leather ball down the slope of a side street.

Her brows lift with interest. “Always.”

“How does your marriage to Vester work if you don’t live in the city?” I ask, letting the question tumble out like it’s casual.

Avalynn stops in her tracks—and howls. Not just a laugh. A full-body laugh.

“What? You are not married?” I ask.

“To Vester? Absolutely not.” She say still giggling.

“But—”

“We sleep together… occasionally,” she says with a shrug, like she’s telling me she prefers plum jam over raspberry. “That’s it. No rings, no vows, no lovely backstory. Just bad decisions, mutual loneliness… and really good sex.”

I blink, then snort—half in shock, half in amusement.

“You asked,” she says, smirking.

“You don’t love him, then?” I dodge a splash of water that someone just tossed from an upper balcony. It splatters on the stone just a breath away from my boot.

“Love him?” She turns to me with wide eyes, like I’ve just asked if she sleeps hanging upside down. “Sloane, no. Victor is—gods, he’s cold. So cold you can almost feel the temperature drop when he walks into a room. I swear to Amari, sometimes I think his signet is emotional repression.”

A sharp laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

I guess they never would’ve made sense together. Avalynn has always reminded me of fire—even before she manifested. Everything about her radiates movement, energy, life. She burns through silence and fear with a single breath. Warmth without trying. Light without effort. Heat in motion. The kind of person who runs in first, who never hesitates when someone might need her.

And Vester… Vester’s the ocean in winter. Beautiful, sure. But quiet. Mysterious. And likely to drown you.

“And in bed?” I ask, quirking a brow.

She grins. “Not cold at all. That’s the only time he actually burns.”

I shake my head, chuckling even as my eyes scan another shop sign: Herbalist. Antiques. Wines & Spices. Still not what I’m looking for.

“I remember his father. A count, wasn’t he? From Tyrrendor,” I say, not quite ready to let the subject go.

She nods, her expression shifting. “Joined Riorson’s Rebellion.”

I remember that too. The quiet fury in his father’s voice during the trials, the way he held his head high even when the sentence was handed down. Like my parents, he was executed.

“The title was reassigned. House Vester was erased,” I murmur. “And Victor and his younger brother—Torrence…”

“They were sent to a ward home.” Avalynn finishes for me.

Torrence. The name punches something loose in my chest. He was my age. I remember his laugh—high and contagious. I remember watching him fall. One second he was crossing the Parapet. The next, he was gone.

“He was supposed to make it,” I whisper.

“He was.” Avalynn tucks a loose strand of curly hair behind her ear. “Victor says he was smart. Faster than most. And not at all quiet like him. I think... I think losing him broke something in him.”

“It does that to you,” I nod, throat tight.

Avalynn squeezes my arm lightly, a flicker of warmth passing between us.

“Wasn’t he engaged or something?” I ask, eager for a change in subject as my eyes drift to a carved wooden sign: Sea Salted Caramels. I hesitate. No. Not it either.

“Mmhmm,” Avalynn hums. “He met a noble girl, fell in love—got engaged before he even entered Basgiath. But her father forced her to marry someone else. A Morraine noble with better prospects. The king approved the match, and that was the end of it. Victor never talks about her anymore, but… I think he never really got over it.”

“So he lost his family, his title, his brother, and the woman he loved,” I murmur, more to myself than to her.

“And then, after the war, Riorson started returning the noble titles to the marked ones” she adds. “You rejected yours, by the way.”

That does sound like something I’d do.

“So Victor became Count Vester again?” I glance up at another storefront—Silvers & Pewter. Wrong again.

“Technically,” Avalynn says with a shrug. “But with Aaric’s new laws... those titles barely mean anything anymore. No real power. Just history.”

“What new laws?” I stop walking.

“Told you… he’s dismantling the family business.” Avalynn lifts her hands dramatically, then smirks as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

She keeps talking beside me, but I’ve stopped listening because across the square, just beside the grain market with its tall awning of ochre and green, hangs a small wooden sign carved with neat, elegant script.

LEVERE’S.

My heart kicks in my chest. I swallow hard, blinking at the name as if it might vanish if I look too long.

And then I notice a crooked sign hangs from a rusted hook:

CLOSED.

Of course it is. They’re probably burning his things today. My stomach twists as I look away.

***

The next morning, I leave almost as soon as Aetos walks out the door. The guards follow me again, but I don’t bother looking back.

I memorized the way yesterday, turned the city’s twists and corners into a map behind my eyes. I don’t get lost this time.

The bakery sits at the edge of the square, same as before. Only now, the sign on the door is flipped:

OPEN.

The ache in my stomach sharpens. I don’t know if I ready for whatever truth lies behind that door.

Still, I walk. Forcing myself to breathe in through my nose, slow and steady. And then I push the door open. The guards stay outside.

A soft chime rings as I step inside. The interior is small, warm and cozy. It smells like flour, sugar and lemon peel. There are pale wooden shelves lined in the walls, many of them half-empty. The display case at the front holds trays of delicate pastries, some neatly labeled in careful handwriting.

Behind the counter, the shelves are clean but not bare. There’s a sense of recent movement—jars sealed, flour wiped away, a cloth folded neatly beside a rolling pin.

A woman stands in the archway that leads to the back kitchen. She’s young—probably early twenties—but she carries something older in her shoulders. Her skin is darked-toned, smooth even under the soft shadows, but her eyes…

Her eyes are swollen. Red-rimmed. Like she hasn’t slept in days. There are faint purple bruises beneath them, the kind that bloom from crying until your face forgets how to stop. Her hair is pulled back under a cream-colored bonnet, and she wears a simple rust-colored apron over pale linen. There’s something quiet in her posture. Hollow. Like grief pressed flat and folded away.

She doesn’t say anything. Just stares at me with those bruised, grief-heavy eyes.

And for a moment, it’s like looking into a mirror, a reflection of myself when I lost Liam. When the world tilted sideways and never quite righted itself. When grief became marrow and breath.

All I want to do is cross the room and wrap her in my arms. Tell her that it won’t always feel like this. That the ache dulls, eventually. That someday, without even realizing it, she’ll wake up and the first thought in her chest won’t be that he’s gone.

But I don’t move. I don’t say anything. Because I don’t know if I have the right.

Her gaze flicks lower—toward my arm, my relic. Her eyes lock onto it. Her expression doesn't change, not really—but something in the silence shifts.

Then she clears her throat. Her voice is soft, careful. “Can I help you with something?”

Yes. I want to ask if I had an affair with your brother. If I loved him. If he loved me.

But instead I say, “Hi. I’m Sloane Mairi.”

She lifts her eyes again and the smallest flicker of something like recognition passes across her face. It’s gone just as fast, tucked back behind those tired lashes, but my heart skips a beat.

“Do you know who I am?” I ask.

She hesitates. “I’ve heard of you.”

My mouth is dry. I hadn’t planned this far. Not really. I just wanted to see her, maybe feel something click into place. But now that I’m here, I don’t know how to begin. What to ask.

So I clear my throat. “I’m… I’m really sorry about your brother.” My voice is quieter than I meant it to be, almost fragile. “I know what you’re going through. I lost my brother too. Not long ago—” I pause, realizing that’s not true. “Technically… almost nine years ago. But it still feels like yesterday.”

She doesn’t respond. Just nods, barely. The kind of polite, distant nod you give strangers when you're too tired to speak.

But she’s still watching me. Studying me. Like she’s trying to decide whether to trust me or not.

“I know this isn’t a good time,” I say, my throat tight, “but there’s something I really need to know.”

Her posture shifts slightly—her spine straightening, her fingers going still.

“I went missing,” I continue. “Just days after your brother. Apparently, someone tried to kill me. They found me barely alive. And when I woke up…” I hesitate, then say it plainly. “I couldn’t remember anything. Not from the last eight years.” I draw a breath. “But I think… I think whatever happened to your brother—it’s connected to what happened to me. And I need to understand why.”

She still doesn’t say anything. Just wipes her hands on her apron and walks past the counter. I watch her cross the room without a word, without a glance, and for a moment I think she’s going to ignore me completely.

But then she reaches the front door, flips the sign to Closed, and locks it with a soft click. She turns to me.

“Come with me,” she says.

I follow her. Past the counters and the trays of cooling bread, through the warm, flour-dusted kitchen. Behind it, tucked in a narrow hallway, there’s a steep staircase. She starts up without a word, and I hesitate only a second before climbing after her.

The scent of yeast and sugar fades as we ascend, replaced by the faint smell of lavender and worn wood.

At the top, we step into a modest sitting room. There's a small wooden table, a pair of chairs, and a low couch that looks older than both of us. She motions for me to sit. I do.

She remains standing.

“Keelan didn’t disappear,” she says, skipping any kind of introduction. “He went back to Poromiel.”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

“One day he showed up — he looked anxious. Said something had happened and he had to go. Told me he’d be back soon, that I shouldn’t worry. But if anyone came looking, I was to say I hadn’t seen him. That only if you came asking... only then I should tell you where he went.”

I freeze. “Had he mentioned me before?”

“A few times.”

There’s a sudden tightness in my chest. I try to ignore it. “Do you know if we… had a relationship?”

She frowns, puzzled.

“Like an affair?” The words taste strange coming out of my mouth.

Her expression softens. A small, wistful smile pulls at her lips. “You weren’t his type.”

What the hell does that mean? Did he not like blondes?

She must notice the confusion written all over my face, because she adds gently, “He was in love. Very much so. With an infantryman from Elsum. No one knew. They kept it a secret.”

I lower my gaze, trying to process what she just said. So we weren’t lovers. We didn’t have a secret affair. I didn’t cheated Aetos with him. I should feel relief. Right? I think I do. But it’s knotted with something else—an ache I don’t quite understand.

A soft, stifled sound pulls me from the spiral.

I lift my head and see Levere’s sister sink into a worn armchair by the window. Her shoulders tremble as she wipes a tear from her cheek.

“He was a good man,” she says quietly. “I don’t understand what happened. He fought in the war. We survived so many things. He didn’t deserve this.”

My heart twists. Without thinking, I rise from my chair and move to sit beside her. I reach for her hand. She lets me take it, her fingers cold and trembling in mine. With her other hand, she wipes another tear and breathes out shakily.

“Did they tell you who did it?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

She shakes her head. “No. No one’s told us anything.” She swallows, and then adds, “But… a few days before they found him—before they said what happened—some men came here. To the bakery. Asking for him.”

My fingers tighten around hers.

“They said they were military,” she continues. “But they didn’t look it. Not really. They didn’t act like it either. My husband and I—we both felt it. Something was off. They said they were investigating his disappearance. That they had a warrant to search the place.”

Her voice grows tense. “They tore through everything. Like they were looking for something specific. Took some papers. Nothing valuable, at least nothing we thought mattered. I went to his house the next day. It was a mess. They’d been there too.”

I hesitate. “Did you read the warrant?”

“I did.” She sniffles, then slowly pulls her hand from mine. “Actually… I still have it.”

She rises from the armchair and walks out of the room. I hear the creak of a cabinet opening, papers being shuffled. A moment later, she returns carrying a small wooden box, faded and scratched at the corners. She sets it on the table and begins rifling through its contents—notes, letters, receipts—until she pulls out a folded piece of parchment with a military seal on the front.

Levere’s sister hands me the folded paper with hesitant fingers.

I open it slowly, my eyes scanning the official seal first, then the dense block of type. At first, nothing stands out. The wording is formal, cold. Just another bureaucratic request for a search.

But then my gaze drops to the signature at the bottom.

Colonel Dain Mairi.

The paper rustles in my hands, suddenly slick with cold sweat. My fingertips go numb. I try to read it again, slower this time, as if the letters might rearrange themselves into something less familiar, less gutting. But the name doesn’t change.

Before the questions can settle into words, the woman speaks again, her voice soft but sharp enough to break my thoughts.

“I also found this at his home” she says, reaching into the same worn box. “It was left in his doorway”

She hands me an envelope, and I recognize the seal immediately—Elsum. No sender, just the recipient: Keelan Levere. The handwriting is elegant, but almost hurried. When I slip the paper out, there’s only one line.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do it.”

-M.

That’s it.

“Do you think it’s from the infantryman?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.

She nods, wiping her cheek again. “That’s what I assumed. He never told me his name. Said he didn’t want anyone knowing about them. But now…” Her voice cracks. “Now he’ll never know what happened to Keelan.”

I fold the letter carefully, more carefully than it deserves. She exhales shakily and sets the box aside.

“He trusted you, you know,” she murmurs. “My brother. He told me once... that you were helping him with something. I don’t know what it was. But I think it mattered.”

Her eyes meet mine. “I don’t want revenge. I want justice. I want whoever took him from me to pay for it.”

I meet her gaze, and for a long moment, neither of us speaks. The weight of her grief settles over the room.

“Yeah, I know the feeling.” I whisper.

***

It’s late in the afternoon when I return to the house. The door has barely clicked shut behind me when I hear his voice echo from upstairs.

“Sloane?”

I glance up just as Aetos comes down the stairs, two at a time. His movements are frantic, uncoordinated—so unlike him. His eyes sweep over me, wild with worry, his shoulders drawn so tight they look ready to snap.

“Fuck, Sloane—where the hell were you?”

There’s no bite in his voice. No accusation. Just raw, sharp-edged concern. It’s almost annoying.

“I went to see Levere’s sister,” I say flatly, peeling off my jacket with slow, deliberate movements.

“Have your memories come back?” He freezes mid-step, his eyes widening—hope flashing across his face, only to be cut down by confusion.

I shake my head. “No. Mrs. Litman mentioned her, and I just... I needed to know more.”

He hesitates at the bottom of the stairs. His hand twitches, like he’s about to reach for me but thinks better of it. Good instinct.

“And?” he asks.

I pause, my fingers curling tighter around the edge of my jacket. That signature is still burned into my memory—like someone carved it there with a hot blade.

“What were you looking for?” I finally ask.

“What are you talking about?” His brows knit together, caught off guard. He takes a slow step forward. Cautious now.

“She said some people searched her home. She gave me the order they brought.” My voice is low, deliberate. “You signed it.”

His eyes narrow. “No. I didn’t.”

Without a word, I reach into the inner pocket of my jacket and pull out the folded sheet. It’s still warm from my body heat as I hand it to him.

He takes it, unfolds it with both hands. Scans it once. Then again. His brow creases into a sharp frown.

“This has a scribe’s stamp,” he mutters. “It’s a copy. She gave you this?”

I nod once.

He studies the page again, then looks up at me like I’m missing something obvious.

“The original stays with the civilian. We keep the copies. That’s standard procedure.”

“Well, someone fucked that up. That’s not the point,” I snap, rolling my eyes.

He exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t remember signing it. And as far as I know, my units weren’t assigned to investigate his disappearance. But—” he hesitates, then sighs. “When you were in the hospital, they brought me a mountain of paperwork. You were in a coma, I was losing my mind, and honestly, I didn’t give a shit what I was signing. I barely looked. Maybe I did sign it.”

A beat of silence stretches between us. He lowers the paper.

“But it’s not unusual to check a home when someone goes missing,” he says, his voice edging toward caution now. “What else did she tell you?”

I meet his gaze. “That Levere wasn’t interested in women. Did you know that?”

His mouth parts slightly. Brows shoot up—pure surprise flaring across his face.

“No,” he says. “No, I didn’t.”

Of course he didn’t.

Doesn’t he work in Intelligence? I’m starting to wonder how the hell he became a Colonel. Did he win a raffle?

“He had a male lover,” I add, voice casual. “Someone from Elsum.”

Aetos tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s trying to read between the lines of what I’m really saying.

“I never accused you of cheating,” he says softly.

Something sparks—hot and immediate—in my chest. Oh, now I want to fight. I spent hours spiraling, tearing apart every word he said, opening every damn drawer in this house looking for proof of the affair he all but accused me of without actually saying the fucking word.

“No, but you definitely—” I snap my mouth shut.

Fuck. I’m playing house with Dain Aetos, aren’t I?

“Never mind,” I mutter. “I was just thinking…” My gaze meets his. My pulse is loud, hammering against my ribs. And then—before I can stop myself—

“Maybe you can just look into my memories.”

Silence.

Gods, I can’t believe I just said that.

But I’d been thinking about it the entire walk home—turning the idea over and over in my mind like a stone, trying to find its sharpest edge.

Someone tried to kill me. I have no idea who—or why. And I was clearly hiding something. But I can’t remember a damn thing.

And it just so happens that my new... roommate can read memories with a single touch.

It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed my mind. I’d shoved it down before—deep and hard—because the idea of Aetos seeing something private, something intimate, made me want to peel my own skin off.

But now? Now I’m desperate.

Aetos’ body goes rigid—like someone flipped a switch. His jaw clenches. His shoulders tighten.

“No,” he says flatly. “We don’t do that. We don’t use our signets on each other. You made me swear.”

Oh. So that’s why he didn’t try it before.

“That was before someone tried to murder me,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can. “Before I forgot everything. I need answers. And maybe… maybe you can help me find them.”

He shakes his head once. Sharp.

“Sloane—I could’ve touched you the second you started lying. I could’ve seen what you were hiding. It would’ve been easy. But if I’d done that—if I’d broken that promise—you would’ve never forgiven me.”

“But I’m asking you now,” I whisper. “Please.”

His eyes lock on mine. For a moment, I see it—the fear. Not of hurting me. Of what he might find.

He exhales slowly. “Even if I try… if the memories aren’t there, I won’t be able to see anything.”

“I still want to try.”

A beat. Then another. And finally, he nods.

He steps toward me slowly, cautiously, like I’m some skittish creature he’s trying not to scare away.

“Are you sure?”

No. Not even a little. But I nod anyway.

He stops just in front of me—so close I can feel the heat radiating off him—and I force myself not to step back. He lifts both hands and cups my face gently, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones.

His hands are warm. Steady. I go completely still.

“Don’t focus on anything,” he murmurs. “Just breathe. Let your thoughts drift somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

His eyes meet mine. Too close now. Sandy brown, flecked with gold. Framed by those stupidly long lashes that should be illegal on a man. His gaze is so intense it knocks the breath from my lungs.

“Relax.” That voice—low and soft—sends goosebumps sweeping over my skin.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Then, his hands tilt my face a little higher. His gaze flicks—briefly—to my lips. My heart stutters. Heat floods my neck.

And—he lets go.

The absence of his touch leaves my skin burning. I blink, disoriented.

“There’s nothing,” he says, voice tight and low. “Just like you said. A void. From Draithus… to the hospital. Nothing else.”

The disappointment hits harder than it should. I let myself fall into the arm of the chair beside me, the leather groaning beneath my weight. So that’s it. Just a dead end.

Aetos turns away from me and begins pacing slowly, his hand rubbing the back of his neck like the words he’s about to say are tangled somewhere behind his spine.

“But,” he says, “there’s something his sister told you.”

I lift my gaze from the carpet. “What?”

“She said you were helping him with something important, I think…” He exhales sharply and drags his hand through his hair. “Fuck, this is a mess.”

“What is it?” I ask, trying not to sound too desperate.

“Levere was a Poromiel's flier,” he says. “Part of unit that arrived in the city a few months ago. They were sent to negotiate the terms under which some of their bonded gryphons would be transferred to Navarre.”

“What do you mean?” I straighten a little, already frowning. “Wait—Poromiel got to keep their bonds to the gryphons?”

“Yes,” he replies, his voice low. “The Irids didn’t have any authority over gryphons. And they don’t transfer even a fraction of the power dragons do. So, the Irids didn’t think those bonds could create an imbalance.”

I stare at him, the words taking a moment to register. But they don’t add up.

“Why would Poromiel agree to that?” I ask. “Why would they hand over their bonded gryphons to Navarre?”

Aetos stops pacing just long enough to meet my eyes. “Poromiel took the worst of the war. Entire cities gone. Infrastructure burned to ash. They need funds to rebuild, and Navarre offered a solution. In return for their gryphons, we provide help, supplies, coin. It's... strategic.”

He starts walking again, slower this time, like the weight of it is catching up to him. I keep my eyes on him, my mind racing.

“And with the dragons gone,” he adds, “Navarre’s lost its edge in the skies. We’re not feared like we used to be. There’ve been reports—rumors, mostly—that some of the islands have considered striking, hoping to steal our resources while we’re weak. They haven’t done it yet, because we still have our signets. But the Dragon’s Souls… we won’t live forever. And right now, the threats are coming from within.”

I sit up straighter. “From within?”

Aetos nods, then moves toward the edge of the window, resting one hand on the frame.

“Aaric’s been reforming the monarchy. It’s not absolute anymore. He’s been stripping the nobility of power— and giving it to the people. Not everyone’s happy about it. Some provinces want independence to bring the old order back.”

Something flickers in my chest. A pulse of something I don’t want to name. I try to swallow it down.

“And Tyrrendor?” I ask, even though I shouldn’t. But Tyrrendor’s independence is what my parents died for. “Where do they stand?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “The Riorsons are loyal to Aaric. Firmly.”

Right. Right. We should stand with Aaric. Because that’s good, isn’t it? A monarch who gives the people a voice. Though I’m not sure if I’m proud, or angry that it took a war and so many corpses for it to happen.

“I still don’t understand what that has to do with me and Levere,” I say, quieter now. “Why would I be helping him?”

Aetos turns back toward me. His shoulders are rigid, arms crossed over his chest like a shield.

“Two months ago,” he says, “during a festival in Zolya, something happened. Dozens of people died. Fliers from the Cliffsbane Flight Academy included.”

He pauses. The air between us grows cold.

“We believe the attack was meant to destabilize the alliance between Poromiel and Navarre.”

He finally sits—on the edge of the armrest across from me, not relaxed, not really facing me either. Just near enough that I can feel the tension humming off him like static.

“Levere was assigned to investigate it” he says at last.

I stare at my hands. They don’t tremble, but I feel like they should.

A Poromielan pilot. An investigation. A massacre.

Something twists deep in my stomach—the sick awareness that something is very wrong.

And maybe I’m the common denominator.

Chapter Text

CATRIONA

“Am I supposed to be able to breathe in this?” I ask flatly, arching a brow at the poor seamstress lacing me in.

She flinches but says nothing. Won’t even look at me—probably afraid I’ll banish her entire bloodline. I wouldn’t. Unless she pricks me with another pin.

“You look radiant, Your Majesty,” says Master Gadhavi—the most celebrated couturier in all of Poromiel, or so he never lets anyone forget. His smile is confident, but there’s a flicker of anxiety in his eyes.

I turn back to the mirror. The reflection staring back at me is... exquisite. Regal. Weaponized elegance.

The gown is a masterpiece, I’ll give him that. Bone-colored satin, molded to my body like a second skin. Every inch embroidered with intricate floral motifs, diamond-dusted Poromielan patterns cascading down the front like silver vines. The bodice is tight—murderously tight—cinched as if I’ve committed a crime and this dress is the punishment.

Puff sleeves, gathered at the elbows, frame my arms like delicate cages. A dramatic veil spills behind me, trailing several feet past the hem, heavy with pearls and lace.

But it’s the neckline that holds me captive.

It dips into a sculpted, heart-shaped silhouette—sharp, commanding, yet seductively soft—revealing the arc of my collarbone and the pale edge of my scapula. The kind of neckline that demands attention without ever asking for it. My throat, bare and exposed, gleams beneath the chandelier light like a challenge.

It’s the kind of dress that silences rooms. The kind that reminds everyone who sees it: This queen was not born. She was forged.

“Majesty?” Gadhavi dares. I see him in the mirror—still smiling, but his hands are nervously wringing.

“It’s magnificent,” I say, smoothing a hand down the embroidery. “Tell your apprentices to take notes. This is what power looks like in silk.”

He exhales, visibly relieved.

But when I look back at my reflection, something bitter curls in my throat.

This is a bridal gown. A symbol of alliance, of unity, of hope for the future. But it’s also the dress I once dreamed of as a girl—the one that would win me a crown, not through war, but through beauty and elegance and inevitability.

I got the crown.

But not because of a dress. I got it at the cost of my sister’s life. And that was never part of the plan.

The memory seeps in like smoke under a door. It always does, when I’m standing too still.

I was twenty-two. Training at Basgiath. I’d just been slammed onto the mat—hard. On my knees, pride shattered, nose bleeding. I was furious. Humiliated. Everyone had seen it.

Then Aaric Graycastle offered me his hand.

We weren’t that close—not friends, just squadmates. But that day, he pulled me to my feet, gripped my arm a little too tightly, looked me in the eye, and said:

“There are things in life that are inevitable. But no matter how much it hurts, you don’t kneel. You swallow the tears, and you stand. Back straight and head high. Poromiel needs you strong. We all do.”

It stunned me. That he cared—at all—how I felt. But I didn’t understand what he meant. Not then.

Two days later, I did.

We were standing in formation in the courtyard. I remember the snow falling, soft and quiet. The sudden sound of boots striking stone.

The Royal Guard of Poromiel appeared out of nowhere.

I thought it was my uncle—that he’d come to visit. A thrill shot through me. I’d missed him.

But the guards weren’t heading to the tower. They walked through the formation—past riders, past fliers. The murmurs began. Whispers of confusion.

I craned my neck. No sign of my uncle. But I saw the captain, his eyes passing over everyone, fixing on no one—until they landed on… me.

I knew right then. Something was wrong.

The Royal Guard kept moving closer. Five feet away. Two. They stopped. Directly in front of me.

He looked straight into my eyes and said:

“My Queen.”

Then he fell to one knee.

Two words. That’s all it took to ruin me.

Because they could only mean one thing. My uncle was dead. And so was my sister.

The courtyard spun. My knees gave out. My vision blurred. I turned toward Maren—my oldest friend, my anchor—but she, too, was kneeling. As were the rest of the fliers.

I couldn’t breathe. Just as I thought I would collapse, I felt a steady hand griping my elbow.

And then Aaric’s voice, calm and quiet at my side: “You don’t kneel. You stand. Poromiel needs you strong.”

I obeyed. I have obeyed every day since.

I blink, dragging myself back to the present. The mirror still holds my gaze. Still reflects a queen in bridal silk. But the bitterness has deepened.

“Loosen the waist,” I say quietly. “Half a finger. I need to be able to breathe if I’m expected to get married in this thing.”

Galikas nods, and the seamstress scurries behind me, fingers working fast. I don’t flinch this time.

The doors open and Maren steps in. She’s in her brown flight leathers, her dark hair a little wind-tossed.

The second she sees me, her whole face lights up. She clasps her hands to her chest, momentarily speechless.

“Oh, Cat…” she finally breathes. “You look…”

“Like I’m about to ascend the throne of heaven itself, I know,” I say dryly.

She laughs—soft, bright and familiar.

“Give us the room.” I glance at Galikas.

He bows so deeply, I half expect him to pass out. The seamstress curtsies, and together they vanish like ghosts.

Maren stays still for a beat. Then she steps forward and touches the embroidered sleeve like it might vanish.

“You look beautiful,” she whispers. “Truly.”

I let the silence settle. Then I see it. A flicker. A shadow. The faintest tremor in her expression.

“What is it?” I ask, my voice is low but steady.

“You deserve a marriage built on love. Not politics.” She sights.

I hold her gaze. “I’m a queen, Maren. Queens don’t marry for love.”

She opens her mouth, but I cut her off with a hand.

“Poromiel lost forty percent of its urban population. We have cities still in ruins. No infrastructure. No more funds. No allies willing to give us more money or time. This wedding—this alliance—is the last move we have before we fall apart entirely.”

Maren swallows hard. “I know. I just—”

“And besides,” I say, turning slightly, “love hasn’t exactly done me any favors.” My voice hardens—just enough to keep the ache buried.

Because it’s true. I was engaged once. To Xiden Riorson. He ended it. And a few months later, he was with Violet. I didn’t love him. Not really. I was obsessed. And the thing about obsession is—it lasts longer. And hurts more.

Then came Trager. I did love him. With Trager, it was easy. No court games, no cheap tricks. No manipulation. He saw me—truly saw me—and didn’t flinch. He loved me exactly as I was.

And he died.

And I don’t think I ever really healed from that.

There were others. But none who could carry the weight of Poromiel’s crown.

“It never will,” Maren says gently, stepping closer, “if you don’t give it another chance.”

I meet her eyes in the mirror. There’s hope in them. Fragile, foolish hope.

“I can’t let people starve just to give love a chance,” I reply, voice clipped. Then I repeat what I’ve told myself a hundred times:

“Aaric is a noble man. He respects me. I admire him. We’re friends. We have the same goals. That’s a solid foundation for a marriage. It’s more than most couples have.”

Maren sighs, her shoulders sagging. Then she raises an eyebrow, “And… I guess he did back you in the dress war.”

I snort under my breath. The dress.

Gods, the Upper Senarium of Navarre nearly called for a diplomatic emergency over it—insisting that, since I was marrying a Navarrese king, I had to wear a Navarrese gown. As if draping myself in their stiff, joyless silks would magically erase centuries of blood and betrayal.

It almost turned into a full-blown council brawl.

Three advisors shouting. One of my ministers threatening to resign unless I “upheld Poromiel’s heritage.”

All over a dress.

Aaric stayed silent. Watching. Not the fashion—me. Waiting to see if I’d bend. Or break.

I didn’t.

And then, finally, in that calm, lethal voice of his, he said:

“She can walk in wearing her flight uniform if she wants to. I’m still signing the damn papers.”

I nearly kissed him. Not because it was romantic— But because the idea of me marrying in my flight leathers was somehow more scandalous than marrying in a Poromiel gown. They finally relented.

“They really do make a catastrophe out of everything,” I laugh, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle from my skirt.

Maren gives me a look. Not smug. Not sharp. Just... quiet.

“You really think this will get us the resources we need?” she asks softly.

I straighten, my gaze hardening. “It has to,” I say, my voice steady despite the unease coiling in my gut. “It’s our last chance to secure Navarre’s aid.”

Maren’s eyes narrow, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“And Zolya?” she asks.

A wave of nausea hits me. The memory of that attack is still too fresh—the bodies, the ice, the silence. People frozen mid-breath. I swallow the lump in my throat as my stomach tightens.

“We lost fifteen fliers and their gryphons... and dozens of civilians,” Maren continues, her voice thick with sorrow.

It wasn’t just an act of violence. It was a message—calculated, brutal, and chilling. Someone wanted to ensure Poromiel stepped out of the deal before it was approved by both of Navarre’s Senariums.

A small shudder runs through me as I recall the rune found at the scene—the one unmistakably imbued with Dragon’s Soul magic.

“Levere is investigating. There will be justice,” I say, forcing the words out.

Aaric and Mira Sorrengail agreed to open their doors and provide every resource we need to uncover the truth. It was meant to be a gesture of good faith.

But even that might not be enough.

There are voices in Poromiel who oppose sending our gryphons to Navarre—loud ones. Some demand isolation, insisting we rebuild on our own. Others still hold Navarre accountable for the devastation during the Venin war. And many—too many—lost everything in the war against Navarre itself. To them, this alliance feels like betrayal.

And now, with Zolya… everything's worse. Tensions are at a breaking point.

Maren watches me closely, sensing the weight behind my silence, but says nothing.

“I don’t know how much longer I can hold this together,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “Not with everything falling apart around us.”

Her expression softens. She steps closer and lays a hand on my arm, her grip gentle but grounding.

I turn back to the mirror, eyeing the faint bruise along my upper arm from training this morning.

“We leave for Navarre tomorrow,” I say, my voice leveled again. “The first vote in the Lower Senarium is in five days. I intend to be there.”

“You want to be there in person?” Maren straightens, focus sharpening like a blade.

“I need to be there in person.” I meet her gaze. “This alliance can’t afford another stumble. If the vote doesn’t pass, this wedding is just a ceremony—and Poromiel will lose its only lifeline.”

Before she can reply, a knock sounds at the door and an attendant peeks in.

“Your Majesty, Master Zaabala is here.”

I give a small wave of acknowledgment, and he bows out.

Maren is already shifting into her efficient, tactical mode. “I’ll prepare everything for our departure. Fewer guards this time? Low profile?”

“Subtle, but not invisible.” I sigh, brushing a hand down the embroidery at my waist.

She nods and turns to leave just as Master Zaabala steps in.

I won’t pretend there aren’t perks to being queen. Some are obvious—massive palaces, beautiful dresses, exquisite jewels, and an endless rotation of servants and advisors scrambling to satisfy my every whim before I’ve even spoken it.

Take Master Zaabala, for instance. For weeks now, his only task has been to design and create my engagement gift for Aaric. It’s an ancient Poromielense tradition—when two people formalize their engagement, the bride gives a unique, unrepeatable gift to her future spouse. A symbol of commitment, legacy... and faith.

Master Zaabala steps forward, carrying a polished wooden box in both hands—carefully, like something sacred.

“It’s finished,” he says, his voice is low and formal, though I catch the faintest flicker of pride in his eyes.

He places the box on the table and opens the lid as I approach. Inside, nestled in dark velvet, rests a double-bottomed chest made of leather tanned with red spruce ash. The craftsmanship is flawless.

And all I can think is about how it all started.

It had been two years after the war. Months since King Tauri’s death.

I had requested an audience with the newly crowned King Aaric Graycastle. I believed—foolishly—that this time, our plea for aid wouldn’t be dismissed. After all, he was the hero who had nearly sacrificed himself for the rest of us.

It was my last card to play. I swallowed my pride, gathered my advisors, and traveled to Navarre with a delegation.

When we entered the marble council chamber, Aaric was already there—seated at the head of the room. He looked like a ghost of a man, wearing a crown far too heavy for his shoulders.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me. Not once. Not even when I addressed him directly.

I knew something inside him had shattered after Molvic’s death. But two years had passed. Rumors said the episodes were over. That he was better. But he looked as if someone had carved something vital out of him. He was present, but only barely.

Still, I waited for him to speak.

He didn’t.

Some members of the Senarium voiced support. But when the vote came, the petition was denied.

And Aaric—he did nothing.

No words. No explanation. No apology.

He wasn’t the man I remembered from Basgiath. He wasn’t a man at all. He was a hollow crown on a puppet throne.

I remember standing there, humiliated. Livid. My heart hammering in my chest. I had placed my faith in him, and he hadn’t even blinked.

My advisors whispered caution. Maren tugged at my sleeve, urging me back. But I ignored them.

I walked right up to the dais and stood before him.

“You’re a fucking useless coward,” I said, voice razor-sharp. “Poromiel collapses because of your father’s choices, and you sit there like a stone statue playing pretend. You’re no better than him. Molvic would be ashamed of you.”

That’s when he looked at me. Really looked at me.

Something flickered behind his eyes. Something fierce. Raw. Unspoken. And for the first time in years, I couldn’t quite recognize someone else’s feelings.

Of course, later that night, my entire retinue nearly throttled me for it. Drake, Maren, the ministers—everyone raged like I was a child who’d thrown a tantrum at a funeral.

A tantrum that could’ve destroyed the fragile peace we’d barely stitched together.

They demanded I issue a public apology the next morning.

Naturally, I refused.

So instead… I flew back after midnight.

Getting past the guards, including the ones outside Aaric’s quarters wasn't difficult—not when you are quiet and can twist simple minds like thread.

The corridor was silent when I slipped inside.

His chambers were dimly lit, but not by mage lights. Only the moonlight filtered through the high arched window beside him, casting long silver streaks across the stone floor. Aaric sat in a high-backed chair beside a small table, a glass of untouched wine at his side and a chessboard between his elbows.

He didn’t startle. Didn’t flinch. Just looked up at me as if he’d been expecting this.

“Wars have been started over less than what you did today,” he said calmly, without heat.

I didn’t answer. I knew I was supposed to apologize—that’s what they had all yelled at me to do. But the words refused to form in my mouth. I wasn’t sorry. Not really. But I didn’t want another war either.

I walked over to him, and sat across the board without waiting for permission. His eyes tracked my every step, arms folded over his chest, unreadable.

"What? Nothing else to spit at me?" he asked, dry. His tone held a flicker of amusement, but I knew it was weariness disguised as something lighter.

I glanced down at the board. Black and white pieces frozen mid-battle. He was playing alone. The white king was cornered, surrounded by a tight and aggressive net of pawns and knights. A checkmate in two moves, unless...

My fingers moved before I thought better of it. I reached for the white bishop—oddly tucked into the corner of the board, almost forgotten—and slid it across the diagonal to f3, slicing a clear line of defense across the black rook’s path. A small act of rebellion. A small act of hope.

When I looked back up, he was staring at the board. Then his astonishing green eyes slid slowly to mine, one brow arched.

"Bold," he murmured.

"Desperate," I corrected. Then added, “I really thought you’d help us.”

His full lips twitched into something bitter. "I really thought I would die with Molvic."

There was silence after that. A breathless kind that made the stone walls feel thinner. Then he moved a black knight lazily, not toward the bishop, but back. Retreating.

"Yet here we are," he said quietly.

I watched his fingers brush the edge of the board before settling again in his lap. For a moment, I saw it—the exhaustion that lived under his skin like a second skeleton. Not just from grief. But from surviving something that maybe, in his mind, he wasn’t supposed to survive.

“I came to apologize,” I said finally.

“Why haven’t you?” He looked up again.

“Because I meant every word.”

“Even the part where Molvic would be ashamed of me?”

“Especially that part.”

He huffed a sound that might’ve been a sight or a laugh. Then, to my surprise, he gestured at the board between us.

“Play” he said. “Let’s see if you’re as good at strategy as you are at insults.”

I looked down again, then back at him, studying the flicker of something in his eyes.

“I’ll make you a deal” I said after a pause “If I win, you give Poromiel the aid we asked for. No conditions. If I lose... I’ll stand before the entire Senarium and give you the apology they all want.”

Aaric leaned back, one brow still raised. “You’re wagering your kingdom’s future on a chess match with me?”

“The aid was already denied. I’m not gambling much,” I replied, matching his cool tone. “And I’ve been playing since I was six. My uncle used to call me a prodigy. Or a nuisance. Depending on the day.”

His lips twitched. “Fine,” he said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

We reset the board. The moonlight stretched longer across the table now. The silence between us was not hostile—it was tense, yes, but also something else. Like a wire strung too tight, humming softly with things unspoken.

The game began.

I took his knight early, a bold move that earned me a glance from under his lashes. I smirked. He countered with his bishop, cornering one of my pawns. It became a slow dance of pieces, each move calculated, precise. I held my own. For a while.

But then the tide shifted.

He trapped my queen. My rook was pinned. Every path I thought I saw closed just before I took it, like a door slammed in my face. I realized, with a quiet, cold clarity, that he’d been playing two steps ahead the entire time.

“Check.”

I stared at the board, then at him. Aaric didn’t look smug. But there was something in his eyes. Something sharp and still and quietly satisfied.

I rose without a word and turned toward the door.

“I’ll deliver the apology tomorrow,” I said with an even voice as my hand found the handle, but before I pulled the door open, I glanced back over my shoulder.

“There once was a wise man who told me something,” I said. “He said that sometimes, things happen that are… inevitable. But you don’t kneel. No matter how much it hurts, you stand. You keep your back straight, your head high—because your kingdom needs you strong. We all do.”

I paused just long enough for the words to land.

“Maybe you should take your own advice.”

And perhaps I shouldn’t have left as proud as I did.

Two months later, I stood again on Basgiath. The Memorial Courtyard used to be the Riders Quadrant, before the war. Before everything cracked and shifted beneath us. Now, under the general’s command, it had been transformed into something quieter and sacred. A place for memory and mourning.

Poromiel had been invited, of course. Our griffin riders stood among Navarre’s Dragon’s Souls and infantry. Just as we had stood shoulder to shoulder in battle.

They handed me the ribbon first. I stepped forward and pulled it free from the statue’s base, unveiling a gryphon rearing back on its haunches, wings spread wide—fierce, wild, ours.

Then it was Aaric’s turn. It was his first public appearance since he’d been crowned. And he didn’t look like a ghost anymore.

With a quiet certainty, he untied the second ribbon. A dragon emerged—majestic, proud, powerful. It looked almost exactly like Molvic.

Then Aaric stepped onto the dais. When he spoke, his voice rang clear and steady. No tremble. No hesitation.

“If the actions of Navarre’s Crown had been different,” he said, “perhaps the war—and the suffering it caused—could have been prevented. For that, I offer my deepest regret. And on behalf of Navarre kingdom, I offer an apology to the people of Poromiel.”

No one moved. No one even breathed. It wasn’t just the words. It was the way he said them. Without excuse. Without a single condition.

“And an apology,” he continued, “cannot stand on words alone.”

He spoke then of the Dragon’s Souls Navarre would send—agrarians. To help us rebuild the devastated fields in the south.

At that, my eyes open and my breath caught, it was not enough. But it was something. And sometimes, something buys you the time to survive.

Then Aaric turned—not to us, but to his own people.

“This war revealed a truth we can no longer ignore,” he said. “Our structure—our concentration of power—has failed us. It failed you. That ends now. I will summon a Reform Assembly, composed of the current Senarium and elected representatives of the people. Together, we will reshape Navarre into something worthy of your voices.”

A hush swept through the crowd, wide-eyed and stunned.

And I just looked at him... I looked at him with new eyes, with respect. Because I knew the cost of those words. And the courage it took to say them aloud.

Our second match came two years later.

I received a formal request for an audience from King Aaric Graycastle of Navarre. I accepted it with the kind of distant diplomacy expected of someone in my position. He traveled to Poromiel under full protocol, his presence entirely official—or so I thought.

But the night before our meeting, I returned to my quarters and found a chessboard already set on the table in the small dining room. The pieces gleamed under the warm light of the chandelier.

He was standing facing the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back.

“I need your gryphons,” he said, skipping all pleasantries, without turning.

I let out a short laugh. “I’m not about to wager Poromiel’s gryphons on a chess match.”

“Afraid to lose again?” He threw me a glance over his shoulder, smug and daring.

I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms.

“You won’t be wagering the gryphons,” he said. “A few of them—and their fliers—would be on loan. Win or lose. A gesture of cooperation. What you will be wagering… is whether I propose an economic aid package for Poromiel in return.”

I raised a brow. “Two questions. First, why the fuck would I lend you my gryphons either way? And second, didn’t you just strip the crown of its power to assign budgets?”

He smiled, slow and maddeningly careful. “I can’t promise you a decree. But I can promise you a motion. One with enough traction to pass.”

“You didn’t answer the first question,” I said.

“Because I helped you even though you lost. You owe me.”

He gestured toward the board. “Sit.”

I didn’t. “The Senarium denied my petition last time.”

“Last time,” he said, stepping around the table to take his place, “Mira Sorrengail didn’t hold a seat. And I didn’t vote. Now we’re five to three.”

I hesitated for only a breath but I crossed the room and sat down opposite him. We needed that aid.

He moved first—whites. His hands were precise, calm. He played with the confidence of someone who expected to win, and honestly? That made me want to beat him more.

The first few moves were quick, almost mechanical. We’d played this dance before. But I had been studying.

He raised an eyebrow when I sacrificed a rook. “Dessperate?” he said.

“Necessary,” I replied.

A silence settled between us again, taut with old memories and new tensions. He leaned back slightly, studying the board, but every so often his gaze flicked to me—as if trying to recalibrate something he thought he already knew.

Midgame turned brutal. I pressed harder than last time, anticipating his traps, sidestepping his long-game setups. Twice, I caught him pausing a beat too long.

His fingers hovered over a piece, then retreated. “When did you learn that move?”

“After the last time you beat me.”

He chuckled softly. “Remind me not to underestimate you again.”

“You say that as if you’re still thinking you are going to win.”

“I always do.”

But then came the final sequence—nine moves. I saw the opening just before he did, and I pounced. He defended well, but the momentum had shifted. He realized it too late.

When I moved my bishop into place, trapping his king with no escape, I sat back.

“Checkmate,” I said not too quietly.

Aaric stilled. His eyes swept over the board once, then again, slower. He leaned forward slightly, disbelief flashing across his face before it melted into something else—something far more personal.

“It’s been a long time since someone beat me,” he said, voice low, almost thoughtful.

His gaze lifted, settling on mine—not with guarded calculation, but with something that looked strangely like… respect. Or curiosity. Maybe both.

In that moment, I saw the shift. He was looking at me like he saw me—for the first time.

Our chess matches continued after that night.

Every time I traveled to Navarre to follow up on the proposed motion or the terms of the gryphon loan, there was a new game waiting for me. Always already set, always in the same place. We no longer wagered anything of true consequence—sometimes silly things, like a bottle of wine from our personal reserves, or the right to make the other try a food they disliked. Occasionally I won. Sometimes he did. More often than not, we ended in a draw and pretended it hadn’t bothered either of us.

But the truth was… I had come to enjoy his company. Quietly, and then not so quietly. Somewhere between those games and those long nights arguing over clauses and compromises, we became something closer to… friends. The kind that challenge each other and never admit how much it means.

And I think—no, I’m sure—he began to enjoy mine as well.

Aaric surprised me just as much on the board as he did off it. He had a mind that could twist around a problem like smoke, and hands that could draw strategies into the air and make them sound inevitable. He didn’t smile easily, but when he did, it was disarming in the most infuriating way.

I trusted him. Gods help me, I did.

And just as he was preparing to bring the motion to a vote in the Lower Senarium—just when it seemed like the aid might finally become real—the Duke of Calldyr died. Unexpectedly. Unnaturally.

His son inherited the title, a man with a... different ideology. One that tilted the delicate balance of the High Senarium. What had been a narrow but certain support—five votes in favor, three against—was now uncertain. Tense. The motion stalled.

Navarre had time. Poromiel didn’t.

Aaric and the others tried to find ways to convince one of the remaining nobles to change their vote, but we all knew it was a fantasy. The lines had been drawn long ago. No one would move.

But then, one day I noticed it. There was a ninth seat in the High Senarium. One that remained empty. One that had not been filled since it was created with the Reforms. A place that could tilt the balance again.

That night, I went to Aaric’s private wing. I didn’t knock. I didn’t wait to be announced. Once again, I came to wager the future of Poromiel on a chessboard.

I still remember the look on his face when I stepped into his quarters. He was leaning over a desk, a stack of papers in hand, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked tired. Beautifully tired. He lifted his gaze and met mine—surprised, but not unwelcoming.

“I don’t recall us having a match tonight,” he said, one brow rising.

“We didn’t,” I replied, stepping fully inside, my heart thudding. “But there’s something I’d like to wager.”

That caught his attention. Aaric straightened, set the papers aside slowly, and gave me one of those amused, cautious glances.

“And what could you possibly want this time?” he asked, voice low and entertained.

“I want you to marry me,” I said, without blinking.

Aaric stilled. There was a beat of silence. Then he let out a soft laugh.

“Catriona,” he drawled, lips twitching, “if you’re looking for a way into my bed, that can be arranged. No need to involve a priest.”

He teased me like that sometimes. It never bothered me. What did bother me was the way his square jaw tensed when his gaze lingered—too long—at the curve of my neck when I tilted my head. Or the way his green eyes dropped to my lips mid-sentence, like he was tracing a thought he shouldn’t say aloud. It bothered me in a way that made my pulse rise and sent a flush that rose across my skin—entirely unwelcome.

We were friends and friends didn’t look at each other like that. More importantly, we were monarchs. There was too much at stake.

“I don’t want to sleep with you,” I said, voice steady. “I want the ninth seat in the Upper Senarium.”

The humor vanished from his face. I watched it sink in—slow and sharp.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You’re serious.”

“Poromiel is running out of time,” I said. “The loan is stalled, the aid suspended. The vote is frozen, and you know it won’t shift—not without a majority.”

He stood still, saying nothing. I stepped closer.

“You need the gryphons, Aaric. And I need a voice.”

Another long silence.

“Sit,” I said gesturing to the board near the window.

We sat across from each other again, just like the first time. The pieces stood ready between us, still and waiting. Aaric’s expression was unreadable—except for the way one finger tapped lightly against the edge of the table. He always did that, I’d come to realize, when he was thinking too much.

I moved my pawn forward two spaces.

He arched a brow. “So if you win, we marry?”

“Yes, if I win, we stop pretending there’s another way.”

He hummed low in his throat, then moved a knight. We played the first few moves in silence.

“How do you intend it to work?” he asked eventually. “Where would we live?”

I slid my bishop diagonally, capturing a pawn. “I’m Queen of Poromiel. I’ll stay in Poromiel.”

He nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as he focused on the board. “And I stay in Navarre,” he said, making a clean, deliberate move.

“I’ll travel for every vote in the Upper Senarium. When I can’t, Drake will take my place.”

“Efficient,” he said, knight sliding dangerously close to my rook.

He didn’t speak again for a while. Then his eyes lifted from the board to mine.

“Lovers?”

My mouth twitched. I moved my rook—quick and clean. “I’ll only have them if you have them first.”

“Fair,” he murmured.

The pieces clacked softly between us, every movement sharper, more precise. Every decision heavier than the last.

“Heirs?” His voice cut through again.

My hand froze over a knight. My stomach tightened. I looked up at him and forced my voice to stay even. “I need them. So yes... I’ll guess we’ll have to...” I waved a vague hand in the air, unwilling to finish the sentence.

Aaric didn’t say anything. Not with his mouth, at least. But his eyes—gods, the way he looked at me. Heat crawled beneath my skin. I turned back to the board, pretending to study it. My fingers moved before my brain caught up.

And then I saw it. A mistake. Stupid. Obvious. I wasn’t thinking straight, and I left my queen exposed—unguarded and dangling like bait. My stomach dropped. I looked up at him.

He’d seen it too. Of course he had. His gaze flicked from the board to me. But then… he moved a pawn. Not the queen. Not the opening he could’ve taken.

I blinked. He’d let it go. Deliberately.

It shocked me, he had never done anything like that before. But I kept playing in silence.

“What happens if you die, Catriona?” he asked. There was no malice in his voice—just that same sharp, calculating calm of him.

I shifted in my seat and captured one of his bishops with a soft click. “Then you become King of Poromiel.”

His brows lifted slightly. “You’d trust me with that?”

I nodded. “I trust you. You’re a good king.” Anticipating his next question, I added, “And if you die, I won’t have real power in Navarre. You’ve made sure of that. Just a seat in the Upper Senarium.”

“So... you really want to marry me.” He made a move—clever, but not careful. It left his king a breath too exposed.

“I want aid,” I said. “And Poromiel doesn’t have time for another strategy. This is quick, clean and permanent.” I inhaled slowly, fingers grazing the cool edge of my bishop. And there it was. The path to victory. A risk—but not a wild one. I moved.

Aaric leaned back slightly, his eyes never leaving mine. He moved. Then he opened his mouth to speak—but I cut him off.

“Stop with the questions. You already said yes.”

I smirked faintly. He frowned. Looked again. And realized too late that I’d boxed him in.

Check.

His lips parted slightly—then curved into something close to admiration. And on my next turn, I moved the final piece.

Checkmate.

“What do you think, your Majesty?”  Master Zaabala voice pulls out of the memories. He has lifted the leather chest from its wooden cradle and now it sits on the table, open.

“It’s… perfect.” I say as I watch the gift.

****

The sky is silver-gray by the time we take off the next day, the wind biting at my cheeks like teeth. My cloak billows behind me, my braid already unraveling at the ends from the altitude. Maren flies to my left, her movements disciplined and smooth, while my guards fan out in formation behind us.

Kira glides beneath me with effortless power, her golden wings slicing the air like blades. I feel every beat of her heart in my bones, every subtle shift of her weight as if it were my own. She doesn’t speak—not at first. Just flies. Regal and wild.

It isn’t until we’re halfway through the mountain pass that her voice cuts through the silence.

"You’re unusually tense. Even for you."

I grit my teeth. “It’s nothing.”

"It’s never nothing with you. You’re coiled so tight I can feel it in my spine."

“I said I’m fine.”

A pause.

"The vote will pass. The Lower Senarium is not a problem." Kira assures me.

I sigh sharply. “You are right.”

By the time we reach the capital of Navarre, night has fallen, casting the city in shades of obsidian and gold. I should go to the rooms they’ve permanently assigned me at court. I should rest, bathe, and prepare for tomorrow. But instead, I find myself flying toward the western tower—the one Aaric prefers.

Kira lands silently in the darkened courtyard, her claws scraping softly against the stone. I dismount quickly, my cloak whipping behind me in the wind. The guards stationed outside the doors straighten as I approach. One of them disappears inside, and moments later, I’m announced. The heavy doors groan as they swing open.

Aaric is standing by the desk when I enter, one hand braced against the polished wood, the other resting at his hip. His ash-brown hair is a tousled mess, like he’s been running his hands through it all evening. His eyes—those impossible green eyes—look dull with exhaustion.

Still, he’s breathtaking. You’d have to be blind not to notice.

“What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t returning for another week,” he says, startled.

I unclip the front of my cloak, letting it fall from my shoulders. “I wanted to be here for the vote.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Just watches me with that unreadable expression of his. But I notice the tension pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“What is it?” I ask, stepping closer. “Is the Lower Senarium a problem after all?”

He exhales sharply and drags a hand down his face. His jaw clenches before he finally looks at me.

“Levere was murdered,” says another voice behind me.

I turn sharply. Mira Sorrengail is standing by the hearth, arms crossed. Dain Mairi is beside her, his posture stiff.

I feel the blood drain from my face, only for it to come rushing back, hot and furious.

“Who did it?” I demand, my voice low but trembling with restrained rage.

“We don’t know yet,” Mira answers. “His body was found yesterday morning.”

Silence falls over the room like a heavy curtain.

I turn back to Aaric, heart pounding. “You know what this means, don’t you? I can’t send my gryphons into a kingdom that murders their fliers.”

“We’ll handle it from here,” Dain says, there’s tension in his jaw. “We’ll find whoever’s responsible for his death—and for the attack in Zolya.”

I shake my head, stepping forward. “The engagement ceremony must be postponed until you do.”

“No,” Aaric says, voice like steel.

I turn to him and I blink. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“That’s exactly what they want us to do,” he replies. “Can’t you see it? They’re getting desperate.”

“They’re killing our gryphons and their fliers!” I shout, fury finally breaking through my carefully maintained composure. My voice cuts through the room like a blade. We were finally going to receive aid—I’ve done everything I could—and now this. Now blood.

The room falls into a heavy silence, the weight of my words settling over everyone like a storm about to break.

Dain steps forward, his voice quiet but resolute. “We’ll find them, Cat. Justice will be done.”

I glance around them, scanning the tight faces, the clenched jaws, the fearful glances. I’m trying to piece the fragments of chaos into something coherent. Something that makes sense.

“And the rune—did Sloane identify anything?” My tone is clipped, sharp.

Dain’s expression darkens. His jaw ticks. “She told me that Levere never made it to her. He reported it missing before she could analyze it.”

“They stole the only lead we had?” My stomach twists, dropping like a stone.

No one answers. The silence is answer enough.

Dain shifts uncomfortably. “I think… she was helping him still.”

“You think?” I narrow my gaze at him echoing his words.

His shoulders tense. “Sloane went missing, someone tried to kill her, and now she doesn’t remember anything from the last eight years.”

That takes me completely off guard. “Is she— Is she alright?”

Mira leans forward, voice calm but laced with concern. “She is now. And we think what happened to her is connected to all of this.”

I grip the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. “Can’t you read her memory or something?” I glance again at Dain.

“I tried.” his voice is quieter now, tinged with frustration and something heavier. “It didn’t work.”

A silence falls between us again, taut and suffocating. My mind races through possibilities, suspects, motives.

“It’s Milos Priam,” I say finally, the name tasting like venom on my tongue.

Aaric lifts a brow, crossing his arms. “Just because you don’t like the Duke of Elsium doesn’t make him a murderer.”

“There are rumors that he wants independence,” I say, my voice rising. “That he’s rallying Dragon Souls to support him. He’s desperate, Aaric. He’s always been desperate. He won’t lose his title, his land, he wants his little court of cowards back. He doesn’t want you to have the advantage with the gryphons.”

Mira shakes her head slowly. “Those are just rumors. Nothing proven.”

“Yet,” Dain replies coldly.

The tension coils tighter. Outside, I can hear the wind rattling the windows, as if the world itself is echoing the unrest in this room.

Aaric exhales and turns toward Dain, changing the subject with a quiet but pointed question. “What did the healer say? About her memory. Are there any chances it’ll come back?”

Dain doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the floor for a moment too long, his face unreadable. Then he finally speaks, his voice low and rough. “They said she might. That there’s a chance.”

He pauses.

“But from what I’ve seen… I don’t think it will.” His words land like a blow, heavy and final.

I glance at him, truly look at him—and what I see twists something in my chest. Dain Mairi, Coronel of the Dragon’s Souls, the man with unwavering resolve… looks utterly wrecked.

The silence that follows is heavy and it tastes like the end of something.

Chapter Text

SLOANE

Why—and I cannot stress this enough—the fuck am I waking up at 6:00 a.m. every morning? Seriously, this is starting to piss me off.

I’ve never been a morning person. Waking up—and, even worse, getting out of bed—has always ranked high on my list of impossible tasks. Right between control your temper and think before you act.

My brain tends to throw its best parties after midnight. When I’m alone and the world is quiet. That’s when I lie awake overthinking every decision I’ve ever made, or, why not, dwelling on future mistakes and worst-case scenarios—just to be thorough.

So, by the time the sun comes up, I’m usually wrapped in my blanket cocoon, desperately trying to claw back a few more minutes of sleep I didn’t earn.

But now?

Now my eyes just pop open at six. On the dot. No alarm. No reason. No struggle.

I’d be proud if I had somewhere to be. If I had things to do. But I don’t. So instead, I just have more time to spiral.

And I fucking hate it.

But not today.

I’m not going to overthink.

I’m just going to clear my mind, let go of every thought, and go back to sleep.

I’m not going to revisit what happened last night.

I’m not going to analyze how I felt or dissect every breath, every word—like some desperate idiot with unresolved feelings.

...

...

Okay… this is exactly what happened.

After Aetos told me everything about Levere and Zolya, he left. Didn’t say where. Didn’t say when he’d be back. Which was perfect, honestly.

It was already late when I went to my room (We’ve got this unspoken sleeping agreement: I get the master bedroom—the one we apparently used to share—and he takes the guest room. Though, of course, his things are still in my room. Which is—annoyingly—inconvenient).

Anyway. Hours passed.

I was trying hard to fall asleep when I heard the door downstairs. The faint rattle of keys. The creak of the stairs. And then, his footsteps stopping right outside my door.

And because I’m an emotionally mature adult, I immediately shut my eyes and played dead.

He knocked. I didn’t answer. Because that would require a conversation, and I wasn’t equipped for that at the time.

He opened the door anyway—softly, slowly. Like it was something fragile.

I stayed still. Eyes shut. Breathing steady. Committed to the lie.

I expected him to grab something and leave. But no. He walked in, crossed the room, and stopped beside the bed.

“Sloane,” he murmured softly, barely a breath.

I didn’t answer.

After a moment of silence, he covered me with the blanket. Gently and carefully. Like I might break.

Then I felt it— The almost imperceptible dip of the mattress under his hands as he leaned slightly forward. The warmth of his breath brushing against my cheek.

“I miss you like hell, Suza,” he whispered right next to my ear. “Please… just come back to me.”

A chill ran down my spine. Something about that low, broken voice, and the way he said that pet name—Suza—, made my stomach twist.

I didn’t move, didn’t know what to do. It felt too intimate—for a man I’m supposed to hate.

He stepped away, his footsteps were soft as he left the room and closed the door with a quiet click.

I didn’t sleep after that. I stayed still for a while longer, staring into the dark. Trying not to feel.  But the damage was already done.

Suza. I don’t know where it came from. I don’t know what it means. But I hate that it almost sounds right. Though, right now it feels like a blade slipping between my ribs. Because I’m not her. I’m not the woman he misses. I’m just the one standing in her place.

I feel like I’m the stranger ruining someone else’s story. The wrong version of a person everyone keeps waiting to see resurface.

I feel like I’m expected to fall back into place. To be handed the pieces of a woman I don’t remember—and stitch her back together. To hear about the love I had, the life I built, and just… forgive.

As if someone else’s memories should be enough to overwrite mine. As if I’m supposed to smile and play along— just because everyone says I was happy.

Well, I wasn’t happy when I read the letter that informed me of Liam’s death.

I certainly wasn’t happy when I cried every night for over a month after that.

And I’m not remotely happy now. Because I feel like someone whose entire life was suddenly defined by choices she didn’t make.

I didn’t choose this. I didn’t choose him. I didn’t choose this house. This bed. This life.

I mean, I know I did—but it doesn’t feel like it.

And Gods, I just… I just want something—anything—that feels like it was my choice.

Fuck.

I’m doing it, aren’t I? I’m overthinking.

I cover my face with both hands and groan. Then I force a deep breath and throw the blankets off. Maybe I should just get out of bed.

The floor is cold beneath my bare feet as I walk to the bathroom. I don’t care. I open the door and come face to face with myself in the mirror. Somehow, that makes everything worse. My abdomen tightens. My fists are clench.

For fuck’s sake—I don’t even remember deciding to let my hair grow this long.

And just like that, the anger hits. It ignites like dry kindling—sudden and sharp, burning straight through my chest.

Before I can think twice, I spin on my heel, cross the room, and pull open the drawer of the wooden table beside the bed. My fingers close around the hilt of my dagger.

I walk back to the mirror. Meet my own eyes. Then grab a thick handful of hair.

And I start cutting.

The first slice is violent. The sound of the blade tearing through the strands is louder than it should be.

I don’t stop. Not when I hit a tangle. Not when the blade catches. I hack through it like I’m fighting for air.

By the time I’m done, my hair rests just under my shoulders. My hands are shaking, my chest rising and falling like I’ve just run a mile. But it feels more like I’ve just won a match on the sparring mat.

Because that was my decision. Taken with my hands. My will. My anger.

Okay… maybe it wasn’t the best one, I think, staring at the mirror as the euphoria starts to fade. I probably liked it better when it was long. And yeah—it’s jagged. Uneven. A little too short on the left side.

“Shit.” I whisper running my fingers through the choppy strands.

What have I done? I need to fix this. I glance around for scissors, already regretting not thinking this through before hacking at my hair like a lunatic. I remember seeing a pair somewhere—back when I tore through the house looking for… things—but I can’t remember where.

Maybe in the kitchen.

I turn, careful not to step on the strands scattered across the floor and slip out of the room.

The air in the hallway is still and cool, carrying that faint morning hush.

As I head downstairs, sunlight spills through the windows, painting the walls in soft gold. The house feels too quiet, but beyond the glass I can hear the street slowly waking up.

The smell of coffee hits me before I even step into the kitchen. And then I see him—standing by the counter, half-dressed. At least this time he’s wearing pants instead of just a towel, so… progress, I guess.

Aetos is focused on the coffee pot, broad back to me, the muscles in his shoulders shifting with every movement of his arms.

“Morning,” he says without turning. “Sleep well?”

No. Thanks to you.

“Mmm, yeah,” I lie, already pulling open drawers. “Where are the scissors?” I ask sharply.

“In the—” His voice cuts off.

I glance over my shoulder and find him staring at me. His light brown curls are disheveled, his eyes wide and set on my uneven hair. He’s holding two mugs—one slightly extended toward me, as if he’d been about to hand it over but froze mid-gesture.

“Did you—” His brows drawn tight. “Did you cut your hair?”

“Uh… yeah,” I answer. “Where are the scissors?”

“Why?” he asks, completely ignoring the question.

Because of your stupid fault, you fucking asshole.

“I was hot,” I say instead, not even trying to make sense.

“Hot?”

“The scissors. Where are they?” I snap at him.

He doesn’t answer right away—just keeps looking at me. Really looking. And for a second, it’s like he’s watching someone fade right in front of him. Then he shifts suddenly, straightening a little before clearing his throat.

“They’re in the silverware drawer,” he says.

I walk past him and pull the drawer open.

“I talked to Mira last night,” Aetos says, his voice casual but carrying that weight he always puts on certain sentences. “We’re taking over the investigation into Levere’s murder and the Zolya attack.”

That makes me look up at him again. He’s now leaning against the counter, mugs still in both hands.  

“Levere was killed. Someone tried to kill you. If you were helping him, it means you were on to something, maybe too close to the truth. So…” He exhales slowly “Mira wants you present during the interrogations—just in case something triggers your memories. Today—”

“Today?” My voice almost cracks with dread. “I can’t go like this.” I gesture at my hair.

His lips press together, like he’s trying not to smile. “Today we’ll send the summons to appear. We’ll start with the interrogations tomorrow.” He makes a pause “And for what it’s worth—you look beautiful. You always do.”

I roll my eyes. Fucking liar.

“I look like I had a fight with a donkey, and it bit my hair,” I mutter, frustrated.

His shoulders shake slightly, like he’s about to burst into laughter.

“Don’t—you fucking dare.” I point the scissors at him, giving my most dangerous glare.

Then I snatch a mug from one of his hands and head back upstairs.

“You’re far too gorgeous for a bad haircut to matter!” I hear him shout with amusement, as I climb the stairs.

Asshole.

****

I’ve been staring at myself in the mirror for what has to be an hour. The uneven ends glare back at me like a bad decision that won’t go away.

I could try to fix it… but what if I make it worse? What if I have to keep cutting and end up looking like a charming prince.

Why the hell did I never learn how to cut my own hair?

The sound of the front door opening snaps me out of my thoughts.

Mrs. Litman.

Shit. I can’t keep leaving a mess for her to clean up every time. I drop to my knees, scooping up the strands with my hands.

“Sloane? You’re awake?” Her voice drifts from my bedroom. “Do you want something for breakfast?”

“Uh—yeah, thanks! I’ll be right out,” I call back from the bathroom, as I sweep my hands frantically over the floor, gathering every last incriminating strand. My fingers keep missing the tiny pieces, and panic ridiculously prickles under my skin.

When I look up, she’s already in the doorway, her brows knitting together in concern.

“Gods, Slone… what happened to your hair?”

I freeze, caught like a thief in the act. “I… cut it.”

“With an axe?”

“Mm, technically… with my dagger. I’m going to fix it—”

“No” Her voice is calm, but that one word carries the weight of a full-stop. She arches a perfectly judgmental eyebrow. “You’re just going to make it worse. Let me do it. I used to cut my daughter’s hair all the time.”

Oh, thanks Amari.

And just like that, I’m downstairs, sitting in a dining chair with a towel draped over my shoulders, my hair damp and heavy against my neck. Mrs. Litman stands behind me, combing through the strands with slow, deliberate strokes. Without a mirror in sight, I have no idea what’s happening back there—just the sharp, rhythmic snip of her scissors cutting through the quiet.

“So,” she says finally, separating a section of hair between her fingers, “why did you cut your hair?”

I hesitate. I could give her the same ridiculous excuse I gave Aetos… or I could just tell the truth.

“I kind of freaked out,” I murmur. “Not my finest moment.”

She hums softly, like she’s filing that answer away.

“I feel so stupid. But… I guess it could’ve been worse. I mean, I could’ve gone for bangs.” I let out a humorless laugh.

That gets a small chuckle from her. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve lost a lot of important anchors in your life—your memories, your dragon—and now you’re in a marriage that feels unfamiliar to you.”

The comb moves again, gentle but precise, before she continues. “Maybe it wasn’t the best way to make a decision, but hair grows back, and it shows something far more important—you may have lost your memories, but you haven’t lost your ability to shape who you are from now on.”

For a second, something in my chest eases. The frustration still clings to me, but her kindness slips through the cracks, warm and disarming, like sunlight finding its way into a cold room.

“Thanks… for fixing it” I say quietly.

“Any time, dear.”

More soft snips follow, locks falling to the floor in little golden cascades.

“So… where’s your daughter now?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can second-guess it.

“With Malek.” She says without further explanation.

Shit. I didn’t know that.

“I’m so… I’m so sorry.” I whisper.

“Me too, dear. Me too.”

****

Several hours later, the day is dissolving into gold and crimson. From the third floor of the house, the air is warm and restless, carrying the distant murmur of the city. My legs are folded on the chair, the book I took to keep my mind occupied is open across my knees, but my eyes are caught in the sky, tracing the sinking edge of the sun as it slips behind the hills.

“There you are.” Aetos’ voice cuts through the quiet. I swear there’s always a faint note of relief when he finds me—one that’s starting to give me hives.

“Someone’s here to see you.” He says as I turn to face him. He’s still in his uniform, though the clasp at his throat is undone.

I lift a brow, closing the book slowly.

Behind him, the doorway fills with another figure—taller than Aetos, broad–shouldered, with the fading sunset framing him in molten light. His stance radiates authority, even before he says a word. When he steps forward, the shadow peels away, revealing tousled sandy–brown hair, sharp green eyes that seem to catch every flicker of light, and a square jaw dusted with a day’s stubble. A black hooded cloak hangs from his shoulders, the kind worn by people who don’t want to be recognized.

“Aaric!”

The name bursts out of me before I can think, my pulse skipping. I’m already on my feet, the book forgotten on the table.

I cross the space in quick strides—no, I’m running now—and throw my arms around him. The impact is solid and familiar.

“What are you doing here?” My words tumble out in a breathless rush. “Aren’t you supposed to be—” I pull back just enough to look up at him, my hands still gripping his arms, “—a king now?”

He laughs softly, that deep, rich sound I swear I’ve heard so many times. Before he can answer, another voice drifts in from behind him.

“You cut your hair?”

I glance over his shoulder as a poised woman steps into the terrace light. Her long dark hair is loose, catching the gold of the sunset. There’s a softness in her eyes when she looks at me—a softness I’m not used to seeing there.

“Cat?”

Before I can react, she closes the distance and pulls me into an embrace. I freeze for a half second—okay, this is new. My memories of her certainly don’t exactly involve… hugging.

She pulls back slightly, her fingers brushing my hair. Her smile curves like she’s about to share a secret. “You look…”

“Hot.” The interruption comes from the stairwell, low and amused. I turn toward the sound as the steps creak. Sunlight spills across dark brown hair, sun–warmed bronze skin, and eyes full of mischief. He carries a bottle in one hand, and instead of a polite greeting, he catches my free hand and spins me in a quick circle like we’re at a dance.

“Your wife is hot, Mairi,” he declares with a grin.

“Well aware, Gamlyn” Aetos replies without missing a beat. “One of the many reasons I married her.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks so fast it almost startles me. I open my mouth, close it again, then settle for a weak, “Right…” before clearing my throat. “What are all of you doing here?”

“I got a summon this morning,” Ridoc says, throwing Aetos an accusing glance. “My unit’s stationed a few hours from here, so I decided to arrive a day early. Ran into Mairi at headquarters—he told me what happened to you.” His expression softens. “I’m sorry.” He steps in and hugs me briefly before moving to join the others.

By the time I sit, Aaric and Cat are already side by side on floor cushions—he lounging like he’s perfectly at home, she folding her legs with practiced elegance. Aetos takes the chair beside me.

It strikes me that the setup is… questionable.

Not a great place for royal asses, I think, biting back a smile.

“How are you, truly?” Aaric asks leaning forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees, his green eyes studying me in that quietly searching way.

“Yes” Cat tilts her head, her expression softens. “How have you been feeling?”

The truth rises—confused, restless, angry, like I’m living in someone else’s skin—but then I feel Aetos shifting beside me, and the words knot in my throat.

“I… I’m fine,” I say instead. “Just… adjusting.”

Aaric’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t press.

“What did the healers say?” Ridoc asks, sprawling on another cushion, legs outstretched, bottle balanced on his knee.

“That memory is… unpredictable” I reply, keeping my tone even. “Could come back tomorrow, could take months.” My fingers worry at the edge of my sleeve. “Or… never.”

There’s a small silence after that—not heavy exactly, but present. Aaric’s gaze drops for a moment. Cat’s smile dims, just enough to notice. Ridoc cuts it with a mutter about opening the bottle already. I seize the chance to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“So…” I glance between Cat and Aaric, tilting my head. “You two are getting married, huh?”

Aaric doesn’t even flinch. “Yes. Cat found a way to secure the votes in favor of the motion for the alliance between our kingdoms. It happens to include our marriage. It’s just politics.”

The way he says it—flat, almost casual, like it’s no more significant than trading a shipment of grain—makes me blink. Just politics. Like the fact he’s marrying someone has all the emotional weight of a chess move.

Cat’s lips press faintly, but she doesn’t contradict him. “Though… with everything happening now—Zolya, Levere—I’m not sure marriage alone will be enough.”

The name Levere drops like cold water down my spine, but Aetos’ voice cuts in.

“We’ll find who’s responsible. Tomorrow, interrogations begin for every ice wielder in Navarre.”

Ridoc snaps his head up. “You don’t think I’m guilty, do you? I really don’t understand why you had to summon all of us.”

“We can’t leave anything to chance,” Aetos replies.

Ridoc leans back, affronted. “Well, congratulations—you’ve ruined my plans for tomorrow.” Then he adds with a smirk, “And they were excellent plans, by the way. The sort that leaves me far too… exhausted to be committing crimes.”

Cat snorts. Aaric just shakes his head like he’s heard this sort of thing from Ridoc a hundred times. Aetos tries to hide a smile, and I can’t help it—a laugh slips out of me too.

Ridoc stands. “Where do you keep the cups?”

“In the kitchen. I’ll come with you.” Aetos follows him out leaving me alone with Cat and Aaric.

Aaric turns toward me, his green eyes steady. “Are you really all right?”

My mouth opens, then closes. And instead of answering, I blurt, “Are we… still good friends?”

Before Aaric can answer, Cat cuts in smoothly, “Aaric walked you down the aisle on your wedding day. You’re practically siblings.”

That catches me off guard. My brain stalls because I don’t know if I’m supposed to be mad at him for handing me over to Aetos, or … touched because well, he walked me down the aisle.

“Sloane, if you need to talk—or anything—I’m still here. Always.” Aaric says warmly.

I hesitate, chewing the inside of my cheek. “Actually… there might be a favor I want to ask.” My fingers twist in my lap. “This whole situation with Aetos—it’s… uncomfortable. I don’t remember anything about our relationship.” Another pause, then I just say it. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but… could I come live at court with you?”

Aaric laughs. “Absolutely not. I’d like to keep my balls.”

I blink. “Oh, come on, you’re the King. Aetos wouldn’t hurt you.”

“It’s not Dain I’m worried about—it’s you. You’ll rip them off the second your memory comes back and you realize I helped you walk out on him.”

That one takes me a second to process, but still I turn to Cat for backup.

“Sorry,” she says without a hint of remorse. “I need his balls. We’re supposed to have heirs.” She stands, smoothing her pants. “I’m getting some water.”

I watch her go, then glace back at Aaric. Is he… blushing?  

“Had you two…?” I let the question dangle, my brows arched.

He doesn’t even blink. “Politics. Just Politics”

Then he leans back, studying me like he’s weighing how blunt to be.

“You really should stop calling him ‘Aetos,’” he says. “It’s not his surname anymore. And I bet every time you do, it’s like you’re slapping him across the face”

I sight— maybe more of a frustrated groan. “I really don’t know what to do, Aaric.”

He smiles faintly, that irritatingly grand calm in place. “You’re a clever woman, Sloane. You’ll figure it out.”

Before I can decide whether to believe him or throw my book at him, the others return.

Wine is poured. Bread and cheese appear. Laughter settles in. I sit back, my hands folded in my lap, aware of Aetos’ solid presence beside me—the faint heat of him, the occasional brush of his sleeve against mine when we shift.

The afternoon spills forward easily. They pass Basgiath stories— stories I apparently lived but can’t claim—like cards at a gaming table.

Ridoc’s “adventures” make me laugh louder than intended, and I catch Aetos’ gaze flick to me, warm and unguarded, and it makes my chest tighten in a way I’m not ready to acknowledge.

I notice other things too. The way Aaric’s eyes sharpens whenever Cat speaks. The way his hand rests on her leg just a fraction longer than necessary when he leans in to say something. Her not moving away.

How long have they been like this?  Did I use to tease him about it?  Can I?  Oh, I definitely will.  

The wine flows and the night’s air is full of comfort and familiarity for everyone else. But for me, it kind of feels like pressing my nose to a window I can’t open, trying not to fog up the glass

*****

The next morning, I stand in front of the bedroom’s full-length mirror, trying to decide if I look like a Major…or just a very committed imposter. I’ve showered, dressed and now face my reflection in a tailored, feminine version of Aetos’ uniform. It’s crisp, heavy, and just unfamiliar enough to make me feel like I’m playing dress-up. It kind of makes me miss my flying leathers. Guess there’s no need for those anymore.

I smooth the sleeves and adjust the collar. The deep black jacket fits perfectly— sharp shoulders, a waist tailored just right. Gold buttons gleam, like they’ve been polished for generations.

My hair… actually looks good. Better than good. It falls loose and even against my shoulders. And I'm seriously considering getting bangs.

“Are you ready?” Aetos asks poking his head through the doorway.

“Is this how I normally look?” I ask, gesturing down at my uniform.

“Mmm, yes,” he says. “Why?”

“Just making sure.” I answer giving one last glance at the mirror before following him. 

We leave the house and walk in silence for about ten minutes through streets that are still stretching and yawning into the morning. Aetos looks infuriatingly perfect in his own uniform. It’s almost an insult looking that good at this early in the morning.

The moment we reach the headquarters a knot twists in my stomach—exactly the kind I used to get on the first day of school when I was a kid.

The building looms ahead, pale stone glowing in the early light, rows of arched windows standing at rigid attention. Navarre’s flag flutters from the central tower, bold and unapologetic.

“That’s… big,” I murmur.

“It’s supposed to be,” Aetos replies.

Of course it is. Nothing says ‘Headquarters’ more than a building that looks like it could crush you just by existing.

At the main gate, two guards stand perfectly still, eyes fixed straight ahead and I have to fight the urge to wave just to see if they’d flinch.

The massive doors open, and we step inside. We cross a hallway, then another set of doors, and emerge into the courtyard.

Arched walkways frame an open square. A company of soldiers wearing navy-blue coats, drills in perfect formation. An officer’s voice cuts through the air, and the synchronized stomp of boots echoes off the stone.

We cross the courtyard in silence and step through another set of doors. The air changes—cooler, quieter, carrying that faint polished-marble scent that makes me instinctively glance down, checking my shoes for dirt. And then—wow.

The staircase looks like someone ripped it out of a palace just to make visitors feel unworthy. Pale stone steps sweep upward before splitting into twin curves that meet again beneath a stained-glass window, its soft colors spilling over the floor.

A man and woman are talking on the first few steps. They pause as we pass.

“Colonel Mairi,” the man greets Aetos.

“Major Mairi,” he adds, turning to me.

Aetos nods, and so do I, even though I don’t have a fucking clue who that is.

The hallways beyond are no less over-the-top—ceilings too high, portraits of women and men who look like they’d have strong opinions about your every decision, floors polished enough to blind you. My footsteps echo, too loud, like they don’t belong here. But Aetos moves through it all with the kind of easy authority that says these halls were built for me.

He walks close beside me, so close I can smell the clean warmth of his skin.  We stop before a set of heavy double doors that look like they should open into a temple.

“The Archives,” he says.

The doors swing inward, and… okay, I’ll admit it—this is impressive. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls, stacked with thick leather-bound volumes and scrolls so old they probably crumble if you breathe the wrong way. Rolling ladders cling to the rails like they’re ready to deliver some poor scribe to his doom. The air smells faintly of ink and dust and…history, I guess.

Aetos’ voice drops, the way people automatically whisper in places like this. “Every military record in Navarre is stored here. Orders, reports, correspondence. Going back centuries.”

I trail my fingers along a shelf as we pass, half-expecting some scribe to leap out and smack my hand away. “So… it’s basically a giant memory palace for people who like paperwork.”

His mouth twitches.

We leave the Archives, my footsteps picking up speed as the door shuts behind us. Suddenly his hand finds the small of my back, steering me left. And I convince myself that the warm of his fingers, just inches above my ass, isn't the reason for the shiver running up my spine.

The atmosphere shifts again as we walk. The grandeur fades into narrower, plainer corridors. The light dims. The air cools. The walls here are bare stone—no portraits, no ornaments —just solid and utilitarian. My footsteps sound louder here.

We stop before a reinforced door with an iron latch.

“The interrogation rooms are through here,” he says.

Ah. The scenic portion of the tour is officially over.

The door opens onto a narrow hallway lined with identical reinforced doors, each one with its own latch and viewing panel.

Victor Vester is waiting halfway down, leaning against the wall like he owns the place. His uniform looks regulation-perfect, but his expression—as always— is impossible to read.

“The first one’s arrived,” he tells Aetos, holding out a neat stack of papers. He takes them without breaking stride.

Vester turns to me then, his gaze sharp like he is trying to read me but softened around the edges. “How’s that memory coming along? Remember anything yet?”

“No.” My voice is flat. Not in the mood to elaborate.

Before he can press, Aetos cuts in. “You’ll be sitting in the back. If you remember something, have a question—signal me. I’ll come to you.”

I nod once. Clear enough.

He unlatches the next door, and it swings open a deliberate weighty creak.

The room is all hard lines and harder light—bare stone walls, a single table with three chairs, and a fourth pushed against the far wall. No windows. The air smells of metal and cleaning agents.

Aetos steps in first, fitting into place like part of its architecture. I follow, keeping to the edges until I reach the lone chair in the back. Close enough to watch, far enough to disappear.

A moment later, boots scrape the hallway. Two guards escort in a man—a Dragon’s Soul in his thirties, black hair, eyes the pale blue of a cloudless day and body as tense as a cornered animal.

Vester enters after the guards leave, closing the door with quiet finality and the sound swallows the rest of the world whole.

He sits opposite the man, radiating that controlled patience that makes people talk without even realizing it.

Aetos stay standing, just inside my peripheral vision, hands clasped behind his back.

Vester gathers the stack of papers on the table.

“Name.” His voice is calm and professional.

“Matias Radcliff,” The ice wielder’s eyes flick up to him, then down again.

“Date of birth. Place of origin.”

From my seat, I can see everything—the man’s restless hands, Aetos’ steady gaze, not fixed on the suspect but on Vester, like he’s gauging the rhythm of the process against some unspoken standard.

The first questions are harmless. Unit. Commanding officer. Location two weeks ago. Vester barely blinks, eyes tuned to microexpressions—the catch in a breath, the twitch of a jaw.

This isn’t about the answers yet. He’s building the baseline, I realize.  Learning how the truth sits in this man’s body before chasing a lie.

Aetos eventually leans against the wall, arms folded. He watches differently—less about words, more about the man himself. Measuring him in case he needs to step in and read their memories.

The first man makes it through clean. No flicker from Vester. No hesitation that sticks. They let him go. The second’s the same.

And so it goes. Faces blur. Voices blend. And my memory stays silent.

By the time an older man walks in, my legs are twitching with the urge to move. His hair is silver at the temples, there’s a scar on his forehead and a burn mark on his neck. His wrinkled hands are steady on the table as he sits. No current uniform—just the old Riders’ flight jacket.

Vester starts the same way. Name. Rank. Place of birth. His answers are even, unhurried. And my guess is right—he retired before the bonds were broken.

Then: “Are you aware of what happened in Zolya?”

“Yes.” His tone doesn’t shift.

Vester’s eyes remain on the man— which means he’s telling the truth. More questions, same result. He’s not lying about where he’s been or what he’s done.

Then Vester leans back, voice smooth as he asks the last question. “Is there anything else you know about the attack?”

“Yes,” he says at last. “It wasn't just one ice wielder who did it.”

Vester’s eyes narrow by a fraction, the kind of movement you’d miss if you weren’t looking. Aetos tilts his head just slightly.

“Why do you say that?”

The man leans forward.

“I’ve been an ice wielder for fifty years. For me, freezing a puddle is easy. Freezing a human body, I can do it in the space of a blink, but it requires more power. But to do what happened in Zolya…” He pauses, searching for the exact shape of the thought. “Whoever imbued that rune had to manipulate the thermal balance of water in the entire area from the air, the ground, the walls, the blood of every person—in a single pulse. The very air people breathed became a conductor: the moisture crystallized, while the water in every cell began to freeze. To do that, the rune had to be imbued with an absurd level of power. No one can do it alone without killing themselves in the process.”

The air in the room feels different now. Colder. My pulse ticks faster. More than one ice wielder?

Vester doesn’t break eye contact with the man, but I can see the calculation tightening behind his gaze. His jaw shifts once, barely perceptible, but I catch it.

“How many?” Aetos asks, voice even.

“At least two. Maybe more. I can’t tell exactly. But if it was two, they were both fare above average.”

The silence after that isn’t empty—it’s loaded, thrumming under my skin. I keep my expression blank, but my mind is already running. I don’t know why, but something about what he just said pulls at me, like I’ve heard it before.

The old man is escorted out, leaving the air colder behind him.

The door opens again, and the last one of the day steps in: Ridoc.

He drops into the chair opposite Vester like it’s a tavern bench.

“Name?”

“Ridoc Gamlyn” he says with mock solemnity, then adds, “but most call me ‘Stud’ in private.”

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. This man is going to be impossible.

Vester continues, unfazed.

“Where were you last month?”

“In your dreams, probably.”

A laugh escapes before I can stop it, and I duck my head, pretending fix my sleeve.

The rest of Ridoc’s answers are a mix of too-honest and entirely unnecessary.

By the time Vester closes the file, the room feels lighter.

Ridoc is escorted out, tossing me a wink on the way. I shake my head, suppressing a smile that doesn’t quite stay hidden.

Vester leans back, setting the last folder aside. “Well,” he says, stretching the word like a slow exhale, “that’s it for today.”

Aetos turns to me, his eyes steady. “Did you remember anything?”

I meet his gaze, forcing my shoulders to stay relaxed. “No.” The word feels heavier than it should.

He nods, unreadable, then looks to Vester. “How many are left?”

Vester flips through the stack of papers, the motion crisp and practiced. “Six. But one didn’t show up today.”

“Who?”

Vester scans the page again, then pulls one free. His eyes flick over the details before he says the name aloud. “Leila Beaumont”

Aetos’ jaw tightens. “Send someone for her. Bring her in by force if necessary.”

I keep my face neutral, but inside my thoughts are a slow churn—wondering who she is and why she didn’t come.

 “I have to attend some meetings” he says, shifting his attention to me. “Vester is going to take you to your office so you can get familiar with the place and meet some of your team. It might help you settle in.” He pauses “Is that alright with you?”

I hesitate for a heartbeat, feeling the weight of both their eyes on me. “Yes,” I say finally, keeping my voice steady even as a small knot tightens in my stomach.

Vester smiles—polite, almost reassuring—and gestures toward the door. Aetos watches the exchange for a moment longer before giving a small nod.

The corridor outside feels narrower than before. Vester walks beside me, not rushing but with a steady pace that makes it feel less like a tour and more like an escort. His hands are loosely clasped behind his back, posture relaxed—but I can tell he’s paying attention to everything.

“So,” I say casually, “Avalynn told me you got the title of Count back.” I glance at him briefly, then look ahead again.

“It barely means anything now, with all the new laws.” he adds lightly, like we’re discussing the weather.

We pass a set of double doors left slightly ajar. Inside, a large room stretches out, lined with maps and long tables. Figures lean over them, their voices low and urgent. The murmurs hang in the air like a secret I’m not meant to hear.

Without realizing it, I slow down. Vester matches my pace, raising an eyebrow.

I clear my throat. “I have to admit,” I sat, a flicker of shame coloring my words, “when Aetos told me about the new monarchy—and that some provinces wanted independence—I felt a pang of hope. Like maybe, just maybe, at least one of the reason our parents died could finally be achieved.”

Vester keeps walking but glances over at me.

“But only for about ten seconds,” I add quickly, not wanting to sound like a traitor.

His mouth curves faintly. “I think we all did. I even went to talk to Riorson—tried to convince him to push for independence.”

I stop, eyes wide. “You did what? What did he say?”

 “He considered it… for more than ten seconds.” amusement in his voice is impossible to miss.

“No way.”

“Fifteen,” he corrects. “Then he told me he believes in the new monarchy. That giving people a voice and power matters. Said Tyrrendor would support Aaric—and somehow he ended up convincing me. So, here I am.”

I smile, shaking my head. “Glad your rebellious phase was short-lived”

Vester’s lips twitch before his attention slides back down the corridor.

The quiet hum of footsteps and distant voices fills the hall, as we turn into a warmer, softly lit hallway. Here, the reinforced doors give way to open archways and offices with glass-front cabinets.

“Gods, this place is like a labyrinth” I mutter.

“You’ll get used to it. Muscle memory’s a powerful thing. Sometimes it remembers before you do.” He says as he stops in front of a door with a small brass plaque gleaming in the dim light, that reads:

Major Sloane Mairi.  

My heart picks up speed, and a tight knot twists in my stomach. I grip the handle, my fingers trembling just enough to annoy me. The door creaks open, and parchment and old scrolls hit my senses first.

Inside, a desk looms—cluttered, chaotic, papers stacked and scattered like a storm just passed through. Light filters through a window behind thin curtains, casting soft shadows. Shelves line the walls, heavy with books and runes neatly displayed.

Vester steps in behind me.

I cross the room slowly, tracing every detail like the right angle might knock something loose in my head. Nothing does. Not yet.

Then a woman in her forties, appears in the doorframe.  Her Dragon’s Soul uniform so pristine it could probably blind someone in direct sunlight. Her dark hair is perfectly pinned back, not a strand daring to rebel.

“Mairi!” she says, eyes widening as she strides over, hand outstretched. “I saw your office open and thought—could it be? Poor thing, we’ve all been so shaken by what happened to you.”

“Oh, I’m fine. Much better now,” I lie, having absolutely no idea who she is.

Vester rescues me “Sloane, this is Lieutenant Colonel Eliana Sierra. You’re under her line of command.”

Oh. Shit. My boss.

“Ah—sorry, I—” I mumble, but she waves it off before I can finish.

“No need,” she says warmly. “We all understand what you’re going through, and I’m just glad you’re back. In fact, maybe we could have a quick chat in my office?”

“Sure,” I reply. Although what I really want to say is ‘No thanks, I’m fine’.

“Perfect. This way.”

I glance back at Vester. He meets my eyes, calm as ever. “Mairi will meet you here once he’s done” he says.

I nod, then follow Eliana up a flight of stairs into her office—bright, organized, unnervingly neat.

“Have a seat,” she says, gesturing to a chair while taking the one across from me, posture perfect.

“Well,” she begins, folding her hands on the desk, “obviously we need to talk about your… condition.”

“My amnesia?” I ask, just to be sure we’re on the same tragic page.

“Yes. Tell me, is it temporary or permanent?”

“Well…” I start, “the healers said I might recover my memory—”

“Excellent,” She cuts me off, face lighting up. “In fact, it would be wonderful if you could remember everything before the twenty-ninth.”

I wait for her to laugh… but she doesn’t.

“Our annual meeting with General Sorrengail is coming.” She continues instead “We present all new developments there and decide which move forward and which get buried in the archives. Our budget allocation for next year largely depends on this.”

Oh, she’s actually serious.  

“I’ll… do my best” I mumble. Apparently my brain has a project deadline now.

“Perfect. And I must add Sloane, I am so glad you’re back,” Eliana says, leaning forward with genuine warmth. “You’re practically our best talent. Hayas is filling in, but honestly? He’s nowhere near as good. Your work here has been inspiring. You have so many revolutionary ideas to develop.”

I just stare at her. Is she really talking about me? I mean, sure—I’m decent with runes. But inspiring? Revolutionary ideas?  Let’s just hope I wrote them all down somewhere… Somewhere obvious.  Is it me or does the air feel thicker here?

“Well you better get back to your office. Time’s running.”

“Right” I stand, already considering banging my head really hard against the wall. Who knows, maybe it could work.

****

I’ve been back in my office for just an hour and I’m already convinced I’m about to have a panic attack.

Apparently, a man named Finnegan—whom I’ve never met, but who must have a personal vendetta against my sanity—decided to tell everyone that I was back. So, my door has been opening and closing like a candy shop on a free sample day.  

“Welcome back, Mairi! Finnegan told me. Sorry about what happened. Listen—could you sign the request for the water wielders?”

“Mairi! It is you! I didn’t quite believe Finnegan. Sorry to bother you on your first day back, but could you authorize this payment?”

“Mairi! Settling in again? Finnegan told me you didn’t recognize him. Anyway, could I get your views on this research proposal?  

They can’t ask me these things. They shouldn’t. I’m barely qualified to put my uniform and find my own office.

Then Eliana—bless her misplaced faith—sets me in front of the stack of documents on my desk. Essays, rune's reports, pages detailing which materials work best for which functions, new symbols and their applications… I don’t remember any of it. Worse, I only understand about half.  

Shit. I’m going to lose my job.

That’s it. My career will be remembered as “the Major who came back from the dead and forgot what runes were.”

Suddenly, the air in here is too hot. The room too small. The stack of papers too tall. My hands are clammy and my pulse is doing that frantic drum solo thing.

I stand up—too fast—and head for the door. I don’t even bother with excuses.

Three wrong turns and what feels like a small eternity later, I find the main exit. The sunlight outside hits my face, sharp and warm, and I don’t stop walking until the Headquarters is shrinking behind me.

By the time I finally make it back home, the sky has already sunk into darkness. My feet throb from hours of wandering—through markets heavy with the smell of baking bread, past stalls where vendors shouted over each other, down narrow alleys where cats slipped like shadows between barrels. I lingered in a plaza, watching strangers pass: merchants haggling, lovers leaning into each other, children weaving between legs like darting fish. I envied them. All of them. None of them looked like they’d lost entire years of their life.

The house is silent when I open the door. Too silent. Even the guards Aetos stationed outside are gone.

I’ve barely stepped out of my boots when the front door slams open so hard the hinges groan.

He’s there—blocking the doorway. Flushed. Chest heaving like he’s run the whole way here. For a heartbeat, something raw flickers in his eyes—relief—and his stance eases. But then it’s gone, replaced by a sharp narrowing of his gaze, his jaw locking tight.

“Where the fuck were you?” His voice slices through the stillness like a blade.

I blink, caught off guard. “I’m sorry?” My spine stiffens.

His boots hit the floor in a slow, deliberate step toward me. “You were supposed to wait for me, so we could get back together.”

Oh, Gods. He can’t be serious. After the longest day of my life, I have to deal with this? No. Not tonight.

“I got bored and went for a walk around the city,” I lie, keeping my tone flat.

“A walk?” he echoes the word in disbelief. “Sloane, I’ve been tearing the city apart looking for you. You can’t just go wandering off alone—”

“For fuck’s sake, Aetos, stop being so overprotective.” I try to keep my voice level, but his stupid attitude is fanning a spark I’ve been holding back all day.

“Overprotective?” he cuts in and something shifts in his face—tighter, harder. He takes another step in, closing the space between us until I have to tilt my head slightly to meet his eyes

“You went missing for a week,” his voice is climbing, sharp and fast. “You nearly died, and then someone broke in here and tried to kill you under my—.”

“I’m not a child, Aetos! I can take care of myself!”

“You got lost on your first night back.”

“It wasn’t a big deal! Damn it, I don’t understand why you are being so—”

“Because I’m fucking terrified!”

The shout crashes into me like a shove. He doesn’t back away—if anything, he leans in, breath ragged, eyes fierce and unguarded, as if he’s just ripped the truth straight out of himself and can’t take it back.

I freeze. Not because I’m scared of him—there’s no fear in my chest—but because of what he’s just said.

“You’re my everything, Sloane!  And it terrifies me to think that one day I could come home, and you'll be gone. Because you don’t remember—you don’t remember us.”

Guilt hit me in the gut, sharp and heavy. Because that’s exactly what I’d been planning—what I’d wanted—when I asked Aaric if I could go with him.

Silence stretches between us, thick and unmoving. I can’t look away from him. From those eyes—light brown, flecked with gold, sharp as they pin me in place. They don’t flinch, don’t waver.

Then something shifts in him. His shoulders drop, just slightly, and he drags in a long breath before running a hand over his face.

“I know you’re confused, frustrated, angry—fuck, you even cut your hair,” he goes on, a humorless huff breaking from him. “And I’m trying, Sloane… shit, I don’t even know what I’m trying to do, because this isn’t easy for me either. I’m—I’m suffocating.” his voice cracks on the word “I can’t breathe just thinking I might never touch you again. Never kiss you again.”

My throat goes tight. His confession curls around my heart like a fist. I want to move, to do something—anything—but my body stays locked in place.

He drops into a chair as if his legs have given out, elbows braced on his knees, face buried in his hands.

“You’re the only family I have left, Suza,” he says into the space between us, voice muffled but still raw. “And this… this was supposed to last. We promised it would. That no matter what happened, we wouldn’t let it fall apart.”

His words hang in the air, freezing me. Because I remember that promise.

Not making it to him—making it to myself:

If I ever find another family, I will protect it. I will not let it fall apart.

I glance at him—slumped forward, head in his hands—and think of how many times I pictured this, prayed for this: the man who took Liam from me, stripped bare, suffering, aching. I thought I’d drink it in, savor it. But there’s nothing sweet here. Only a weight in my chest, pressing until my ribs ache.

Because here I am, standing in front of the man I supposedly built that promise with, and all I’ve done since I woke up in the hospital is plan my escape.

What if they’re right, and I really do love him? And what if, by the time my memory comes back, it’s already too late—and I’ve lost him because of my stubbornness?

“Aetos, I—” My voice comes out quieter than I meant.

“Please, just… stop calling me that,” he says without lifting his head.

I swallow hard. “Dain…”

But before I can say another word, there’s a firm, deliberate knock at the door.

I hesitate, my fingers curling against my palms, the air between him and me still heavy with everything unsaid. The knock comes again, sharper this time.

I cross the room and pull the door open.

Vester stands there, his expression carved from stone, the faintest edge of urgency tightening his jaw. “Is Mairi here?”

 “Yes—” I nod, stepping back so he can see past me.

“Mira Sorrengail wants to see you immediately,” he says, his voice low but leaving no room for questions.

Behind me, I hear the scrape of a chair as Dain rises. His footsteps are steady, but there’s a shift in the air—as if the room itself knows this is about to get worse.

“What happened?” he asks, his tone clipped.

Vester glances at me, then back to him. “A letter arrived for Aaric. It’s a threat. Says another rune has been set… and if the ceremony isn’t cancelled, Catriona will die next.”

Chapter Text

CATRIONA 

Zolya was only the beginning. A second rune is already set, hidden closer than you think. You won’t find it in time.

Cancel the ceremony. If you don’t, the day you claim her hand will be the day it slips, frozen and lifeless, from your grasp.

Stone doesn’t break from the blow, but from the fault within.

Rage spikes the second I finish reading. The parchment shakes in my hands; I have to stop myself from tearing it in half.

How dare they. How dare they try to order me—order us.

Drake stands at my right, a steady palm on my shoulder like he could pin me to the floor if I explode. It’s not helping. My blood’s already boiling.

Across the chamber, Aaric paces—jaw tight, shoulders locked, eyes on the stones like they personally offended him. Maren watches me in silence, her sharp gaze calculating, as if she’s waiting for me to blow.

I fold the letter instead of feeding it to the fire and set it on the council table—scarred wood, wax stains, too many late nights.

A knock cuts through the silence before the door opens.

“Your Highness,” the guard says quickly. “General Sorrengail. Colonel Mairi. Lieutenant Colonel, Count Vester.”

They enter together. Mira’s boots hit the floor in measured rhythm, her cropped golden-brown hair catching the light as her sharp eyes land immediately on Drake. The tension between them is a tangible thing.

Seven years of on-and-off love will do that. Once engaged, they spent a year arguing over something as ridiculous—and telling—as which temple would host their vows. Drake broke it off when Mira accepted her promotion to General without bothering to discuss with him the consequences her decision would have on their relationship. And yet, it has never truly ended. They are both still too in love to let go, but too proud to give in.

“Who delivered it, and when?” Mira asks, skipping any greeting.

“An attendant,” Aaric answers. “It came with the morning dispatch. He says he doesn’t remember the messenger. There was no seal.”

The letter moves like a hot object from hand to hand—Mira, Dain, Vester. Each face hardens the same way.

Dain looks to Vester. “I need to speak to the attendant.”

“I’ll bring him,” He says, already heading out.

“It’s obvious,” I say, my voice sharp with anger. “Whoever attacked Zolya doesn’t want Navarre to hold air advantage. This isn’t about the wedding—it’s about stopping my vote in the High Senarium.”

“It doesn’t matter what they want,” Drake cuts in. “The ceremony needs to be postponed until—”

“Absolutely not,” Mira’s words snap through the air like steel.

Drake wheels toward her, eyes flashing. “We can’t risk Cat’s life.”

She steps forward, planting her palms flat on the table, her shoulders squared. “And you’d risk both realms’ dignity? You think our enemies will respect us if we panic over one letter?”

Drake mirrors her, bracing himself against the table’s opposite edge. Their faces hover inches apart, sparks flying. “This isn’t about dignity, Mira.”

I roll my eyes inwardly. I know exactly how this argument is going to end—like all the others, they’ll spend the night making up in Mira’s bed.

“Do you want to let them win?” Mira spits. “I see you still mistake cowardice for caution.” She leans closer, challenging him outright.

Drake’s mouth quirks into that familiar half-smile that always means trouble. “Gods, you sound exactly like when we argued about—”

Her nostrils flare. “Don’t you dare.”

“I dare, General,” he snarls, the title a blade on his tongue.

“Enough.” Aaric’s single word drops into the room, heavy and final. They stop.

“Mira’s right,” he says. “Canceling would look weak. But we can’t ignore a direct threat.”

Maren speaks next, calm and cool. “How do we even know it’s the same person who planted the rune in Zolya? It could be someone trying to divide us. That line—‘Stone breaks from the fault within’—it’s deliberate.”

“Maybe,” Dain agrees, folding his arms. “But we can’t assume it’s separate. If it’s the same person, we use it. Let them strike where we’re ready.”

Drake’s head snaps toward him. “You’re suggesting we use the Queen of Poromiel as bait?”

Mira cuts in before Dain can answer “We won’t risk her life. We tighten her guard. She doesn’t step into a room that hasn’t been cleared twice. Every corridor, every servant, every shadow gets checked.”

She leans back from the table. “If they think they can reach her, they’ll find steel waiting before they even blink.”

Drake breathes out hard. “And if the risk is inside that ring? If the note is right—if they’re already among us—more guards might only heighten the risk.”

The air tightens. The idea presses at my ribs.

Aaric stops pacing at last. His eyes sweep over each of them before settling on me. “What do you want to do?”

The flare in me steadies into something sharper: purpose. This is what I want. Let them come. Let them try. They think a single note will frighten me? No. We will draw them in, and when we have them, I will make them pay for what they did in Zolya. For every life they froze and left shattered, for every family torn apart, I will make them pay—with the kind of justice that leaves a warning carved into history.

I lift my chin. “We hunt them.”

Aaric’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “Then it is decided. The ceremony stands. Security will double. Every hall searched, every name checked. And if they dare to move against Cat…” his voice hardens to steel, “…they will not leave this city alive.”

Drake straightens. “Fine, I’ll take charge of Catriona’s personal security. No one touches her without my knowledge. No one shadows her steps without my approval.”

Mira nods. “My team runs the ceremony floor. Guests, staff, service corridors—everything gets a second pass.”

Dain clears his throat. “Interrogations continue. Ice wielders remain our best lead. Push now and we might catch them before the ceremony.” He looks to Maren.

“Any progress on Levere’s movements after he returned to Poromiel?”

“Not yet,” She answers.

The doors open again. Vester comes back with a young attendant who looks like he wants to melt into the stone. Hands twisting his tunic, eyes down.

Vester inclines his head toward Dain. “It’s true. He doesn’t remember who handed him the letter.”

Dain points to a chair. “Sit.”

The boy obeys. Dain crouches, gentle but firm. “I’m going to touch your temple. I’ll look for the memory of this morning, all right?”

The kid swallows. “Yes, Colonel.”

Aaric steps closer, arms folded, a shadow at Dain’s back.

Dain’s palm meets the boy’s temple. A beat. Then his eyes lose focus, jaw tightening.

For a long moment, nothing happens.

Then Dain inhales sharply, his gaze unfocused, distant. His brow furrows, jaw locking as he peers into the memory.

“I see him,” Dain murmurs.

Drake leans closer, fists braced on the table. “Details, Mairi.”

“Tall. Lean. Dark hair. Forearm tattoo—snake skeleton wrapped around the arm. Black ink. He didn’t hide it.”

The boy’s head bobs fast. “Yes. The tattoo. I remember that now.”

Aaric’s voice goes crisp. “Good. Tattoos are trackable. Barracks, taverns, gates—ask everyone. Anyone with that mark is brought in.”

I exhale slowly. Finally—something concrete.

But the line from the note keeps echoing: The day you claim her hand… frozen and lifeless.

-------------

SLOANE

It’s late at night. Moonlight filters through the window. I’m on the bed lying on my side, staring at the faint silver glow along the floor. Again, I can’t sleep. And again, it’s Aeto—sorry, Dain’s fault. Honestly, this could kill me. Sleep deprivation is literally a form of torture. People confess to crimes they didn’t commit because of this.

He hasn’t come back since he left with Vester, and I’ve been lying here for hours. Breathing in, breathing out, trying to stay so still that maybe the hurricane in my skull will dissolve into something manageable.

It hasn’t.

And here’s the worst part—I’m a terrible person, because the reason I can’t sleep isn’t the charming little death threat against Cat’s life. No. It’s because I can’t stop replaying what he said. The way his voice cracked. The way he looked like someone had ripped out his heart and stomped on it for good measure. And how, for one terrifying second, it made me feel like maybe… just maybe… I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.

But what am I supposed to do? Magically fall in love with someone I used to hate just because people keep insisting I already did? Or because he’s cute? Okay… he’s gorgeous. Okay, fine, yes, I did have a little crush on him, back when I didn’t know better. But having the kind of face that could ruin you for other men, doesn’t erase the fact that, from my perspective, two weeks ago all I wanted to do was stab it.

Anyway. That’s not the point.

The point is—I don’t know what the hell to do. With him. With me. With this so-called… marriage.

I sigh, roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Gods, everything would be so much easier if I could just get my memory back. I’d be happily married again. Maybe we’d already know who’s behind the attack in Zolya. I’d keep my job. Probably someone would still try to kill me, but… details.

“Come on, you stupid brain.” I order myself, tapping my forehead with two fingers. Then I close my eyes and try to remember as hard as I can.

Okay, Draithus. Mira Sorrengail. Violet. Brennan. Dain. Eyes here. Me transferring. Me telling him to fuck off. Me flipping him off. Me climbing onto Thoirt’s back. Me…

Me…

Me…

Me waking up in the hospital.

Oh for fuck’s sake, this is ridiculous. I’m never going to get my memories back, am I? Nothing will do the trick. I’ve torn this house apart, I’ve seen everything there is to see and nothing—

It suddenly hits me. I throw the covers back and sit up before I can talk myself out of it. The cold air of the room bites instantly, goosebumps racing up my arms like even my skin knows this is a bad idea. Still, I leave the room and pad down the hall to my office. The door creaks as I push it open.

My eyes flick toward the stack of Dain’s letters on the table. I’ve been avoiding them like the plage. I feel like if I read them, I’ll have one less excuse to keep pretending this isn’t real.

But maybe… maybe this will do the trick. Maybe if I really loved him that much, reading his letters will make me remember everything. Right?

I gather the bundle and carry them back to the bedroom. I turn on the mage light and sit on the edge of the bed. The letters spill across the quilt. I stare at them chewing on a nail, stomach twisting.

Okay, I can do this. I’ll just read one. Maybe they’re not even love letters.

I reach out, pick the one that looks the oldest. Slide it free of the envelope—the flap already broken long ago.

The page slips into my hands, ink-dark words marching across it in a sharp, precise, annoyingly disciplined handwriting.

Then I breathe in, brace myself, and begin to read.

Sloane,

Got your letter. Read it three times before I had to go out on patrol, and I swear you had me smiling like an idiot.

How is this place? It’s a mess, you’d hate it. Mud everywhere, skies that never clear. The meals? Gray stew, cold bread, and nothing that can be call food. Out here, everything feels heavier, even the air.

I miss you too. I know we agreed to end things when I left Basgiath. You said distance and time would make it easier to forget…but it’s not working. Every morning, you’re the first thing on my mind and every night when I close my eyes, you’re the last thing I see. I keep replaying our goodbye. The way you kissed me, the way you looked at me. And I keep thinking I don’t want to forget. I don’t want you to be just some random chapter of my life I close. I don’t want to let this fall apart just because of distance.

You once told me not to make promises I can’t keep. Well, here’s one I will: I’ll find a way to make this work. Because no matter what you say, I know you’re still mine. And because even out here, with everything going to hell, I still want you more than I want anything else.

So? Come on, give us more credit than that.

Lessons must’ve started again for you. Stay safe. Eat. Sleep. And for the love of Amari, keep training your signet.

Fly high for me, will you? And try to stay out of trouble…no, who am I kidding, you won’t. Just… stay alive, ok? As you told me that last day… it would annoy me if you died.

P.S. Cath says hello… sort of.

Always,

Dain

Okay. These are definitely love letters.

I press the paper flat against my knee, trying not to feel like some creep who can’t mind her own business and is snooping through someone else's diary. His diary. His feelings. His promises.

Except… this is not a diary, these are letters, and they were written to me. I’m not an intruder. Not really. These words were meant for me—me then, not me now. But still me.

My fingers hover over the stack. Do I keep going? Maybe the next one will be the key. The magic trigger that makes it all come back. I’m reaching for another envelope when—

The front door opens.

Shit.

He’s home.

I scramble to gather the letters, the paper crackling far too loud in the quiet room. I shove them into the drawer of the bedside table, slam it shut, and kill the light in one frantic movement.

The room plunges into darkness just as I throw myself back onto the mattress, dragging the covers up to my chin. I squeeze my eyes shut… maybe this isn’t a good idea, after what happened the last time I did this.  

But this time, he doesn’t stop at my door. Doesn’t knock. Doesn’t even hesitate. His footsteps carry down the hall, steady, slowly, until another door opens and closes.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Relief unfurls in my chest. And yet… there’s something else curled under it. Something tight, almost disappointing.

*****

The next day I’m sitting in the back of the interrogation room again. And all I can think about are the letters still tucked neatly in the drawer, waiting. Untouched. I didn’t read another after Dain came home—I must’ve passed out at some point, though I don’t remember when.

Two ice wielders have already been questioned this morning. Just like yesterday, they walked out clean. Nothing to do with Zolya. Nothing that triggers my memories.

Now we’re waiting for the third.

Vester sits at the table, flipping through files with the patience of a man who enjoys making people sweat. Dain stands behind him, the picture of command—calm, firm and controlled.

And I can’t stop staring at him.

Thinking: this is the man who wrote that letter. The man who couldn’t stop thinking about me. The man I apparently kissed goodbye after graduation. The man who swore he wouldn’t let us fall apart. And the man who’s now terrified of losing me.

As if he can feel it, his eyes lift suddenly, locking onto mine.

Caught.

Heat spikes through me and I snap my gaze away so fast I’m sure he's wondering if I'm having a stroke.

Thankfully, the door opens at that exact moment.

A woman steps inside, flanked by two guards. Early forties. Uniform crisp and perfectly pressed, boots polished to parade shine. Her short hair is cut severe, sharp as her expression. She moves like the space belongs to her. Shoulders back, chin lifted—every inch of her radiates superiority.

Her gaze drifts across the chamber and settles on Dain and Vester with something between contempt and murder.

She doesn’t sit until the guards gesture. And even then, she lowers herself into the chair as if the place is beneath her.

“Name?” Vester’s tone stays calm, even.

“You know perfectly well my name.” She leans back, arms folding across her chest with deliberate slowness. “Mabel Main.”

“Rank?”

“Colonel Mabel Main,” she snaps, clipped and precise, spitting the words like daggers. The reminder is obvious: she outranks almost everyone in this building.

The questioning begins. Every answer is short, cold, dry. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t give even a hint of nerves. It isn’t defiance—it’s disdain, and she wears it like a second uniform.

“Did you have anything to do with the attack in Zolya?”

That’s when she finally moves. Her spine stiffens, outrage flashing across her face.

“I’ve fought for Navarre. I’ve bled for Navarre. I’ve frozen men in Navarre’s name and carried out orders without hesitation. I’ve sacrificed everything for this kingdom. And now you drag me in here, as if I would ever conspire in something that threatens the future of the very realm I swore to protect? This is an insult.”

Vester doesn’t blink. “Yes or no?”

Her nostrils flare. “No.”

The stillness stretches for a moment before Vester gives the faintest nod. She is clean. The interrogation is over.

Colonel Mable Main rises in one swift motion, tugging her uniform back into place like she needs to reassert control. At the doorway, she pauses. Her eyes cut across the room—first Vester. Then me, sharp and assessing. And finally, Dain.

“Have you questioned the marked ones yet?” Her lips twist into something close to a sneer. “We all know they were hiding second signets.”

I see Dain’s jaw tighten, the muscle ticking. A flicker of fire under his calm exterior. But his voice stays steady. “Every marked rider fought in the war with everything they had. None of those with a second signet hid it when it mattered.”

“That’s what they say…” she replies, voice dripping with doubt.

Then she turns sharply on her heel and storms out, the door slamming hard behind her. The echo rattles in my chest.

I sit frozen. It hadn't even occurred to me. Did I…? Gods. Did I manifest a second signet I don’t know about?

I glance at Vester, and for the first time his expression isn’t unreadable. There’s fire in his eyes, sharp and unguarded, and I know exactly why.

For years, children of rebels—the marked ones—were branded as traitors before we even had a chance to prove otherwise. We were whispers in corridors, side glances in training halls, suspicions wrapped around our throats like chains. Some scars never fade, and Mabel had just ripped one wide open.

But then, in the span of a breath, Vester reins it back in. The fury shutters behind that calm mask he wears so well. His voice is smooth again when he turns to Dain. “That’s all for today.”

Dain doesn’t move immediately, his jaw still tight. Then he exhales and nods once. “Where’s the woman who didn’t show yesterday?”

“Still missing,” Vester answers, sliding a file closed with deliberate calm. “I went through her record this morning. She’s requested an unusual number of personal leaves in the last year.”

“Find her.” Dain orders.

“I’ll see it done.” Vester nods, gathers the stack of documents from the table, and strides out of the room. The door shuts behind him, leaving only the scrape of silence in his wake.

I’m still in the corner, sunk into my chair.

Dain moves. He circles the table with slow steps, until there’s nothing between us. He leans back against the edge, arms folded across his chest, ankles crossed, looking every inch the commanding officer—and somehow cornering me without taking a step.

He looks straight into my eyes for a moment then tilts his head.

“So…” His voice is low, leaving the silence to do all the work.

Fuck. He wants to talk about what happened last night, doesn’t he? Not about Cat’s threat—he already covered that this morning. No, that tone, that look? I’m sure he wants to talk about us.

My gut knots. I cannot do this, not right now. My mind is a mess. If I open my mouth about that, whatever comes out will only make things worse. I mean, best case scenario: awkward silence. worst case: emotional train wreck with collateral damage.

“Do I have a second signet?” I panic-blurt the first thing that comes to mind to hopefully avoid the subject.

Dain blinks, caught off guard. “No. Not every marked one manifested a second signet. Bodhi, Riorson, Vester, you… the list goes on.” His brow furrows, thoughtful. “Though I was never quite sure about Riorson. But even if he did, he lost it too when he was cured.”

I blink. “Cured? Cured from what?”

“He turned Venin.” His voice drops, steady but edged.

“Venin?” It bursts out sharper than I intend, too loud. My pulse hammers everywhere—throat, wrists, ears—an ugly drumbeat of disbelief.

“Yeah. Right during Draithus battle.” Dain pauses. “He didn’t lost his soul thought, fought with us during the war—well, not exactly with us, but on our side. Violet found a way to… cure him. You helped, actually.”

“Me?” The word scrapes out, thin and disbelieving.

He nods once. “Yes. You became a very powerful siphon, Sloane.” A smile appears on his mouth “After you stopped acting like a stubborn child and started training your signet. We'll see them this weekend, during the engagement ceremony.”

Before I can untangle a single thought, his voice returns.

“So…” he says again, circling back to whatever conversation I so desperately dodged, “Do you want to stay here for a while maybe head to your office, or go back to the house?”

Relief crashes through me, quick and guilty. He isn’t pressing. Not right now. But the idea of my office twists my gut. Too many eyes. Too many questions. Too many things I don’t remember.

“Is it… okay if I just go home?” I ask, quieter than I mean to.

Dain watches me for a moment, studying me, like he is trying peeling back layers I can’t see myself. Finally, he nods. “Come. I’ll walk you back.”

- - - - -

CATRIONA

The carriage slows as we enter the wide square of Parliament. Aaric sits beside me, his expression composed as he looks out the window, eyes settling on the crowd already gathering. Murmurs rise and faces turning as they see us arrive.

Guards close in when we step down, shadowing me the way they have since the letter came—the one that promised my death if I dared to marry. They keep a respectable distance, but I feel their presence with every step, steady as the weight of steel at my back.

The gardens of the square sits in precise symmetry—low hedges trimmed with military precision, neat circles of shrubs, and beds of red and gold flowers pressed into strict patterns, as if even the earth itself must obey Navarre’s discipline. The cobbled paths shine pale beneath the morning light, crisscrossing the square like veins of stone.

At the center rises a statue cast in dark bronze, towering above the ordered rows of greenery. A dragon with wings outstretched, its talons gripping the pedestal as if ready to launch skyward, its neck arched in defiance. Upon its back sits its rider, head lifted high, sword raised in one arm. Both man and beast look carved out of fire and victory, immortalized mid-charge.

It is not a statue meant for beauty. It is meant for memory. A reminder to all who pass what it cost to survive.

On one side of the square, the High Senarium rises—columns white as bone, banners heavy with centuries of noble crests. It looks less like a hall of governance and more like a sanctuary—to bloodlines, inheritance, and power guarded jealously by dukes.

Opposite it stands the Low Senarium. Newer, built after the reforms, its stone darker, less polished, but its size dwarfs even the High chamber. Rows of tall windows gleam with sunlight. It is meant to hold the voices of the people—or at least the voices chosen to speak for them. Austere, vast, and alive with noise already spilling from within.

I know the procedure by heart. The Low Senarium is where representatives sit—elected by province, numbers set by population. They can approve the proposal, amend it, or bury it. An outright approval is fantasy. Amendments are possible. But if they bury it, Poromiel stands alone.

The Low Senarium hums as we enter. Parchment rustles, quills scratch, voices rise and dip in impatient waves. The chamber is half-moon curved, benches tiered toward the dais where the Speaker sits. Above, banners of Navarre’s provinces hang from the ceiling—new colors, old weight.

We sit in the observers’ gallery, high enough to see the chamber unfold like a game board. Aaric is beside me, his posture composed, hands folded neatly on the rail. He looks calm—always calm—but I can feel the tension beneath his stillness. Every word spoken here could redraw the map of his reign.

The Speaker calls for order, his staff striking the floor. “The proposal for consideration: aid to Poromiel in exchange for the loan of gryphons to Navarre.”

Murmurs ripple through the benches. Already, lines are drawn.

A representative from Elsum rises first. He is lean, hawk-nosed, his voice pitched to carry.

“Honorable chamber, Elsum suffered more than any province under Poromiel’s aggression. Our villages were burned, our fields salted, our sons buried in unmarked graves. Four centuries of blood cannot be wiped away with one treaty and one marriage. Approving this will only threaten Navarre’s sovereignty. We cannot let Poromiel’s gryphons patrol our skies—they will always answer to them.”

A rumble of discussion follows from his benchmates, and I feel the muscles in my body tighten. Aaric must notice, because he leans subtly toward me, his voice pitched low, meant only for my ears.

“This is exactly what we expected,” he murmurs. “They’ll debate, then vote to pass the proposal with modifications. The Lower Chamber isn’t the problem.”

His calm doesn't match the storm below. I look at him—at the mask he wears—and wonder whether he believes it or says it for me.

Another representative stands—Luceras, farther from the border. His tone is indignant and steady.

“The reason we fought Poromiel for centuries was because we refused to share resources—something that, had it been done from the beginning, could have spared us centuries of bloodshed, and perhaps even the Venin war. This time, they are willing to share. And we must be realistic. Navarre is no longer the military power it once was. With this alliance, future wars can be prevented.”

The chamber erupts—shouts, jeers, clapping. The Speaker pounds his staff for order, his voice straining above the chaos.

My gaze slides past the shouting men to the figure sitting behind Elsum’s delegation. Milos Priam.

He has no voice here, no vote. His seat belongs in the High Senarium with the dukes. Yet he is here all the same, looming like a storm behind his eight representatives. I know why. He’s not here to listen—he’s here to make sure every man from Elsum votes the way he commands. Gods only know what he has promised them.

Tall and broad-shouldered, he carries the posture of a soldier though it’s been years since he wore the uniform. His beard is trimmed tight, dark hair slicked back with the kind of care that reads calculated. Storm-gray eyes measure the chamber like a battlefield. Every word, every face, weighed.

Everything about him is controlled. He’s been crafting this image for years—soldier and savior—so when Elsum looks at him, they see a man who will avenge them. I see a man who won’t let go of his lands and incomes.

He fought in the war, and he’s been waging another—a quieter campaign—since. He feeds fear and rage into his province, whispering Poromiel’s crimes until they echo louder than reason. He feeds them memory, curates their rage, until Elsum would rather choke on its own bitterness than grasp peace. He has sown it carefully, and now he reaps it here.

My stomach twists as I watch him lean in and whisper to the representative who spoke. The man straightens and speaks again—no longer his words but Priam’s through another mouth.

Across the chamber Tyrrendor’s delegate fires back. Voices overlap until the Speaker pounds desperately for order. Aaric’s jaw tightens beside me; he does not move, but his eyes flick toward Priam. He sees it—the way the duke pulls strings without touching.

I keep my gaze on Priam, on the shadow he casts over every word. And when his storm-gray eyes lift, catching mine across the chamber, something sharp passes between us. Recognition. Challenge. He knows I see him.

The Speaker finally restores a fragile silence. He invites rebuttals. A dozen voices stir, but Priam rises first—not a representative, not entitled to the floor, yet no one dares remind him.

“Honorable chamber,” his voice rolls across the stone, smooth and commanding, “Elsum hasn’t forgotten who burned our fields or buried our sons. Don’t call that bitterness—call it clarity. This treaty won’t bring peace—it’ll sell us out.”

Gasps run through the benches; murmurs follow like low thunder. The Speaker pounds again, but Priam keeps going.

“Navarre cannot trade its sovereignty for a handful of beasts and the hand of a foreign queen.”

His words cut straight at me. Heat flares in my chest; my jaw tightens. Protocol says I should stay silent. Protocol never saved anyone.

I stand in the gallery, voice sharp and even. “With respect, Duke Priam. As a man who fought in the Venin war, you should remember exactly who stood between your borders and annihilation. Poromiel did. And you survived because of it.”

The chamber freezes. Heads turn. The Speaker sputters, staff striking the floor. Aaric turns to me—his look a warning—but he doesn’t stop me.

Priam turns toward me with the slow, precise movement of a predator. His bow is shallow and mocking. “Careful, Your Highness. This chamber belongs to Navarre. Poromiel’s voice doesn’t carry any weight here.”

The Speaker snaps at both of us, reminding the room we’re only observers in the Low Senarium. The debate continues, still heated but more contained. In the end, the chamber decides to take up amendments before approval. Deliberations on changes start next week.

Aaric and I leave before the benches begin to empty.

“This is good, right?” I ask.

“Yes. It’s exactly what we planned.” He sounds sure.

We slip through the side doors before too many follow. The sun has shifted; long shadows stretch across the square. People spill out of the chamber, conversations blooming into gossip.

Milos Priam waits at the base of the steps—like he knew exactly which way we’d come. When his storm-gray eyes find us, his smile cuts at Aaric more than at me.

“Your Majesty, your fiancée certainly knows how to steal a chamber’s attention,” he says smoothly, his tone polite enough to almost hide the contempt underneath. “Bold strategy—if not exactly diplomatic. I imagine you’ll have to teach her how things are done in Navarre before she becomes queen.”

My blood spikes. Before Aaric can answer, I step forward.

“Maybe the one who needs a lesson is you.” I narrow my eyes. “I see exactly what you’re doing, Priam. Don’t pretend you care about Elsum or Navarre. You keep them afraid because it keeps you in power. And that’s what terrifies you, isn’t it? Losing it.”

Something flickers across his face—quick, raw—before he can hide it.

I feel my power stir, hungry, insistent. I let it slip—just enough to twist at the edges of his mind. Maybe he’ll confess something.

Around us, more people pour from the chamber, their murmurs thickening into a low, expectant hum.

“Zolya freezes. Levere turns up dead. Then I get a death threat.”

His breath catches at my words. His jaw tightens. His eyes widen just a fraction too long.

“Convenient timing,” I press, feeding him both my words and my power. “Almost like someone wants Poromiel and Navarre at each other’s throats again. So tell me, Duke—how deep are your hands in this?”

His eyes go glassy. His hands tremble before the rage comes—real rage, but not clean. It’s messy, panicked. His throat works like he’s swallowing words he can’t let out, something half-formed and dangerous clawing its way up before he crushes it back down.

When he finally speaks, his voice isn’t steady. It cracks—rough, human—before he forces it back into steel.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He steps forward, fists clenched so tight the veins stand out, the mask slipping with every breath. For a heartbeat, I think he might break—say something he shouldn’t—but instead he explodes.

“You think I’d do that?” he snarls, louder now, the sound tearing through the square. “You stand here and accuse me like you know anything?”

The fury looks real because it is—but it’s hiding something deeper, something that burns hotter than hate. I almost mistake it for grief.

My guards close in, hands on their hilts. Aaric steps between us—iron calm, his gaze flint-sharp on Priam.

I release my hold. The surge fades, leaving Priam gasping, trembling, his eyes burning with something I can’t name.

He glares at me one last time, then turns sharply, storming into the crowd.

I draw a slow breath, my heart hammering, every nerve alight. He confessed nothing. And yet—the way my words tore him open.

There’s something there. Something hidden. Something he would kill to keep buried.

Perhaps, I think grimly, he already has.

- - - - -

SLOANE

Sloane,

Last night there was an attack on our post. We lost three riders. I’m writing just so you don’t hear about it in Battle Brief and start worrying. We are all right. I’m still here. Still breathing. Still thinking about you every damn day.

I managed to get another pass for the weekend you’ll be in Aretia. So, I’ll see you there once more.

I miss you like hell. Not just your smile or your voice or the way your hair smells—I miss the small things. The way you’d shove my shoulder when you were annoyed. How you’d steal my bread because yours was smaller. The sound of you laughing at something I said that wasn’t even that funny.

I miss the way you fit against me when we slept, I’d give anything to wake up like that again, your breath warm at my neck, your hand on my chest, your leg tangled with mine.

I miss you barefoot, in my shirt, stealing my spot on the bed and daring me to take it back. I miss your hands on me, the way you’d pull me in and kiss me until I couldn’t think straight. Fuck I miss you in a way that I shouldn’t put into a letter. 

I want you in my arms again. I want your voice in my ear telling me I’m impossible. I want home. I’m counting the days—hell, the hours—until I see you again.

Stay safe for me, okay?

Yours,
Dain

No way. He actually wrote that into a letter and sent it through an official channel where anyone could read it? What if his father had seen it? I can’t decide if that’s bold or just stupid… maybe both. Or maybe a little romantic, but still.

I’ve been flicking through the letters ever since I got home this afternoon, and it’s been… unsettling. Like I’m spying on my own life. Not to mention his.

Now I know things I didn’t before. That I started training my signet with him. That we kept meeting whenever I was in Aretia for rune intensives. That he was assigned to the Southern Wing and promoted to First Lieutenant only two months after graduating.

The letters haven’t helped my memory. They’ve only given me more questions. Like—how did it go from one kiss and me kneeing him in the balls on the sparring mat, to an actual relationship? How the hell did I fall for the man responsible for Liam’s death?

And the question that keeps clawing at me is—why me? Why did he fall so hard for me? Honestly, I’m not that special, I’m not the kind of woman who inspires sappy love letters. I wasn’t bonded by two dragons. I couldn’t manipulate shadows or see the future. And after everything that happened to my family… deep down, I’ve always just been… broken.

I let the letters slip from my fingers onto the small table beside me. The terrace on the third floor is quiet but somewhere below, a market bell rings, sharp and distant, carried on the restless breeze. My eyes stay on the horizon but not really seeing it. My mind won’t stop circling back to those letters, to the version of myself they describe—a version I don’t recognize, but who apparently existed.

My stomach growls loud enough to echo off the stone walls. Guess romance isn’t enough fuel to survive on.

I stand up, gather the papers and head back inside, making my way down the narrow staircase. The scent of food fills the house—warm bread, herbs, and something rich simmering low, the kind of smell that makes you realize you haven’t eaten since… gods, when did I eat last?

When I step inside the kitchen, Mrs. Litman is at the counter, sleeves rolled up, her hands steady as she chops a bundle of herbs into neat little piles. A pot simmers on the stove, steam curling upward, carrying roasted garlic and broth through the air.

“That smells amazing,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.

She glances over her shoulder with a small smile. “Would you like a plate, dear?”

“Absolutely.” No hesitation there.

She gestures for me to sit while she ladles steaming broth into a bowl, adds a thick slice of bread on the side, then places it in front of me before going right back to her chopping.

I sink into the chair, spoon in hand, and for the first time today something eases inside me. The food is hot, fragrant with thyme and onion, grounding in a way the letters could never be.

“How have you been feeling?” Mrs. Litman asks as she tips the chopped herbs into the pot, stirring without looking at me. Her voice is casual, like she’s asking about the weather, but there’s a softness underneath.

I toy with the spoon, watching it stir lazy circles in the broth. “Confused,” I admit. The word feels small compared to the storm in my chest.

She doesn’t press. Just nods slightly as she continues stirring, waiting.

For some reason, I trust her. I don’t know why—it doesn’t make sense—but there’s something steady about her presence, about the rhythm of her movements, that makes me want to open my mouth and tell her the things I can’t even admit to myself.

So I do.

“I’ve been reading these letters. Dain’s letters. Ones he sent me years ago. And if anything, I’m more confused now than before.”

The only answer for a long moment is the soft sound of her wooden spoon moving in the pot. Then, without looking at me, Mrs. Litman speaks.

“And why is that?”

I press my lips together, debating whether to say it out loud. But the words slip out anyway.

“I still don’t understand how I could’ve fallen in love with him after what he did.”

Her hands don’t falter as she stirs. She just tilts her head slightly, as if she’s been expecting this all along.

“You mean your brother?”

“Yes.” My throat feels tight. And my grip tightens around the spoon.

“Sloane.” Mrs. Litman says as she sets the spoon down and turns toward me. “It’s not like he woke up one morning and decided to plan your brother’s death. He was young and only trying to protect his childhood friend. He didn’t have the whole picture, so he made a mistake. A mistake that, yes, tragically ended your brother’s life. But a mistake nonetheless. One he’s regretted every single day since. I think you’re smart enough to see that.”

The words settle heavy between us. I stare at the steam rising from my bowl, letting it blur my vision, pretending that’s the reason my eyes sting. For once, I don’t have a retort.

Silence stretches. Then, almost in a whisper, I ask:

“But what would Liam think?”

Mrs. Litman studies me for a beat, then asks gently:

“Was your brother the kind to hold grudges? To cling to vengeance?”

I almost laugh—almost. The image of Liam holding a grudge is so absurd it twists something inside me.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “Liam was… perfect.”

Her expression softens.

“Then don’t you think what he would’ve cared about most was your happiness?”

Her words cut sharper than anything else could. Because I know she’s right. And yet…

I go quiet again, staring down at the bread on the side of my plate. My fingers trace the rough edge of the crust.

“How do you fall in love again with someone you don’t even remember loving in the first place?”

“That’s the advantage, isn’t it?” serious mask slips into a grin—mischievous, almost girlish. “You get to fall in love all over again. To have it feel like the first time. Do you know what I’d give to kiss my husband for the first time again? To feel the butterflies, the rush, all of it?”

The corner of my mouth lifts despite myself. It’s ridiculous, but also… not. I huff out a sound that’s somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, shaking my head.

She smiles knowingly, then turns back to the counter, picking up her knife again as if nothing heavy had just been dropped in the middle of the kitchen.

“By the way,” she says lightly, as though she’s merely changing the subject, “the tailor dropped off a package for you this morning. I think it’s your dress for the ceremony.”

****

The next few days pass without incident. The remaining Ice Wielders have all been interrogated. And the interrogations lead to nothing. No inconsistencies, no hidden connections, no trace of guilt. But Leila Beaumont, the woman who never showed up is still gone.

Disappeared.

She’s the only one left unaccounted for, and the orders went out this morning: arrest on sight.

I haven’t set foot in my office after that first day. Technically, I was supposed to reintegrate gradually, ease my way back into work—but between the interrogations and the amnesia, no one’s asked why I haven’t returned to my desk.

Instead, I began to train again. And it’s been… something else. Muscle memory is a real thing. My body remembers things my mind doesn’t—faster, stronger, sharper. Movements flow without thought. My lungs carry me farther than I expect, my arms strike harder, steadier. And apparently, I can throw a dagger and hit the same bench four times in a row. Didn’t even know I knew how to do that.

Today is the Engagement Ceremony. I’m standing in front of the mirror. The dress is black silk that clings and then falls away into flowing tulle. The bodice is beaded in dark silver, glittering when it catches the light, like frost spread across obsidian. It’s beautiful. It’s bold. And it feels nothing like me.

I smooth a hand down the fabric, the slit high enough to bare my leg with the slightest movement. The neckline plunges low, daring, and the sheer panels at the sides make the whole thing look more like a weapon than a gown. Which, I suppose, is fitting.

My hair is tied back in a low bun and my makeup is done. So I guess I’m ready. Ready to stand in a room full of people, pretend I’m not unraveling inside.

But maybe I still have time to…

My gaze drifts to the drawer. The one where I’ve kept the letters.

I’ve spent the last few days devouring them, one after another, like some masochist who can’t stop poking at an open wound. And there’s only one left. The last one.

I hesitate, fingers twitching at my sides. I should leave it. I should. But the thought of walking out that door without reading it feels like carrying a weight I don’t know how to set down.

So I cross the room and pull the drawer open. The final envelope is right there, waiting. Different from the rest—no sender, no recipient, just folded paper worn soft at the edges.

Which means he must have given it to me in person.

I slide it free and hold it in my hands. My eyes drop to the first line, and I begin to read.

Sloane,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. Maybe I’ll never send it, maybe it’ll stay folded at the bottom of my pack until it turns to dust. But tonight, the camp is too quiet, and the silence presses so heavy on me that the only thing I can do is write your name.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about that night of the storm at Basgiath. You came to my room saying you “just wanted to talk,” but when you closed the door behind you, I knew it wasn’t just that. You sat on my bed while I stood there, trying to figure out whether I should touch you or let you make the first move. You didn’t give me the chance, you gave me that look, half warning and half invitation. So, I stepped closer and then you kissed me like you’d finally stopped fighting yourself. I remember your hands on my shoulders pulling me down until I was over you, the warmth of your palms under my shirt, the way you whisper my name. I remember how you laughed against my mouth when I told you I’d never let you go—how you told me to shut up, and kissed me until I forgot everything but you. That wasn’t the first night we spend together, but it’s the one that made me realize I was already in love with you, deeper than I knew how to handle.

I fell for you knowing I shouldn’t, knowing it would hurt because we wouldn’t have much time together, knowing how badly I would miss you. And I felt anyway. Because you were the first person who made me feel completely torn—reckless and unsure, but at the same time absolutely certain. You were my first. Maybe not my first kiss, or my first time, or my first relationship. But you are the first person who made me feel like I was enough. The first who showed me what it really means to love someone.

Some days here feel endless, like the war is swallowing whole weeks and leaving only corpses behind. But I think about the promises we made, and it keeps me standing. If I can just hold on long enough, I’ll come back and keep them.

So I’ll wait. No matter how long it takes, no matter how bad it gets. Because I don’t want anyone else. I don’t care if we spend the whole time arguing about stupid things. I just want it to be with you.

I want you. It doesn’t matter when you read this, it doesn’t matter where I am, I want you.

Dain

The words blur a little as I reach the end, and I’m not sure if it’s the ink or my eyes.

I fold the letter back with slow, careful hands, as if rushing might tear it in half. My chest feels too tight, like the dress is suddenly a cage instead of silk.

He wanted me. He loved me. And me? I can’t even remember the night he says changed everything. I can’t remember the look, the laugh, the kiss that made him certain.

A knock at the door startles me so hard I almost drop the letter.

“Sloane? Are you ready?” Dain’s voice, firm, low, carrying through the wood.

Shit. My heart jumps straight into my throat. “Almost. Just—give me a moment.” I call back, the words sharper than I mean them to be.

I fumble the letter closed, pressing it flat with my palm before tucking it back into the drawer, sliding it shut. I force myself to breathe. In. Out.

Then I look at the mirror one last time. I square my shoulders, smooth the skirt of the black gown, and walk to the door. My hand lingers on the knob for the briefest second, then I pull it open.

Dain is standing there in full military dress uniform. And—Gods.

There’s no way in this world he could look hotter than he does right now.
Well… maybe naked.

What the fuck. Why am I thinking about Dain naked?

I drag my gaze up, determined to focus on something safe, like his face. Except that’s a mistake too—because his eyes are on me. No, all over me.

Is he—Is he checking me out?

The look he’s giving me is intense, lingering, the kind of look you give someone you’ve already seen without clothes. Which, I guess, technically… he has. And It’s unsettling as hell.

His eyes flick up to mine, and the moment he realizes I’ve caught him, color rushes across his cheeks. He clears his throat, suddenly fascinated with the floor, one hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“You look… spectacular,” he manages, his voice a little rough.

I blink at him “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

“Thanks” A small smile lifts a corner of this mouth. “Shall we?”

Chapter Text

SLOANE

The night is warm, and if you didn’t know better, you’d never guess Cat’s life had been threatened. The palace patio looks like something out of a dream—rows of pale stone arches rising above neat hedges, all wrapped with white blossoms and ribbons that shimmer softly in the glow of hanging mage-lights. Petals scatter across the gravel paths like someone deliberately sprinkled them for effect. At the far end, a round dais holds a single stone slab, framed by an arch carved with flowers and vines. Pretty, in a very official sort of way.

Dain told me that the ceremony was supposed to happen in the main square, all fireworks and fanfare. Instead, we’re tucked away behind these walls with only a hundred guests pretending this was always the plan.

And of course—security. We were searched twice before we even got in, and soldiers are stationed everywhere, stiff as statues. Everyone smiles a little too brightly, as though none of them notice the tension humming underneath. Me? I can’t quite relax. I keep half-expecting to catch the glint of a blade in the crowd or a shadow slipping where it shouldn’t.

I barely have time to glance around for familiar faces before we’re herded into our seats like schoolchildren.

The buzz of conversation vanishes when the great doors swing open. A hundred heads turn at once, and then—drums. Slow, steady and dramatic. My chair actually trembles, which feels a little over the top.

First come the banners. Navarre’s black and gold, Poromiel’s silver and blue, fluttering proudly side by side as if someone staged a breeze just for dramatic effect. And okay, I’ll admit it—it’s a sight that makes goosebumps prickle up my arms.

Then enters the priestess—Amari’s, of course. Royals don’t get married under any other god. She glides forward like she’s floating, a silver censer swinging from her hand, curls of incense rolling down the aisle. The scent—crushed herbs and firewood—is meant to sanctify the space, but mostly it makes me want to sneeze.

And—here they come.

Aaric and Cat. Shoulder to shoulder, walking like they’re carved from the same damn block of marble.

Aaric, of course, looks like a portrait come to life.  He’s all sharp lines in black and gold, medals gleaming like someone polished them that morning, cape draped with ridiculous precision across his shoulders.

His crown sits heavy, blackened silver spikes curl upward in jagged arcs, flames frozen in midair. It makes me wonder if the crown is meant to be worn or wielded as a weapon. The centerpiece even looks a bit like a dragon’s head—fierce and unsettling, as though the crown might snarl at you if you got too close.

Cat, meanwhile, is breathtaking in midnight blue, silver embroidery curling across the bodice like wildflowers. The neckline dips just enough to whisper scandal, though the sheer fabric keeps it firmly in the respectable zone. Long sleeves of sheer tulle trail into panels. Layers of skirt float as she walks, heavy enough to look royal, light enough to look effortless. And then there’s her crown. Silver braids dotted with gems. From it rise gryphon wings, frozen mid-beat, growing from the back toward the front. Not soft or feathery like real ones but carved from metal and silver. At the center, a tall spire crowned by a blazing diamond-blue gem that catches the light every time she moves.

Aaric is fire and steel. Cat is beauty sharpened into a blade. Together, they look less like a couple and more like a prophecy being fulfilled.

The banners are placed on either side of the dais—black and gold to the left, silver and blue to the right. They sway ever so slightly, like even fabric can’t resist getting dramatic at a time like this. Aaric and Cat climb the steps together, every inch the perfect royal couple, while the priestess takes her place behind the massive stone slab. The whole room seems to hush.

“Today,” the priestess intones, her voice all booming authority and holy resonance, “is not the celebration of the commitment between two souls alone, but of two kingdoms. May the stone endure and may the water flow untainted.”

With practiced grace, she lifts a carved Poromiel jar and pours water over the slab. Aaric and Cat step forward, brushing their fingertips through the stream before drying them on the same white linen. Symbolic, obviously. Wash away the grudges, start fresh, hands ready for useful things. Gods know both kingdoms could use some.

Then comes the part I’ve been secretly waiting for all day. The priestess pulls out a small gilded box and hands it to Aaric with a bow so solemn it makes the crowd lean in as one. Naturally, I lean too, trying to peek around the woman in front of me, who has somehow managed to style her hair into something that could pass for peacock.

Aaric opens the box, his voice echoing clear and strong:

“This ring is a vow—a promise of union, of loyalty, of enduring love. Not only between us, but between the realms we carry. May it bind as steadfastly as the crown and as fiercely as the sword.”

Suddenly my brain takes a wild left turn: Did I get an engagement ring? And while we’re on the subject—where’s my wedding band? Not that I actually want to wear it. Just… curious.

The audience exhales in admiration.

I, on the other hand, try to catch a glimpse of the stupid ring. All I get is the glitter of something blue before Cat’s hand shifts out of sight.

Damn it! I missed it.

Cat steps forward, her voice carrying loud and regal, the kind that makes you want to sit up straighter just listening.

“According to Poromiel’s traditions, the betrothed must honor her intended with a gift. A token not only of affection, but of intent.”

At her signal, a man shuffles toward the dais. He looks exactly like the sort of person you’d expect to be described as an old master—stooped, serious, holding a polished wooden box like it contains the meaning of life. He bows and Cat accepts it gracefully.

She turns back to Aaric, opens the box, and produces… a leather chest. She places it into his hands, and the hush in the room somehow gets even quieter. Aaric opens it carefully—and miracle of miracles—I actually manage to see this time over the hedge camouflaged as a hairstyle in front of me.

It’s a chess set. It doesn’t look like some pretty display piece. It looks like a masterpiece. The kind of gift meant to survive dynasties and start family feuds if someone misplaces a pawn.

Cat doesn’t let the gift speak for itself. She meets Aaric’s eyes, her voice unwavering:

“This gift represents my respect for your mind. My will to stand beside you as your equal. And my wish that the years ahead—for us, and for our realms—be guided by strategy, by mutual respect, and by fair play.”

The audience lets out one of those collective sighs reserved for babies and little fluffy animals.

For a beat, Aaric just studies the board, his fingers tracing the inlaid wood like he’s already playing his first move in his head. Then he closes the box and looks at her, and it’s… a look. Like this gift matters more than half the jewels glittering in the room combined.

And damn it—something twists in my chest. Because I know Aaric loves chess. This isn’t some ceremonial flourish. She knows him. She chose this for him. And I can’t help it—I hope their marriage ends up being more than politics. That maybe, just maybe, given time, it could be real.

The priestess raises her hands, and the crowd goes instantly quiet.

Then two candles are placed on the stone. Aaric takes one, Cat the other. They light them solemnly. Flame flares at the tips, steady and slow, like even fire knows it’s supposed to behave today. Then the priestess steps forward with a third lighted candle. She lowers it, making a small circle with them.

For a moment, it’s just three flames wobbling around, looking harmless. And then—bam. They lean inward, kiss at the wicks, and fuse into a single, taller blaze. Sparks jump, smoke curls upward in spirals like it’s carrying secrets to Amari.

The priestess breathes it in with dramatic flair, eyes closing like the goddess has just whispered in her ear. When she speaks, her voice drops into that special theater mode priests seem to master.

“Amari has spoken. The union is accepted. The blessing granted. In twenty-one days’ time, these two shall be wed.”

The crowd reacts—murmurs, sighs, and even a few gasps, as though twenty-one days is either deeply romantic or utterly scandalous. Or maybe they are just panicking about what to wear.

The ceremony finally winds to an end. Aaric and Cat stand on the dais, facing the crowd, all regal composure. Cat’s chin is lifted high, her spine rigid as if someone strapped a steel rod down her back. Aaric, meanwhile, is the picture of calm—except for the little detail that his jaw looks tight enough to crack stone.

They’re just about to step down when it happens.

“Kiss!” someone shouts from the crowd.

Cat’s eyes fly wide. Aaric blinks once, slow, like he’s bargaining with the gods that if he waits long enough, the moment will vanish on its own.

It doesn’t.

“Kiss! Kiss!” More voices chime in. Clapping, stomping, the whole crowd turning into a joyful and insisting chorus.

Clearly this wasn’t in the script. The two of them look cornered, like someone shoved them against a wall without weapons or an escape plan. Cat twists her hands in her skirts, a blush creeping up her face, while Aaric tugs at his collar like he’s suffocating. The whole scene is so painfully awkward and… absolutely glorious.

I shouldn’t be enjoying this, but I am. Oh, I am. My grin is splitting my face, my cheeks actually hurt from it. And before I know it, I’ve cupped my hands around my mouth and joined in. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” I chant, teenage levels of glee in my voice. Gods, their faces. This is hilarious.

And then—Aaric exhales. Turns, and lifts Cat’s chin with two fingers.

The hall explodes as he leans in, pressing his mouth to hers.

At first, it’s exactly what you’d expect: two statues mashed together, lips touching purely out of obligation. Cat’s eyes are wide open, her shoulders locked tight. But then—wait. Four seconds. Five. Her eyes flutter shut. Her body softens. Aaric tilts his head just slightly, his hand steady at her jaw, and suddenly it doesn’t look forced anymore. It looks… softer. Warmer. Almost tender.

By the time they part, the applause is thunderous. Guests rush toward the music and wine, chatter bubbling through the patio again. But I can’t stop staring.

Because Aaric doesn’t step away. His gaze lingers. Then, slow as a storm gathering, his hand slides to the back of Cat’s neck and he pulls her in again.

This time—oh, gods. This time there’s no mistaking it. The kiss ignites instantly, Cat stumbling into him, caught by the strength of his arm around her waist. Her fingers fist into his jacket, and Aaric kisses her like he has no intention of ever stopping. Lips parting, coaxing, claiming, every brush hotter than the last.

Cat presses closer, clinging like he’s the only solid thing left in the world. His grip tightens at her nape, keeping her right where he wants her. And then—wait. Hold on.

Did I just—?

No way.

I squint.

Oh gods. That was definitely a tongue.

They cannot be kissing like that in front of everyone! My face flames so fast I swear I could power the mage-lights. Surely they’ll stop. Surely—

Nope. Still kissing.

I whip my head the other way, trying to give them some privacy, only to realize…that nobody else seems to notice. The music has started, and half the guests are already leaving the patio.

I glance back. Yep. Still at it. Still clinging to each other like they’ve been starving and the banquet finally arrived.

“Politics, my ass,” I mutter.

Beside me, Dain barks out a laugh so loud I jab an elbow into his ribs.

****

Cat and Aaric disappear the moment the ceremony ends. Which, fine, makes sense—it’s not exactly safe to have Cat mingling in a room crammed with people who may or may not be plotting against her. Still, I feel a little bad for them. It’s their engagement party. They should be out here celebrating.

Especially after that kiss.

Well… maybe they are celebrating. In a far more private way. Hee hee hee.

Nah, they’re probably just doing something royally boring… like playing chess.

Meanwhile, Dain and I get swept along with the tide of guests toward the ballroom connected to the patio where wine and refreshments are being served.

And wow. The place is absolutely stunning.

The “ceiling” isn’t even a ceiling—it’s a glass dome stretched across the sky, painted so perfectly with stars that for a second, I actually wonder if it’s real. Chandeliers dangle from impossible heights, dripping with crystals that scatter candlelight in every direction, making the marble floors gleam like liquid silver.

The walls are lined with tall arches and small golden lamps flicker along the edges of the room, throwing a soft glow that casually pulls off infinite but intimate.

Then the social gauntlet begins.

Dain and I get trapped in what feels like an endless procession of social encounters with people I supposedly know but don’t remember. While he makes polite small talk, I clutch my glass of wine like it’s a life raft, practice nodding at appropriate intervals, and try not to die of awkwardness.

Every conversation goes about the same:

“Sloane, this is—” Whatever name Dain says. Honestly, I stopped keeping track after the fourth. At this point it could be the Count of Whatever or Captain Absolutely No Idea, and I’d still just smile politely. There’s no way I’m memorizing an entire noble-and-military directory in one night.

Then, inevitably, comes his add-on explanation: “Sloane had an accident; she’s still struggling with some memories.”

Cue the look. That soft, pitying tilt of the head. A sweet reassurance. Sometimes even a pat on the arm, like I’m a poor, little broken thing.

It’s exhausting. Honestly, if one more person pats me, I might start biting.

And through all of this, Dain keeps touching me. Not constantly—just enough to drive me slowly insane. A hand against the bare skin of my small back as we weave through gowns and uniforms. A light brush when we stop to greet someone. Steadying me when the crowd jostles. It’s subtle, almost casual. Like muscle memory. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

The first time, my brain completely stalls. The second, heat creeps up my spine and spreads across my skin like wildfire. By the third? I’m practically ready to scream. He has to know what he’s doing. There’s no way he doesn’t. Except… of course he doesn’t. He just keeps talking easily, giving courteous nods, utterly oblivious while I’m over here unspooling one nerve at a time.

At some point I give up on following the conversation in front of me—because who can focus on polite small talk when their brain is busy stalling? Instead, I start scanning the ballroom, stretching my neck like some nosy giraffe, hoping to spot a familiar face. Dain told me Violet and Xaden would be here, but I haven’t seen either of them. And Avalynn? Nowhere. Which is odd, there’s no way she’d miss this. Honestly, I was hoping to see at least a few people form our squad.

And then my eyes land on someone I do recognize.

Oh. Shit.

Eliana. Heading straight for us.

Double shit. Triple shit.

I snap my head back toward the circle of polite chatter, paste on my best oh-yes-I’m-paying-attention smile, and blurt: “Excuse me—I need to step out for the ladies’ room.”

Before Dain can so much as tilt his head and offer to escort me, I’m already gone—slipping between groups, ducking past sequined skirts and puffy sleeves, weaving through the crowd like a snake determined to survive.

I don’t stop until I reach the far end of the ballroom, pulse racing. And then—

“Sloane!”

The voice cuts straight through the chatter and music, and I freeze. I know that voice.

I turn. And there she is.

Violet.

She’s glowing in a floor-length gown of black silk, lace embroidered across the bodice, the skirt flowing around her like liquid shadow. It’s stunning. But it’s not the dress that makes my jaw practically hit the marble floor.

It’s the soft, unmistakable curve of her stomach.

She’s pregnant.

(Or she swallowed a balloon. But, no… definitely pregnant.)

And of course, standing right beside her, with an arm slung around her shoulders like he invented the gesture, is Xaden Riorson.

He’s exactly as I remember him—sharp edges and steady danger wrapped up in an air of effortless calm. His dark hair looks perfectly tousled, in that annoying way that says I didn’t try, I just woke up like this. Naturally, he’s in all black. Even without shadows at his command, he still somehow is one.

His coat is cut sleek to his frame, angular lines marked with just a hint of bronze accents. A cloak drapes heavy over his shoulders, regal and ominous, cloaking him like he is the night. Not too much, not flashy—just pure intimidation, distilled. The kind of presence that says: I didn’t just attend this ball. I own it. Judging by how people instinctively part to give him space, the room seems to agree.

The two of them together are… well, a lot. Radiant, lethal, magnetic. Like gravity itself decided to shift and pull the entire ballroom slightly in their direction. Honestly, it’s unfair.

One second I’m staring at them like an idiot, and the next Violet has me wrapped in her arms. She smells faintly of lavender and parchment—like comfort and a library rolled into one. When she eases back, her hands stay on my shoulders, and her sharp eyes skim over me in that way only Violet can pull off.

“How are you?” she asks softly. “Dain told me in his last letter what happened.”

Letter?

Letter?

And here I was thinking I was special. I glance at Xaden—he looks perfectly fine with it, so I guess… why wouldn’t I be?... Right?

I paste on a polite smile, giving her the same line I’ve repeated countless times tonight. “I’m fine. Much better now.”

She doesn’t look convinced, not for a second, but thankfully I manage to slip out of her grip and turn to Xaden.

We hug briefly—two seconds, tops. And when he pulls back, it’s all him. No trace of the Vening. Just the Xaden I remember.

Then his dark-gold eyes narrow the tiniest bit as he asks, “So, have you gotten your memory back yet?”

“Not yet,” I admit, heavier than it should sound.

Violet’s face folds with sympathy. “We’re so sorry, Sloane.”

I nod, but the pity makes my skin itch, so I blurt the first distraction that comes to mind. “So… how far along are you?”

Her lips curve, her hand brushing over her stomach tenderly. “Twenty-eight weeks.”

Weeks? My brain scrambles. How many months is that? Six? Seven? Either way—it sounds like… a lot.

“Wait—you traveled here all the way from Aretia? While pregnant?”

Violet laughs, the sound ringing through the music and chatter like it belongs there. “Garrick brought us. It only took five minutes.”

At his name, a smile sneaks out before I can stop it. Garrick. Gods, I’d love to see him. “Where is he?” I crane my neck, scanning the crowd.

“He had to go back,” Xaden answers in that voice of his. “Imogen’s about to give birth any day now, so they stayed with Glane, Chradh, and Andarna. But they send their regards.”

My heart stops dead, then slams against my ribs so hard it feels like everyone must have heard it. They’re hiding their dragons in Aretia? And he just says it like it’s nothing? Did I know this before? Was I part of keeping it secret?

Violet notices my panic before it takes over. She shakes her head quickly. “No, no—Sloane. Their twins and our daughter. We named them after our dragons.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. They nearly gave me a heart attack.

And seriously—naming your kids after your dragons? Is that a thing now? Because there is no way in hell I’m calling a child Thoirt. I still adore her but come on—that’s a terrible name.

Wait. Hold on. Imogen and Garrick? Together? With twins? That’s… wow. My brain is spinning.

“How old are they?” I manage, dazed.

“Glane and Chradh are six,” Violet says warmly. “And Ann is five. She has the sweetest little crush on Chradh—it’s adorable.”

“No, it’s not,” Xaden mutters, folding his arms across his chest like he’s physically warding off the idea. The expression on his face nearly does me in—I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to laugh out loud.

“There you are.”

Dain’s voice slices clean through the layered noise of the hall—strings, clinking glasses, the low hum of chatter. He strides toward us, his expression all business until his gaze finds me, and then it softens. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Before I can say a word, he’s already greeting Violet with a careful embrace, cautious around her belly. She beams at him, clearly fond.

Then comes Xaden.

“Duke,” Dain says formally, offering his hand.

“Colonel,” Xaden replies, his grip firm. And because apparently shaking hands is too simple, they launch into one of those half-hug, half-handshake rituals men seem genetically programmed to understand. Two thumps on the back—basically the universal male code for I don’t hate you, but let’s not get sentimental about it.

I nearly roll my eyes.

Just then, a servant glides past with a tray of golden pastries. Violet accepts one, Xaden shakes his head politely, and Dain’s fingers twitch with longing before he schools his expression into military dignity. Me? I grab one immediately. If there’s one life lesson I’ve mastered, it’s never skip a snack.

“Your niece misses you,” Violet says warmly to Dain. “She’s always asking about you.”

Something flickers across his face, softening the usual sharp lines of command. He leans in a little, his voice gentler. “How’s the pregnancy going?”

“All in order,” Violet assures him, her hand automatically drifting to her stomach.

But she doesn’t linger. Her gaze lifts, bright and expectant. “So, when are you two coming to visit Aretia?”

Dain’s smile falters. In its place, a careful neutrality settles over his features. “It’ll have to wait. Things here are… complicated.”

Xaden studies him, then asks evenly, “How’s the investigation coming?”

Dain doesn’t miss a beat. His tone shifts into the clipped cadence I’ve started to recognize whenever he slips into military mode. “We believe we’ve identified the ice wielder responsible for imbuing the rune. We’re tracking her now.”

Xaden tilts his head. “I noticed Milos Priam didn’t attend the ceremony tonight.”

“Yeah, I noticed that too,” Dain answers, equally flat.

I take another bite of pastry, chewing slowly.

Violet’s brows knit. “And the man who tried to assassinate Sloane in your home?”

The words land like a pebble tossed into still water—small but sending ripples straight through me. My stomach knots, though I keep my face carefully blank. Around us, laughter drifts from another cluster of guests, completely at odds with the weight of the question.

“No trace of him,” Dain answers grimly. His tone is flat, but the muscle in his jaw ticks, and that says plenty. “And there hasn’t been another attempt. Thank Amari.”

For now. That’s what he doesn’t say. And the unspoken part hangs heavier than the spoken one.

“Maybe they know she lost her memory,” Violet offers, “and no longer see her as a threat.”

“Maybe.” Dain’s eyes flick briefly to me, then back to her. “The thought’s crossed my mind.”

Then he hesitates, scanning the edges of the crowd like he’s calculating how much of this should even be said here, of all places. “Ther’s something you need to know. We’ve received intelligence about a separatist faction in Tyrrendor. Honestly, they’re in every province. But I’d keep a close watch.”

The word separatist slices through the warm haze of candlelight and champagne, colder than the clink of crystal around us.

“Send us the information,” Xaden says simply. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t shift, just delivers it like a command cleverly disguised as cooperation. “We’ll keep them under surveillance.”

The tension clings, even as a couple stumbles past us laughing with flutes of wine, like we’re all inhabiting two completely different worlds—one gilded, one teetering at the edge of fracture.

Then the orchestra swells, shifting into a slower, richer melody. Couples begin to drift toward the dance floor, the mood in the room tilting lighter.

Xaden’s gaze follows the music before returning to Violet. “You’ll have to excuse us,” he says, offering her his hand. “I want to dance with my wife.”

“Of course,” Dain answers smoothly, stepping back beside me.

And just like that, they vanish into the sea of silk and candlelight.

I stand with Dain at the edge, about to pretend I’m utterly fascinated by the wine in my glass, when his voice cuts in.

“Would you like to dance?”

I blink at him, caught off guard. His tone carries both caution and expectation, like he’s ready for me to laugh in his face. My instinct is right there, sharp and clear: no. Absolutely not.

Then—over his shoulder—I spot Eliana. Cutting through the crowd. Straight toward us.

Suddenly, Dain’s hand looks less like an invitation and more like an escape route.

“All right,” I blurt. Way too quickly.

His brows lift like he wasn’t expecting me to agree, but he doesn’t question it. He just takes my hand and guides me toward the floor.

And the instant my feet touch the edge of it, reality hits: I am not exactly famous for my grace. Dancing has never been my strong suit. Unless we’re counting drunken swaying, in which case I’m practically an expert.

Fuck. Too late to back out now.

Dain stops, turning to face me. Before I can overthink, his hand finds the small of my back again, guiding. His other hand encloses mine, warm and certain, drawing me closer. Much closer.

Okay, this is too close.

Our bodies align—chest to chest, hip to hip—and suddenly I’m very aware of every unyielding line of muscle beneath his uniform. My pulse stumbles, my breath tangling somewhere between his warmth and his scent. Sparks skitter under my skin—reminding me that I am very much not indifferent to any of this, no matter how desperately I wish I were.

My free hand lifts almost on instinct, settling against his shoulder. My fingers twitch, as if testing… and yes. He’s very strong.

I tilt my chin up, trying to create space that doesn’t exist, and meet his sandy-brown eyes. He looks calm, as if holding me like this is the most natural thing in the world. Meanwhile, I feel like my heart might actually climb out of my chest.

“Relax,” he whispers in a deep voice.

I huff out a tiny laugh. “I can’t. I don’t know how to dance.”

“Yes, you do,” he says with infuriating certainty. His hand presses just a little firmer against my back, guiding me. “Just let me lead.”

And then we’re moving. Slowly, carefully. At first, I brace for the inevitable misstep, the stomp of my foot on his boot, the clumsy sway that will make us both look ridiculous. But it doesn’t come. My body falls into rhythm before my brain catches up, my steps fitting into his as if I’ve done this a thousand times.

A thought stirs, unwelcome. Did I learn to dance with him?

My chest tightens. How many other times have we done this? How many other times have our bodies been this close—closer—in private with far fewer clothes involved—

My face heats instantly. Abort, abort. I bite my lower lip to shut the thought down before it sprints any further.

I force my gaze away from him and onto the dance floor instead. Gowns swish, jewels glitter, people blur past in elegant motion—anything to keep from drowning in the dangerous warmth curling low in my stomach.

We move in silence for a while, and I almost think I’m safe. Then his voice cuts in.

“Why are you avoiding Eliana?”

Snap. My gaze jerks back to his face. He’s studying me, eyes sharp, as if he’s dissecting every flicker of my reaction.

“I’m not,” I say quickly, injecting just enough fake offense to make it sound believable. Or so I hope.

“Sloane,” he says, and a corner of his mouth curves. “I can tell when you’re lying.”

For a second, I’m tempted to double down, deflect, build another wall. But his gaze doesn’t waver, and the truth presses harder and harder until it claws its way out.

“The day I left headquarters…” My voice comes quiet, almost lost in the music between us. “It wasn’t because I was bored. I panicked.”

His brow furrows, just slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I felt… everything closing in. Too much pressure, too many expectations. I don’t remember my work. I don’t even understand it. So, facing her now?” I swallow, chest tight “I’d rather wait until I remember everything.”

For a beat, he just stares at me. His gaze searching, as though he’s weighing something heavy inside himself. The music swells and falls, and our bodies move with it, but all I feel is the silence stretching taut between us.

“Sloane” His voice is careful “I think it’s time we talk about your amnesia.”

I stiffen in his arms. The words land like a stone in my stomach.

I force a weak laugh. “Really? You pick now? Middle of the dance floor?”

But he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t even blink. His eyes lock onto mine with resolve, like he’s decided I’m not running from this conversation anymore.

“Memory is my signet,” he says. “I’ve seen what it looks like when they’re tampered with, when they’re altered. But yours…” His brows pull together, faint but unmistakable. “Yours isn’t fragmented. It’s not damaged. It’s not fogged, It’s just… empty.”

He pauses, like he knows the weight of what he’s about to say. “I’m not a Healer, and maybe I’m wrong. But I think there’s a real chance you won’t get those memories back.”

The word scrapes against me like a blade. My mouth goes dry. For a moment, I can’t even breathe and I hate the way my chest tightens.

The dance keeps moving—his hand guiding me through the motions as though nothing has shifted—but everything tilts. The floor, the room, the music, the entire world.

I must give something away—something in my face, my posture, the way my hand twitches against his shoulder—because his expression softens. His grip at my back steadies, almost protective, as though he’s afraid I’ll stumble if he doesn’t hold me tight.

“Hey,” he murmurs gently. “I could be wrong. I hope I’m wrong.” His thumb brushes the back of my hand, so lightly I almost wonder if I imagined it, but grounding all the same. “I just… I don’t want you waiting for something that might never come. You’re more than your memories, Sloane. You’re still you.”

The music swells again, couples spinning around us, laughter rising like bubbles through the air. It all feels far away. Like we’re standing in the middle of a storm no one else can see.

My throat is tight—too tight for words—so I stay quiet. Dain doesn’t let the silence stretch too long. His voice comes low, steady, the same way his hand holds me in place.

“I think you should talk to Eliana. Tell her you need time to relearn your work. You’re smart, Sloane,” he adds, and there’s no hesitation in it—no doubt, just exactly the way he sounded back in Draithus. “It won’t take you long. And Eliana…” His gaze softens. “She considers you her best asset. She won’t just let you go.”

I swallow, my lips parting like I might argue, or laugh, or tell him he’s giving me too much credit. But nothing comes out.

“And about us…” The words slip out of him like they’ve been waiting at the edge of his tongue.

My chest seizes, and suddenly the air feels too thin, like the room has shrunk to just the press of his body against mine and the unbearable weight of what he’s about to say.

“I know the only thing you remember about us is hating me. I get that.” His gaze locks on mine, unflinching, the truth etched in every line of his face. “But fuck, Sloane, I swear… what we had—it was real. We were good together. Perfect, even. We loved each other. Truly. And I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you.”

Each syllable digs under my skin. How many times have I heard this before? But hearing it from him makes my pulse stumble, then hammer out of control.

“All I ask,” he says, voice deep and earnest, “is that you give us a chance. At least… one chance.”

The world seems to narrow to the warmth of his hand at my back, the strength of his shoulder beneath my palm, the quiet insistence in his words.

I can’t exactly say yes. Not without feeling like a treacherous bitch. Not when my heart’s a wreck and my head’s emptier than it should be. But I don't want to say no. So instead, I give him something else.

“I… I read your letters.”

That gets him. His brows lift, eyes widening just enough to betray his surprise. For a moment, he looks like he’s been blindsided—but not unhappily. More like he knows what it means, that I didn’t shove them away the second I saw his handwriting.

Okay, I did. At first. But he doesn’t need to know that part.

“I wanted to see if they’d trigger something.” I add, trying for casual. Then my lips curl into a smirk, though my pulse is still all over the place. “They’re… intense, by the way. You don’t hold back.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, a spark of relief breaking through.

“Intense?” he echoes.

I tilt my head, letting a teasing edge slip into my voice, anything to lighten the heaviness pressing down on us. “Yeah. Makes me wonder how I ever kept up with you.”

His smile sharpens. “We were at war, Sloane. Everything was intense.”

My gaze drops unconsciously to his lips. Gods, they look so… soft.

We keep dancing in silence for a moment before my voice cuts in again.

 “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he says immediately. “Anything.”

Too many questions clamor in my head, each one louder than the last. But there’s one that won’t let me go.

“What does Suza mean?”

His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. “You didn’t read all the letters?”

“Yes, I did. At least—I think I did.”

“No, you missed at least one.”

“Fine,” I press, narrowing my eyes. “So what does it mean?”

The music fades, strings falling silent as the last notes slip away. We stop with it, but neither of us steps back. Still locked in place, still in each other’s space, like the dance hasn’t truly ended.

“It’s a tree.” His mouth curves into a mischievous smile.

“A tree?” I echo, blinking. That is by far the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

His smile deepens, amused by my skepticism. “I was flying—”

But before he can finish, a soldier strides up and leans close to Dain. His words are a low murmur meant only for him, but I catch enough.

“They’ve found the Ice Wielder.”

-----

CATRIONA

The doors close behind us, muffling the echo of applause and music, until the silence that follows feels almost deafening.

Our footsteps strike against the floor as we walk down the long corridor, guards trailing a discreet distance behind. It stretches ahead like a throat carved out of stone—long, narrow, and echoing. Vaulted arches loom overhead, their curves meeting in sharp points that make the whole ceiling feel heavier than it should.

Columns line the hall, massive and unyielding, each one carved with the coiled bodies of dragons. Their scaled necks twist outward, jaws frozen mid-snarl, fangs bared as if ready to snap at anyone foolish enough to pass.

For the first time since the ceremony, it’s just us.

And all I can think about is his lips.

The heat of them pressed against mine. His taste. The way his breath tangled with mine—warm, intoxicating—until I forgot everyone around us. My mouth still tingles, tender from the force of his kiss. Gods, I can still feel the phantom weight of his hand at my nape, thumb brushing my jaw—commanding and gentle all at once. If I close my eyes, I’ll see the look he gave me right before kissing me again—like he’d been waiting years.

His presence beside me fills the corridor, pressing close without touching. Heat radiates from him, grazing my skin with every step. I breathe deep, and damn him, his scent lingers too—leather and spice.

And beneath it all, unease coils sharp and cold in my stomach.

Because I don’t know if it was real. What if it wasn’t him at all? What if it was me?
It happened so fast—I wasn’t thinking. A swell of emotions, threads of longing I’ve spent years refusing to tug. Did I slip? Did I push? Did I make him want me when he didn’t? The thought makes my chest ache.

Aaric clears his throat, the sound rough in the silence.

“Well,” he says, voice low, measured, “I guess now we’re really doing it.”

For a moment, I just stare, pulse skipping. Doing what? My lips part, but no words come.

His brow arches with a half-smile—like he knows exactly where my thoughts have strayed.

“The wedding,” he clarifies. “The date we chose has been set.”

“Oh—right. Of course.”

He studies me for a beat longer, and I have to look away before he reads too much. But my gaze betrays me, drifting right back to him.

Fuck, it was just one kiss and now I’m starving for more.

We stop before the chambers assigned to me. Three guards break off, slipping inside to sweep the room before I’m allowed to enter. The corridor is quiet, weighted with muffled laughter and music echoing up from the ballroom.

I feel his eyes on me before I meet them. Aaric’s gaze is steady, too steady, like he’s remembering the same thing I am—the kiss, the way it spiraled into something neither of us should want.

But maybe he doesn’t actually want it.

Damn it. I swore long ago I’d never do it again. Never use my power to trick a man into desiring me. Because even if the fire blazes hot in the moment, it always ends the same way: with the cold, merciless return to truth. And truth always hurts more when it follows a lie.

For a long moment, he says nothing. His jaw works, weighing something against reason. Finally—

“It’s still early,” his voice rasps, catching on the way out. “The celebration will probably go on for hours. Perhaps we could…” He pauses. “Have a chess match. Try out your gift.”

Harmless words. Simple. Almost casual. But the way his gaze lingers on my mouth before flicking back to my eyes—there’s nothing casual about it.

And suddenly I’m not thinking about pawns or kings. I’m thinking about his hands on me, his mouth, what might happen if I agree.

For a heartbeat, I hesitate. I promised myself I wouldn’t blur the line again, wouldn’t confuse strategy with desire, politics with longing. Yet here I am, lips still swollen from his, aching to taste him again.

Chess, I tell myself.

It’s only chess. Aaric’s polite attempt to stay near because of the threat.

The guards reemerge, announcing the room clear. The moment stretches, and Aaric doesn’t take his emerald green eyes off me. He’s waiting.

“Yes,” I hear myself say. “I’d like that.”

Something shifts in his gaze—subtle, but enough to send heat crawling down my spine.
He turns to the guards.

“Change of plans. The Queen will visit my chambers,” he orders, clipped and decisive, as if on the battlefield.

The guards move ahead. After they sweep his rooms, we step inside.

I’ve been here countless times before. The rich tapestries, the hearth smoldering low, the carved oak table by the window, are too familiar. And yet tonight it feels different. Maybe because, for once, it isn’t politics bringing me here, but something far more dangerous. The air itself feels heavier, charged.

Aaric takes off his cape and crosses to the sideboard with unhurried steps, every movement deliberate. He crouches, opens a cabinet, and retrieves a dark green bottle sealed in crimson wax.

“That’s—” I blink as recognition strikes.

He glances back, amusement sparking in his eyes. “From Poromiel’s cellars. You lost it to me, remember? Last spring. One of those games you swore you had in the bag.”

I remember too well. I’d wagered a bottle of wine against a rare text from his collection. Overconfident. Careless. He’d cornered my queen in six moves.

“I was waiting for the right occasion,” he says simply, setting the bottle between us.

“And tonight counts as one?”

His mouth curves—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile, but something that pulls heat low in my stomach. “Naturally,” he says, pulling the cork free with a practiced twist. “We’ve just been formally engaged. One step closer to achieving our goals.”

Right. That is what I should be thinking about.

He pours with ease, handing me a glass. Our fingers brush—barely, but enough to send a ripple of fire up my arm.

“To…?” I ask.

His lips tilt. “To alliances. And… unexpected victories.”

I arch a brow but clink my glass against his anyway. The wine is rich, smooth, familiar. I swallow too quickly, grateful for the distraction.

Aaric crosses to the table by the window—the one that has seen more battles between us than any war council chamber. And there it is: the chessboard. The one I gave him. Polished, waiting.

He opens it and begins inspecting the pieces.

“Cat, this is… this is a piece of art,” he says, astonished, as he lifts one into his hand and studies it.

I step beside him, letting my gaze fall over the board. “It was handmade by Master Zaabala” I explain, my voice softer than I intend.

It is a piece of art. The squares alternate between polished obsidian crystal for the dark side and pale smoky quartz for the light—each engraved with faint ancient runes, barely visible unless you tilt them into the light. They’re not active, but they are meant to evoke protection and foresight.

The edges are framed in fine gold filigree, threads interwoven with tiny blue gemstones meant to symbolize the union of our two lands.

The white pieces are carved from ivory, detailed with matte silver. The black from onyx, their surfaces catching golden glimmers, each inlaid with flecks of actual gold.

The king is a dragon with wings spread wide, horns curling back, seated on a throne of carved flame. And the queen, a stylized gryphon, wings extended protectively around a gleaming pearl egg at its chest. The rooks are ancient towers, each coiled in the grip of a dragon, the knights, soldiers bearing lances and banners—so small, yet etched with the tiny emblems of Poromiel or Navarre.

Aaric sets the piece back down. He turns to me, and there’s no jest in his voice when he says, “Thank you, Cat. Truly. It’s… beautiful.”

I smile back at him. He starts adjusting the board. And I watch him. Something inside me pulls tight. And I can’t lie to myself anymore—I’ve wanted him. Desired him. Longer than I’ll ever admit aloud.

We’re friends. Monarchs. A relationship between us would be nearly impossible to survive. Worse, failure could ruin everything. Except we’re already engaged… And gods, the way he kissed me tonight… the way my body still trembles with it…

Was it him? Or was it me?

The thought gnaws again, sharp and relentless. I take another swallow of wine, hoping it burns the doubt away.

He turns, glass in hand, eyes glinting with mischief. “So,” he says with a faint curve at his mouth, “what do you want to wager this time?”

I meet his gaze. I guess there’s only one way to find out.

“Clothes.”

He goes very still. The realization lands, sharp and heavy, and I see it flicker across his face: shock, heat, restraint cracking at the edges. His throat works visibly as he swallows, and his eyes darken.

Oh, he understands. He understands perfectly.

I let the silence linger as I cross to the other side of the table, my skirts brushing against the chair before I lower myself into it. The chessboard gleams between us, each piece waiting in its place. When I glance up, Aaric is still watching me with intensity in his eyes, as if I’ve just shifted the entire battlefield with a single move.

At last, he comes forward. Slowly. Intentionally. He pulls out the chair opposite mine and sits, never breaking eye contact.

“So,” he says, his voice lower now, husky, “what are the rules?”

I take another sip of wine, savoring the taste before I set the glass down. “We lose a piece of clothing each time one of our pieces is captured.” My mouth quirks. “Pawns don’t count.”

Aaric leans back in his chair. His composure is flawless, but I see it—the faint tightness at the corner of his mouth, the way his fingers drum once against the armrest before he stills them.

“Okay” He gestures toward the board. “Ladies first.”

I slide a pawn forward, the scrape louder than it should be. My hand lingers on the piece, sleeve brushing the carved edge.

Aaric doesn’t move right away. His eyes lift to mine, hold, and something passes between us—sharp, electric, like a current running beneath the table. Then, finally, he shifts a knight into play with precision.

The game has begun.

I lean back, cradling my wine, forcing a calm I don’t feel. Every move isn’t just strategy—it’s a countdown. Every capture will strip one of us bare. And judging by the way Aaric’s jaw flexes, by the way his knuckles tighten on his glass, he knows it too.

The air is thick, charged, as though the entire room is holding its breath. It’s only chess. But it’s also not chess at all.

“That’s one piece. Off,” he murmurs, when his knight slides across the board, taking my bishop.

I lean forward and reach up, fingers grazing the chain at my throat. The delicate gold necklace I’ve worn for years glints in the firelight as I unclasp it. I lift it slowly, letting the metal slide against my skin before setting it down beside the board with deliberate care.

“There,” I say, even.

Aaric’s gaze flicks to the necklace, then back to me.

“That hardly counts.” His laugh is low, infuriatingly warm.

“I didn’t specify what kind of clothing,” I shoot back and take another sip of wine, hiding my smile behind the rim.

The game shifts, my focus narrowing. This time, I see the trap before it closes. My rook slides across the board, snapping up his knight in a clean strike.

I lift my gaze to his. “Your piece.”

For a long moment, Aaric doesn’t move. Then, with measured slowness, he rises just enough to shrug off his jacket. The heavy fabric slides down his arms, catching briefly at his shoulders before he tosses it onto the back of his chair.

“You could’ve started with your boots,” I say, tilting my head, feigning nonchalance even as warmth coils low in my belly.

His lips twitch. “Maybe.” He leans back, one arm draped casually along the edge of the table, “But it is getting hot in here.” His gorgeous eyes glint sharp.

Gods. The word settles between us, suggestive, heavy.

More pieces fall, and with them, my earrings. He scoffs, unimpressed, until his boot hits the floorboards in answer.

My shoes. His belt—The click of metal loosening is unmistakable.

My breath stalls.

He pulls the leather free inch by inch as he slides it free, and when he finally coils it in his hand, his eyes lift to mine. He doesn’t toss it aside. He lays it carefully on the table, next to the board, as though it’s another captured piece.

My mouth goes dry and my stomach tightens with anticipation. One move closer, one piece nearer to the inevitable unraveling.

Aaric doesn’t flinch when my queen cuts his bishop in one swift motion. Instead his fingers go to the buttons of his shirt. One by one, he undoes them, revealing bare skin, scars, strong shoulders and hard muscles I can’t look away from.

He settles back into his seat with infuriating calm, though I don’t miss the faint quickening of his breath, the muscle ticking in his jaw.

“You’re blushing,” he says a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Am not.” I answer, confident in tone though my heart is a drumbeat.

“Liar.” He whispers, sliding his knight forward, taking my rook with merciless ease.

I glance down—earrings, chain, shoes, ring already gone. There’s only one real choice left.

“I suppose,” I say “that means the dress.”

Aaric’s eyes sharpen instantly, his body tensing as if every muscle just snapped to attention.

I stand slowly. My fingers reaching behind me, but the laces are knotted out of reach.

“Turn around,” he murmurs.

My pulse races as the realization settles heavy. I obey and  look back at him over my shoulder.

His chair scrapes as he stands. His steps are slow, controlled, until he’s behind me. The heat of him sears against my back before he even touches me.

His hands find the first knot. Fingers graze the laces at my spine. Each tug loosens the dress by degrees, the fabric slackening as it slips away. His knuckles skim my skin as he works lower, every accidental touch sending shivers racing through me. My chest rises and falls too fast, betraying me, as his hands trail down—methodical, savoring.

At last the final knot yields. But instead of stepping back, his fingertips linger at the small of my back, tracing a faint, teasing line that makes my skin crawl, and threaten my knees to give.

“Done,” he murmurs against my ear, and walks to sit again.

I let the dress fall. The heavy fabric whispers as it slips from my body and pools around my feet. I step out of it.

When I turn back toward him, I’m left in nothing but silk underthings—corset and briefs that bare more skin than they hide.

Aaric doesn’t breathe. His eyes devour me, wide and dark. And I know he is as turned on as I am.

In that moment I feel my power waking, lifting her head, narrowing her eyes and sniffing the air. But I put her back to sleep while I reach for my wine and sit again. Then I take a slow sip, pretending composure I absolutely don’t feel. “Your move,” I whisper.

The game tightens until his rook sweeps across the board, claiming my knight with brutal precision.

My pulse hammers.

Aaric doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His eyes are locked on me, unblinking, every muscle in his body drawn taut.

I lift my hands slowly to the hooks of my corset, fingers trembling faintly as I work them loose one by one. The silk slides away, loosening until I tug the last tie free. The garment slips from my body, falling soundlessly to the floor.

Cool air rushes over me, raising gooseflesh along my breasts bared to him, the firelight catching on skin flushed from wine and nipples hardened by desire.

I meet his gaze, daring him to look.

And Gods, he does.

His eyes travel over me with searing intensity, lingering, burning. His throat works as he swallows, his jaw tight as though it takes everything in him not to reach out.

I’m burning and aching. The silence is thick, heavy with everything restrained too long.

I lower myself back into the chair with as much composure as a naked woman can muster, though my heart is a fucking storm. I lift my glass, take a steady sip, and set it down with deliberate calm.

“Move,” I remind him again.

Aaric lowers his gaze to the board, as if searching for salvation in the pieces. But when his eyes lift back to me, there’s nothing neat in them—just raw, unmasked desire. I feel a pulse between my thighs, sharp and sudden.

He looks away again, feigning concentration, fingers hovering over a pawn. For a moment he almost moves it—but then he stops. His hand falls back, his jaw tense.

The tension is palpable, choking the air.

I tilt my head, forcing my voice into something mocking, though my pulse is pounding.  “You’re playing worse than usual.”

“I’m a little distracted.” A smirk lifts the corner of his mouth.

I arch a brow, feigning innocence though every nerve in me is alive. “By what?”

His smile unfurls, his green eyes slide slowly back to me, then back to the board.

Finally, with a sharp motion, he reaches for his king.

“Fuck it, I yield.”

In two strides he’s beside my chair. Leaning into me, and before I can gasp, he licks the tight peak of my nipple.

A shock of heat bolts through me, tearing the air from my lungs. My back arches instinctively. His lips close around me, hot and wet, and a sharp, broken sound escapes my throat. My hands clutch his hair, pulling him closer, desperate.

His mouth claims mine—fierce, demanding—kissing me like he’s been starving. His hands roam, rough and searching, sliding down my waist, over my hips, tugging at silk until fabric puddles on the floor.

I claw at his trousers, fumbling with the clasp, and he groans into my mouth when I slide my hand inside. He’s hard already, thick and hot against my palm, and the sound he makes nearly undoes me.

“Bed,” He rasp and lifts me easily, carrying me towards the next room.

We fall onto the mattress in a tangle, his weight pressing me into the sheets. Skin against skin.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he growls in my ear.

His mouth trails down my throat, between my breasts. He spreads me open with a hunger that makes me ache. His mouth trails lower, claiming every inch of skin until his tongue finds me, wet and swollen.

I moan his name, clutching the sheets as he devours me, relentless, skilled, each flick and swirl calculated to undo me.

Every thought—chess, politics, threats, consequences—vanishes. There’s only him. His mouth, his tongue, the fire igniting in me as he finally claims what we’ve both been denying far too long.

The game is finally over. And this—this was the only end it could ever have.

-----

SLOANE

By the time we make it back to headquarters, it’s nearly midnight, and my feet are screaming bloody murder. Gods, I hate wearing heels. Every step echoes down the empty corridors, the sound hollow and too loud in the silence. Everyone else is either still drinking and dancing at the party or asleep in their beds. Lucky them.

We head straight for the interrogation chambers, exhaustion pressing heavy on my shoulders.

Vester is waiting in the hallway, still in full dress uniform, his expression pulled tight.

“Where were you?” Dain asks, his tone sharper than the click of my heels on stone.

“Wasn’t in the mood for a party,” Vester replies evenly. “Left as soon as the ceremony ended.”

“Did you see Avalynn?” I cut in, hopeful despite myself.

He shakes his head. “No. Too far from Basgiath to make the trip twice in twenty-one days.”

Disappointment twists in my chest, sharp and sour. So that’s why I didn’t see anyone else. Maybe they’re all waiting for the wedding instead.

Vester clears his throat, shifting gears back to business. “The ice wielder is already inside. Shackled. Runic inhibitors are active—she won’t cause trouble.”

Dain nods once. No hesitation. Vester—efficient as always—unlocks the heavy iron door, and the three of us step inside.

Leila Beaumon sits chained to the table. The cuffs encasing her wrists are etched with runes, dull gray and strange—dense, almost stone-like, as if they’ve swallowed every spark of shine on purpose.

Her features are sharp, arresting: pale skin flushed with fury, storm-colored eyes blazing with defiance, chestnut hair tumbling loose around her face. She looks like she could cut us open with nothing but her glare.

“What’s this shit?” she snaps the moment we enter. Her voice is raw, echoing off the stone walls. “Why the fuck did you drag me in here and handcuff me like some fucking criminal?”

“You are the prime suspect in the Zolya attack,” Dain says, not even flinching. His voice is calm, flat, but it cuts like steel.

He takes one of the chairs across from her with deliberate ease. I move to my spot in the back, the role of silent observer settling heavy on me.

“What?” Leila’s voice spikes higher, reverberating around the chamber. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“This is your first interrogation,” Dain replies, deadly calm, eyes like a blade aimed straight at her. “I suggest you cooperate.”

Vester pulls out the other chair and sits, folding his hands neatly over a thin folder. His calm is unnerving, clinical, like he’s dissecting her with nothing but his gaze.

“What’s your name?” he asks evenly.

Leila snorts, jerking her chin toward the file. “You’ve got it right there, asshole.”

“Answer the question. What’s your name?”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Just answer the damn question,” Dain cuts in, his tone sharp enough to slice.

“Leila Beaumon,” she snaps, spitting it like venom. Her jaw works furiously, teeth grinding.

“Age?” Vester presses on, unruffled.

“Thirty-seven.”

“Commanding officer?”

Her eyes narrow into slits. “What’s my commanding officer got to do with anything? I didn’t do shit.”

“Commanding officer,” Vester repeats, not so much as blinking.

Her lip curls in disgust. “Captain Izar.”

“Why didn’t you show up for your summons?”

“I was on leave. Didn’t know about it.”

“Where were you?”

“Summerton.”

Vester flicks his eyes toward Dain. Lie.

“And what were you doing in Summerton?”

“Visiting my family. My sister just had her first child.”

Another glance at Dain. Another lie.

Dain leans back slowly in his chair, crossing his arms, and the air shifts with him. His voice is smooth, threaded with menace. “That’s a nice story, Leila. Now, how about you tell us the real one?”

Her nostrils flare. “What the hell do you mean? I am telling the truth.”

Vester leans forward, closing the space between them until his face is only a foot from hers. His voice drops low. “He means I’m a truth reader. And I can see you’re lying like a fucking six-year-old.”

Leila’s mask flickers, her defiance wavering for the first time. The chains clink faintly as she shifts in her chair.

“Let’s try this again,” Vester says, his voice dangerously calm. “Where were you?”

The pause stretches, thin and taut as wire. Then, flatly: “Abroad.”

“Where exactly?”

Her jaw tightens, defiance hardening every syllable. “The islands.”

Vester shakes his head slowly. “I thought I made myself clear. I know when you’re lying. This is the easy way, Leila. Cooperate, and you walk out that door. Don’t…” His gaze sharpens into something merciless. “And your feet will leave this room pointing the other way.”

Fury flares in her eyes. A heartbeat later, she spits—right at him. And the air changes instantly. A biting chill lashes across my skin, sharp enough that my breath fogs in front of me. Goosebumps prickle up my arms, every hair standing on end, as though the very water in the air has turned hostile.

The old man’s warning slams back into my mind—Whoever imbued that rune had to manipulate the thermal balance of water in the entire area. The air. The ground. The walls. The blood of every person.

Fuck. She must be really powerful. To drag the temperature of the entire chamber into her anger while bound in inhibitors? That shouldn’t even be possible.

Vester’s jaw works as he wipes her spit from his face. Hiding fury in his eyes.  

Leia looks at each of us. “You’re wasting your time,” She sneers, but fear betrays her. “I have nothing to confess.”

Dain rises smoothly, his expression unreadable, all control and steel. “That’s enough for tonight. We’ll give you time to think.” His tone leaves no room for argument as he opens the door.

Vester shoves back his chair with a scrape, his posture stiff, and strides out first. I follow, my pulse still hammering, the phantom cold clinging to my skin like a second layer.

“We can’t continue until her cuffs are reinforced,” Dain says once the heavy door shuts behind us. His voice is firm, clipped. “Ask Eliana.”

Vester arches a brow, his gaze flicking briefly in my direction. “She can’t do it?”

“Ask. Eliana.” Dain repeats, each word sharp, final.

-----

CATRIONA

“This is so fucking stupid.” Kira snarls through our bond as I walk at her side, her feathers twitching with every step of the caravan. She hasn’t stopped grumbling since we left Navarre’s capital this morning.

Thanks to Drake’s paranoia, our usual route back to Poromiel had to be altered—leaving a day early, traveling by land instead of air, and creeping north across the mountain pass like fugitives. Only a handful of trusted souls even knew of this diversion.

The procession drags onward: gryphons, horses, wagons, soldiers, and a scattering of Dragon’s Souls locked in rigid formation.

“When we cross the border, we’ll fly,” I remind her for what feels like the thousandth time.

“At this pace, that will take years. And it’s far more dangerous to crawl on the ground than to soar where we belong,” she snaps back.

“Kira, for the love of Amari, just… shut up. My head aches.”

“Not my fault you drank last night. Or that you didn’t sleep because you spent the entire night mating with the other king.”

Heat flares across my cheeks before I can stop it. Her barb drags me back—his hands locking on my hips, the rasp of his beard against my throat, the way his mouth claimed mine until air itself was forgotten. Skin sliding against skin, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his voice—low, wrecked—when I came apart beneath him. Gods, even now, the memory coils in my belly, molten and merciless, spreading heat I cannot afford. I clamp my lips together, as if I could smother the thought, but it lingers—treacherous, insistent, alive.

I try to ignore it … and Kira, so I focus on something else.

I look down at the shining ring in my finger. At its heart sits a deep blue stone, oval-cut. Silver claws cradle it, curling upward in delicate arcs that look almost too fine to be strong enough, but somehow they are. Around the center, smaller diamonds scatter like droplets of frozen rain. The setting makes them look as if they’re orbiting the sapphire, pulled into its gravity… it’s not helping.

I lift my gaze. The path narrows as the day drags into its weary hours, forcing the caravan into single file. Jagged cliffs rise on either side, sheer walls of stone draped in moss and shadow, so tall they nearly scrape the sky. A stream tumbles through the gorge beside us, its water rushing over slick black stones, the sound constant, like an unending whisper.

The air grows damp and cool, heavy with the scent of wet earth. Hooves clatter against uneven rock, gryphons rustle their wings in irritation, and the creak of wagons wheels echoes off the cliffs, trapped between the towering walls.

I focus on those sounds, on the rhythm of movement, the steady march of boots and paws. Anything to drown out Kira’s muttering, anything to banish the lingering heat of last night from my skin. My thoughts want to spiral—but I force them down, bury them beneath the cold stone rising around me.

Above, the peaks are shrouded in mist, their jagged crowns vanishing into pale cloud. It feels as though the mountains themselves are watching, ancient and indifferent, pressing in on all sides. For a moment, it is almost comfortable.

An hour later, we find a stretch of flat ground wide enough to make camp. The soldiers move with practiced efficiency—tents rising in neat rows, fires sparking to life, sentries posted at the perimeter. Simple, functional, nothing more. By the time the last wagon is unloaded, the mountain shadows have already swallowed the light.

I end up sharing a tent with Maren.

Night falls fast here. Cold seeps through the walls, the only light a faint glow from the nearest fire outside. I lie on my cot, exhausted but restless, twisting beneath the blanket. My mind refuses to quiet, thoughts circling endlessly—around him.

“What happened?” Maren’s voice cuts through the dark, low and rough with sleep.

I freeze. “What?”

“You’ve been tossing for gods know how long. You’re keeping me awake.” A rustle of fabric as she shifts. “So. What happened?”

“Nothing,” I say too quickly, staring up at the black canvas above me. “I’m only… uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable,” she echoes, unimpressed. “That’s the best you can do?”

I roll onto my side, dragging the blanket higher. “Yes. The ground is hard, the air is cold, the tent is small. Take your pick.”

Maren snorts softly. “Please. I’ve seen you sleep on frozen stone floors without so much as a complaint. You’re not fooling me.”

I clench my jaw, willing her to drop it, but of course she doesn’t. She never does.

“You left Navarre’s capital looking… different,” she presses after a moment. “And not in the tired way. If we were twenty, I’d say you had sex…”

I go silent, caught off guard.

“Oh gods, you did, didn’t you?” she blurts, suddenly wide awake.

My heart stutters. “Maren—”

“With who? A soldier? No, you’d never. A Dragon’s Soul? No…” She pauses, and I can almost hear her thoughts clicking into place. “Aaric.”

Again, I say nothing. I can’t lie to Maren, but I don’t want to tell her the truth.

“You slept with Aaric?” She nearly shouts it, shifting to prop herself on one elbow.

“For fuck’s sake, lower your voice. Do you want the entire camp to hear?” I hiss.

Maren is quiet for a beat, then chuckles. “So it’s no longer just politics? Now it’s love and politics?”

“It is not love,” I snap, far too quickly.

“Oh,” she says lightly, “so politics and sex then? Gods, that’s the worst combination.”

I glare into the dark where I know she’s grinning. “Maren, you are not helping.”

Her laughter is muffled against her pillow. “I’m helping myself. This is the most fun I’ve had all week.”

I roll onto my back with a groan, staring at the canvas ceiling. Trust Maren to turn my turmoil into her entertainment.

Then, after a beat: “So, was it good?”

I close my eyes, a little smile coming to my lips. “It was the best damn sex I’ve ever had.”

****

It takes us nearly two full days to claw our way through the mountains, every pass a test of patience, every step slowed by wagons and weary beasts. But at last, the cliffs give way, and the land unfurls before us.

Poromiel stretches wide on the horizon, a sweep of ochre and gold, vast as an ocean. Sunlight spills across the plains, painting the ridges in glit and shadow. Far ahead, mesas rise like fortresses carved by the gods themselves, their crowns stark against a sky of endless blue.

A river winds through the expanse, its surface gleaming silver as it bends and vanishes into the distance. The air is drier here, sharper, laced with the tang of dust and stone. Even from this height, I can feel it—the pull of home, merciless and magnificent.

Behind me, the caravan stirs, voices lifting, gryphons beating their wings in restless anticipation. After days of stone and shadow, the sight of Poromiel breathes life back into the weary.

Once we are well within our lands, the order comes. Flyers mount their gryphons. One by one, they take to the skies, wings slicing through the warm air. I wait until last, both out of protocol and preference.

The moment Kira leaps upward, my body yields to the rush. Her wings snap wide, and the ground falls away, the clamor of boots and wheels fading beneath us.

Higher, higher. The bite of wind against my cheeks finally scours my thoughts clean.

And then—

A short, dry boom splits the air.

The shockwave slams into us, wrenching Kira’s flight apart. I clutch at her, but the force tears through me, stealing breath and balance alike. Below, silence and frost surge outward, ice racing across the plain and swallowing the river in its path.

Kira fights the air, but my grip slips.

I fall.

For an instant, her golden eyes lock with mine—furious, desperate—before the world tilts.

Wind howls around me, the frozen earth rushing up to meet me. And in that final heartbeat, only one thought claws its way through the terror—

The aid Poromiel will lose with my death.

Chapter Text

SLOANE

I have weekends.

And for the first time in what feels like centuries, that word actually means something. At Basgiath, “weekends” were just code for more training, more lessons, more pain. Rest didn’t exist.

Now? I’m supposed to have them free. Supposed to. Except I already know we’ll end up at headquarters to finish Leila’s interrogation.

Which, honestly, I wouldn’t mind. I mean, what am I supposed to do with a weekend in this house? Just the thought of being stuck under the same roof as Dain all day makes my skin itch, my throat tighten, my whole body hum with restless energy I don’t know where to put.

But then again… being in that interrogation room isn’t exactly appealing either. Not after Vester’s little “non-cooperative equals dead” comment.

It’s barely seven and the morning already feels hot and sticky, the kind of August heat that clings like an extra layer of skin. I should probably drag myself into the shower. Be ready for when we have to leave.

Right after coffee. Says a little voice in my head.

I get out of bed and tug at the strap of my tank top—thin cotton, faded from too many washes—and adjust the loose shorts I threw on. My body still feels wrung out from last night. My feet ache and are swollen. Gods, I really, really hate heels.

I push open the door and step into the hall. Then I waddle down the stairs like a penguin, doing my best not to put any weight on my burning metatarsus. The stairs groan under me, every step a negotiation.

Already the air on the first floor is spiced with the rich smell of coffee. Heavenly, bitter coffee.

I head for the kitchen, letting the cool stone floor soothe my aching feet. Then I notice that the front door is cracked open, sunlight spills in across the floorboards. And I hear Dain. His voice drifts in from outside, too low to make out the words, but sharp in tone.

Who is he talking to this early?

I push the thought aside and keep walking. The coffee pot is still warm, and full, just like I guessed. I’m pouring myself a cup, when the door shuts with a heavy thud. A moment later he steps into the kitchen. Pajamas on. Shirt included this time. A miracle.

He stops the second he sees me. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t say a word. He just looks.

His gaze drags over me, unhurried and hot enough to make my skin prickle. Suddenly I’m very aware of my bare legs, my bare arms and the thin strap slipping off my shoulder.

My fingers tighten around the mug. The coffee’s heat doesn’t even compare to the flush crawling up my neck. And for one insane second, I catch myself wondering when was the last time we had sex, maybe—.  

Okay, that’s enough. I tell myself firmly. This sex-with-Dain thoughts need to stop now.

He clears his throat, sharp, and moves toward the cabinet. “That was Vester,” he says, reaching for a mug.

I step aside as he brushes past me, pretending it’s casual.

“Eliana can’t reinforce Leila’s cuffs without taking them off. They’ll have to make new ones.” He sets the mug on the counter and pours.

“How long?” I ask feeling a little relief but trying my best to hide it.

“Two, maybe three days.” His jaw clench like the delay itself is an insult.

 “Can’t you just, you know, read her memories?” I suggest it casually.

His gaze snaps to mine. “With the kind of power she showed last night? Her mental shields are probably impossible to breach. I’d need her unconscious.”

“So… knock her out?” I shrug.

 “They’re going to try sedating her. Food, water, something” Dain leans against the counter, folding his arms. “But she hasn’t touched anything since last night.”

“It’s definitely her, Isn’t she? If you’re innocent, why lie? Why starve yourself into silence?”

“I’m almost certain,” He says without hesitation. “But we need to know who she was working with. For starters, she wasn’t on leave the day of the blast in Zolya. She was with her unit. Someone else must had place the rune.”

The coffee turns sour in my mouth as I remember the man who tried to kill me. He must be part of it too.

“Anyway.” He pushes off the counter, voice shifting into practical-mode. “I’ll make breakfast, then head out to check on her.”

“You cook?” The surprise in my voice is embarrassingly obvious.

He quirks a brow, grabbing a pan from the rack. “Well, someone has to when Mrs. Litman isn’t here.” A half-smile tugs at his mouth.

I tilt my head, raising an eyebrow myself. “Are you even remotely as good as her?”

He actually snorts, a laugh rumbling out of him. “No one’s as good as her. She’ll never get rid of us—that’s our evil plan.” He grins at me in a mischievous way that makes him look… softer. And damn it, I catch myself smiling back.

Then I watch him move around the kitchen, pulling out pans and ingredients like he’s done this a thousand times. There’s this weird ease to him, a rhythm that doesn’t fit the Dain I know— the man made of rules and sharp edges. Watching him like this feels… strange. Not uncomfortable, exactly, just… foreign.

“Want me to help?” I ask after a moment, mostly to break the silence.

“No. I’m fine.” He shakes his head without looking up. “Go take a shower if you want. I’ll finish here.”

I don’t need to be told twice so I head for the stairs.

The cool water scrubs away the morning stickiness, I find a light and airy dress in the back of my wardrobe and decide to wear it. When I come back down, the table is already set—two plates, cutlery shining, food steaming and smelling delicious. Gods, he’s disgustingly efficient even in the kitchen.

I slip into my chair, and we eat in silence for a while, the clink of silverware the only sound between us. Finally, I set down my fork. “So… what do I usually do on weekends?”

Dain glances up. “Depends on our mood, I suppose. Sometimes we go to the river. Sometimes we stay in bed all day. You study, I work. Hang out with friends. Or take a walk through the city…”

I lose track of his words somewhere between river and bed.

Because I’m suddenly hypnotized by his mouth.

How full his lips are. How soft they look. The shapes they made when they form the words. The way they press together briefly when he pronounces an m. The quick flick of his tongue across his lower lip, leaving a trace of shine before he goes on talking like nothing’s happening.

And all I can think is—What would it feel like—

Oh, for fuck’s sake, Sloane. Seriously?

I jerk my gaze away and stab at my food like scrambled eggs are somehow to blame for my brain being a traitor.

Across the table, Dain just keeps talking, oblivious.

“…I was thinking about what you said last night. About your work.” He pauses, setting down his fork. “There’s something that might help you.”

Before I can ask, he stands, chair scraping back, and walks to the living room. Over his shoulder, he adds, “Move the glass of water and the coffee cups—actually, no. Come with me.”

Curiosity wins, so I push back from the table and follow.

He stops in front of the fireplace, then reaches up toward the shelf that runs along the wall. His fingers skim across the spines until they land on a thick, worn volume from my mother’s poetry collection.

And that’s it. I’m sure I’m going to have a heart attack.

The first time I walked into this house after the hospital, the very first thing I noticed were those books. My mother’s poetry books. She used to tell me and Liam not to even breathe on them, let alone touch them—they were too old, too fragile, too precious. We were forbidden.

So, when Dain slides one free like it’s nothing, my chest seizes and a horrified sound escapes me before I can stop it.

“Are you insane?” The words come out higher than I meant. “You can’t just grab them like that—you’ll ruin it!”

He turns, unbothered, the book resting easily in his hand. “They’re not as fragile as you think.”

“What? Yes, they are. Put it back.” Panic sharpens my voice as I jab a finger toward the shelf.

Of course, he ignores me and starts walking my way, the book balanced casually in his grip.

“Your mother told you and Liam not to touch them because of what they contain,” he says evenly. “Not because the paper would crumble.” He stops in front of me and holds it out. “They’re not poetry, Sloane. They’re your family’s inheritance. Its history. Its knowledge. And at that time, it was banned—too dangerous—for children to know.”

What the fuck is he talking about? Of course they’re poetry books. I’ve seen them.

I’ve seen them… Haven’t I?

He presses the book into my hands.

For an instant, I just stare at it, frozen. It looks like it’s lived through more lives than I can count. The brown leather cover is all blotchy and faded. There’s this golden crest stamped in the middle—at least, I think it’s a crest. Hard to tell, because most of it’s rubbed away, like it got tired of existing.

The spine is cracked, the corners are basically rounded stubs, and the fancy gold decoration is just… well, let’s say it’s trying its best.

A ribbon sticks out at the bottom, frayed but hanging on—like the book refuses to surrender its purpose. Fragile, yes, but stubborn too.

“Your mother managed to give these to the Duke of Lindell before she was captured,” Dain says, voice low. “He kept them safe. When he heard of what you did at Draithus, he passed them on to you.”

My fingers tighten around the spine. Every part of me screams not to open it. To put it back where it belongs. But my hands move anyway.

The cover creaks as I open it. Inside, the pages are yellowed, filled from edge to edge with tight handwriting, dark inked symbols, sketches of runes, diagrams, notes crammed into every margin. This is definitely not poetry. It’s… something else entirely.

“Do you remember where the name Mairi comes from?” Dain asks.

I look up, startled. “From Maorsite. The metal. My family discovered it.”

A shadow of a smile flickers across his face. “No, Sloane. Your family didn’t discover it.” He nods toward the pages in my hands. “They created it.”

I turn the pages slowly, careful with the fragile paper. Line after line blurs together—equations, symbols, sketches of more runes I don’t recognize. Notes so dense they feel like whole conversations locked in ink.

I’m stunned, unable to form words.

Dain fills the silence. “For centuries, the Mairi devoted themselves to alchemy. They studied magic, metals, runes… the patterns that bind them all together.”

My throat works as I swallow, eyes locked on the strokes of ink as if they might vanish if I look away.

“This is why your mother excelled at creating runes,” he adds quietly. “The knowledge was passed to her. And then it passed to you—that’s why you became just as skilled.”

The words weigh heavy in my chest. For the first time, I actually try to follow the symbols instead of just staring. But after a few moments, frustration wells up. “I… I don’t understand any of this. It’s not even in a language I know.”

“Only the first volumes,” Dain replies, softer now. “The oldest ones. You asked me to help you translate them… right after I kissed you for the first time.”

My head jerks up. “I what? Why the hell would I have asked you for help?”

He lets out a short breath, almost a laugh. “The day after I kissed you, I went to your room. To give back the dagger I’d taken from you on the sparring mat… and to apologize.”

I narrow my eyes. “For kissing me?”

That smile—infuriating and warm all at once—pulls at his mouth. “That’s exactly what you asked me. And I told you no. That I didn’t regret kissing you. Not in the slightest.” His voice shifts, carrying something heavier. “What I wanted to apologize for was Liam. Because I had never done it. I realized I’d apologized to Violet. But not to you.”

He pauses, his jaw tight, and then he keeps going, words falling one by one like stones.

“I told you it was something I would carry for the rest of my life. That I had made choices that set everything in motion, and those choices ended with you losing the only family you had left. That it wasn’t something I could explain away or hand to someone else. It was me. And it would always be me.”

His eyes lock on mine.

“I told you I should have said it the first time I understood what happened. But I didn’t, and you had every right to hate me for it. I just needed you to know I regretted it. I still do. Every. Single. Day.”

His voice catches then, rough, like it broke against something inside him.

“Nothing I say can bring Liam back. Nothing would undo what I took from you. All I could do is say I’m sorry—truly, completely sorry—and live with it. For the rest of my life.”

Something splinters inside me. There’s a knot in my throat, my chest so tight it hurts, and I can’t bring myself to look at him anymore.

“So… what happened after?” The words come out thinner than I’d like, but at least they shatter the silence.

I can feel Dain watching me. “I turned and started walking down the hall. I’d barely made it halfway when you caught up with me.”

“Caught up with you?” I glance at him again.

He nods, and the corner of his mouth lifts, the faintest trace of a smile tugging through. “You asked me for help with the books.” His eyes catch mine, a spark of amusement there now. “Of course, I wasn’t your first choice. Violet had too much going on, and Aaric wasn’t at Basgiath. So… you were stuck with me.”

****

Turns out I did write something down!

Correction: my family wrote everything down, and I just… summarized it.

Well, “summarized” might be a generous word. It’s three volumes.

• Fundamental Principles of Alchemy and Experimental Metallurgy.
• Runes: Origin, Structure, and Symbolic Variations.
• Magic-Transfer Procedures.

And because apparently we didn’t know when to stop, there are also two companion works courtesy of Jesinia Neilwart:

• Metallurgical and Arcanological Atlas of the Mairi Family.
• Documented History of Mairi Experimental Alchemy.

So no, it’s not “a little summary.” It’s basically a small library. With my name stamped all over it. And Jesinia’s. And Dain’s— I guess because he helped with the translations. (Haven’t decide how I feel about that yet. Or about that apology either.)

He said I decided to publish them after the war, and that one copy was stored safely in the archives. Which is how I ended up here, at Headquarters, walking beside him until we split ways—him toward Leila, me toward my family’s books.

I’m in the Archive’s library. rows of shelves stretching high, the air thick with the smell of ink and parchment.

I’m sitting at one of the big oak tables, and the books are lined up in front of me like a very smug parade. Heavy leather covers, deep red, gold details everywhere. Honestly, they look less like books and more like they belong in a royal treasury. Definitely not something you’d curl up in bed with—unless you wanted to dislocate your wrist.

Some are taller, some squat, all ridiculously fancy. The spines have symbols and flourishes, the kind of thing that screams important knowledge inside. And okay, yes, they’re impressive.

I drag my fingers over the one closest to me, tracing the ornate design pressed into the leather. It’s beautiful. It’s intimidating.

I don’t even know where to start. Part of me wants to dive straight into the family history— learn who they really were. But the other part of me knows I actually need to… you know, do my job. Which means runes.

So I grab the one with the most intimidating title—Runes: Origin, Structure, and Symbolic Variations. Why didn’t I write something like Runes for Beginners? No, it had to sound like something you’d announce in a booming voice while wearing ceremonial robes.

The book is heavy enough that when I pull it closer, it thumps against the table like it’s making a point. I ease it open, pages stretching wide with dense typography and little diagrams.

I drag my own paper and power ink pen closer—brought them on purpose, like I knew I’d need backup. The blank page stares at me, almost daring me to fill it. I sigh, tap the pen against my thumb, then glare at the book.

The first pages feel familiar, like reviewing old notes. Basic theory I already know—things I studied before Basgiath, and again during rune classes in Aretia. I still jot down a few reminders.

Then I reach a heading that reads: Each rune has a fivefold nature, which forms the essence of the rune.

Okay… this is new.

I start copying the first two, which isn’t new information at all.

Form – the geometric pattern.
Idea – the symbolic meaning.

But my pen doesn’t stop. My brain feeds it the next words before I even read them in the book.

Power – the magical operation.
Number – its dynamic nature.
Vehicle – the material it’s inscribed on

I blink at the handwriting, a chill running down my arms. I didn’t make that up—I knew it. And when I glance back at the page, there they are.

My blood is pounding in my ears. Maybe… maybe this is it. Maybe my memory is coming back.

Heart thudding, I flip the book open to a section much farther ahead. The title sprawls across the top in precise script: Tanayise – Dynamic Method.

I copy it down, ink scratching fast across the page. And before I can stop myself, the pen keeps moving, words spilling out as if I’ve known them all along:

Runes combination should be carved in a clockwise direction, seeking a numerical formula of 1:24, 31:7, 9:12, 1:8.

I freeze, staring at the neat lines of text I just wrote. I didn’t read that. The words came straight from me. From somewhere buried under all the missing years.

My throat tightens. Either I’m finally remembering… or my brain is playing an elaborate trick on me.

The silence of the archives presses in as I wait for the rest—the flash of me, reading it for the first time, or the sound of a Dain’s voice translating it, the feel of parchment under my fingers as I write it down. Anything.

Nothing comes.

I stare at the words I just wrote: Tanayise – Dynamic Method… combinations carved clockwise… numerical formula 1:24, 31:7, 9:12, 1:8.

The knowledge is there, sharp and precise. But the memory of how I got it?  Where I even practiced it? Blank.

It’s like finding pages copied into my head without any of the context, none of me.

I feel my heart contract, heavy and hollow all at once. For a second I thought this was proof that I was coming back. But it isn’t. It’s just words on a page telling me that the knowledge survived but I didn’t.

-----

DAIN

I was five when I understood what death meant.

I don’t remember my mother’s face. Just the outline of her hair when she tied it back before a flight. The smell of leather from her uniform. The way her boots clicked against the stone floors when she walked through the house.

That day was ordinary. Sun through the shutters. My father was in their study. I was in my room, playing with carved soldiers on the floor. Then I heard a crash. Heavy, violent. The sound of wood splintering, boxes tumbling, and something softer, final. I didn’t understand it then, but now I know it was the sound of an ending. The kind of noise that makes the air freeze in your lungs.

Then my dad’s voice, desperate, shouting her name.

I ran to the hall. At the top of the stairs I stopped cold. My mother lay twisted at the bottom, her body half-covered by the crates that had fallen with her. My father knelt beside her, trying to lift her, shaking her, saying words I couldn’t make out.

She didn’t move.

That same day they burned all her things in Malek’s temple. Everything gone in a single night, smoke carrying her belongings to the god who owns us all.

I knew she was strong—everyone said so. Brave. Powerful. A rider. That’s the part that sticks. She didn’t die by dragonfire. She didn’t die in battle. No sword pierced her chest. She tripped on the fucking stairs.

That was the day I started hating Malek.

It sank in fast: Malek is always close enough. Life snaps, quick as that. He takes what he wants when he wants it. That’s why I’ve never had the stomach for men who treat killing like sport, who swing their swords for pleasure. Life ends easily enough without us helping him along.

So why the hell did I cross the parapet? Why did I choose to spend my life surrounded by death? I could’ve been a Scribe. I would’ve been a damn good one, or so I like to think. Maybe I did it to please my dad. Or maybe I wanted to make my mother proud. Either way, when my signet manifested, I was relieved. I thought: good. I can’t use this to kill anyone. I can serve without blood on my hands.

I was wrong. I learned it the hard way.

My hands may not hold the blade, but fuck if they’re not stained with blood all the same.

Still—I’ve never killed for pleasure. Never for the joy of it. I refuse to help Malek do his work.

No, I’m not a violent man.

But the day I find the bastard who nearly killed my wife, I’ll tear his fucking head off and leave it as an offering at Malek’s temple. And Leila’s going to give me his name—or I’ll carve it out of her myself.

It’s Saturday, and the headquarters feel half-dead. No constant shuffle of boots on stone, no clipped voices echoing down the halls. Just me and the silence.

I left Sloane in the archives a moment ago, surrounded by her family’s books. Now my boots echo down the corridor, each step carrying me deeper into the quiet. And silence drags me back to that room in the hospital, the night they told me they’d found a woman four hours east of the city. Said she matched Sloane’s description.

I went in thinking it couldn’t be her. I’d already convinced myself she was gone—by choice. That she’d walked out of my life and left nothing but a ghost behind. Gods, what a fucking idiot.

When I saw her, she didn’t look like my wife. Her soft skin was gray with dirt and dried blood, blond hair matted into ropes, streaked with leaves and mud. Her clothes were torn to rags. They hadn’t even washed her yet, just laid her out while the mender tried to keep her breathing. She looked like she’d been torn from the cliffs and left to rot at the bottom.

There was a gash on the side of her head, deep enough to expose the bone beneath the hairline. Not clean—ragged, as if she’d struck stone on the way down. Five days of infection swelling the skin purple.

And still, she breathed. Barely.

I remember standing there, feeling my chest split open, every part of me wanting to throw the mender aside and put my hands on her, make her wake up. But I couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t even move. All I could think was: she’s been gone almost a week, and I thought she left me.

I thought she left me.

And instead—she had an accident. Or so I assumed at the time.

I can’t shake it. What kind of idiot thinks his wife walked out on him when she’s lying broken at the bottom of a cliff? This idiot. But what the hell else was I supposed to think? She’d been acting strange for weeks—pulling away, lying straight to my face.

When I found out she’d been meeting Levere in secret, I asked her a dozen times if she was helping him with the Zolya investigation. A dozen times she told me no. Swore it. Looked me dead in the eye. And I believed her.

Then, a week before she vanished, she didn’t come home. Two days gone. Left me a note on the table—nothing in it but a promise she’d be back the day after. No explanation. No reason. Just ink and silence. By the time she walked through the door, I was already furious. And when we fought—gods, I’ve never heard her shout like that. Never heard me shout like that.

I thought it was betrayal. I thought it was the kind of distance that doesn’t close again. She kept feeding me excuses that made no sense, as if she didn’t even care if I believed them.

And now I know. She was helping him. She was helping Levere all along. So why in the fuck didn’t she tell me? Why risk our trust, our marriage, everything we’ve fought for—just to hide that from me?

I shove the thought down and keep walking. Past the interrogation wing, the air shifts—colder, heavier. The hallway stretches long and dim. Just a single mage light hanging every few yards, throwing weak light on damp stone.

I reach the heavy door that blocks the way to the holding cells. A guard sits behind a battered desk, posture straight but eyes a little too tired for this hour.

“Did she get water? Food?” I ask.

He shakes his head “Not yet, sir. They’re waiting to bring the sedative.” He says as he stands up. Then he takes the keys on the desk and opens the door.

I nod once and push through it.

The air hits differently here, like the walls themselves have been rotting for years. The hallway stretches out in front of me, long and narrow. Every iron door I pass is empty. One after another. Barred windows staring like blind eyes, showing me nothing but dark. No voices. No movement.

Until I reach the last door. Leila’s cell.

I stop, hand on the latch, and take a breath.

This doesn’t need to drag out. I’ll try to make her see reason—tell her to cooperate and take the cage over the blade. It’ll be faster, cleaner, and she’ll save us time and paperwork.

I’d have to clear it with Iris Drue first. She’s the one handling trials and sentences. Head of the Court-martial— now still internal, but independent enough to make my life difficult. She hates my guts since Basgiath, and the sentiment has just gotten stronger over the years. Every time I walk into her office she looks at me like I tracked mud across her floor. If she didn’t know I play by the rules, she’d already be breathing down my neck, waiting for me to slip—hell, probably just so she could sign my death order with a smile.

Maybe I should ask Mira to talk to her instead. Drue at least pretends to tolerate her. but that’s a problem for later.

Leila’s the one in front of me now. And I know how it’ll go. A Dragon’s Soul would never take the easy way. Once you’ve flown with a dragon, once you’ve touched the sky, you don’t surrender to stone walls. They’d rather meet Malek head-on than rot behind iron.

Still, I’ll put the offer on the table. Give her one chance.

I push the latch and shove the door open.

At first, it doesn’t register. The cell looks the same—bare stone, cot shoved against the wall, bucket in the corner. Then my eyes land on her.

Leila’s slumped on the floor beside the cot, legs bent awkward, head tilted back against the wall. Her eyes are open. Wide. Staring at nothing.

Fuck.

Blood streaks down her forearms, pooling dark where the skin shows just beneath the iron cuffs. Smears stain the stone floor beneath her. The metallic stink of it hits me a second later, sharp and sour under the damp.

For the span of a breath, I don’t move. My brain refuses to catch up. Then training kicks in and I drop to my knees beside her, pressing two fingers to her neck, searching for a pulse.

Cold skin. Nothing.

Still—her chest. I look for the rise, the fall. Anything. Maybe she cut too shallow. Maybe I’m not too late.

“Come on,” I mutter under my breath, already yanking at the ties on my belt. If she tried to take her own life, maybe I can stop the bleeding, buy us time—

“Come on, damn it.”

I loop the belt tight around her arm, just above the cuff, knot it, pull hard, try to slow the bleeding. My hands slip—too much blood already.

“Guard!” My voice ricochets down the hall. “Get a fucking mender in here, now!”

No answer. Boots start pounding somewhere distant, but too far, too slow.

I press my palm flat against the wound, forcing pressure, leaning into it. Blood seeps warm between my fingers. Her head lolls sideways, mouth slack, eyes still fixed on nothing.

“Look at me, Leila,” I grind out. “Look at me.”

I force my other hand to her throat again, desperate for any flutter of life. Nothing. Just silence.

Shit.

I touch her face and reach for my signet, pulling hard, diving for her memories. If she’s still in there—if anything’s left—I’ll find it.

The door slams shut in my mind before I even get close. Cold. Empty. Like reaching into a room that’s already been cleared out.

That’s when it hits me. She’s gone.

I sit back on my heels, hand still clamped uselessly over her wrist, blood soaking through my fingers. My own pulse is hammering, but hers is nothing. Just silence.

She was supposed to talk. She was supposed to give me a name, a lead, something. Instead all I’ve got is a corpse.

I rip my hand away and slam my fist into the stone floor. Pain shoots up my arm, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to ease the tension in my jaw.

FUCK.

****

Vester stands beside me in the corridor, still in civilian clothes. He must’ve come running—didn’t even bother with the uniform. His eyes keep flicking to the cell behind me.

“A dagger?”

“A knife,” I correct him.

“How the hell did she manage to hide a knife?”

“Clearly someone fucked up.”

“Maybe she lifted it off a guard.”

“Check if it belongs to anyone,” I tell him.

Footsteps echo down the hall before he can answer. A woman appears, moving with brisk confidence. Pale blue uniform, hair pulled back with a few loose strands framing her face.

“Healer Olivia Hale.” She introduces herself. Her voice carries down the corridor—cold and firm, but with an edge that makes it clear she’s in charge of this part of the mess.

She stops in front of us, eyes flicking from Vester’s civilian clothes to my bloodstained hands. “Which one of you found the body?”

“I did,” I answer.

“What time?”

“Around ten.”

She nods once, already building the timeline in her head. “Anyone else with you?”

“Just the guard at the desk.”

Her gaze sharpens. “Status of the prisoner before that? Any complaints, signs of distress, unusual behavior?”

“She was interrogated late last night. Waiting for a second round. Guard says she hadn’t eaten this morning. Nothing out of the ordinary for someone in her position,” Vester answers.

Olivia glances at him. “And you are?”

“Vester. Intelligence,” he says simply.

Her gaze lingers on him. “Weapon?”

“A knife,” I tell her.

Her brow furrows. “Prisoners are searched before they’re locked up. Thoroughly. You’re telling me she had a blade in there?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” I bite out.

Olivia exhales slowly, then straightens her shoulders. “Show me the body.”

She steps into the cell, the smell hitting her the same way it hit me. Vester and I follow. She crouches beside Leila, eyes narrowing at the mess of blood and cuffs.

“Did you touch her?” she asks without looking up.

“Yes,” I answer. “Checked for a pulse. Tried to stop the bleeding.”

Her pencil scratches across her notebook. “Moved the body?”

“No. Just pressure on the wound. Tried the neck. That’s it.”

She nods once, still writing. “Anyone else inside before me?”

“Just me,” I say.

She makes another note, then waves us back. “Give me space to work.”

I catch Vester’s eye, then jerk my chin at the door.

We step out into the corridor. The guard at the desk tries not to stare at the blood on my hands. I ignore him.

“We need to know who she was working with,” I tell Vester.

He exhales hard through his nose. “Her family’s in Summerton. That means petitions, transport orders, and a dozen signatures before we can even put someone on the road. And her unit’s deployed outside the city. I’ll have to reroute people from other assignments to make it happen.”

“Then do it,” I order.

“I will,” he says. “I just hope you’re ready for the flood of reports this is going to kick up. We’ll be buried in statements for weeks.”

“Better buried in paper than blindsided by whoever she was helping,” I respond.

Vester gives a tight nod, already calculating. “I’ll get the requests moving. We’ll start with her family, then her old squad.”

Before I can say more, Olivia’s voice cuts sharp from inside the cell. “You should know… this doesn’t look like a suicide.”

Vester freezes, his eyes snapping to mine. “The fuck does that mean?”

Olivia doesn’t step out. Instead, she calls over her shoulder, “You’d better come in.”

Vester and I exchange a look, then step back into the cell. She’s still crouched beside the body, already pointing out what she’s seen.

“The cut here—” she taps just below the iron cuff “—is shallow. Wrong angle. Not the kind of wound that kills. And look at the pooling.” She gestures at the floor. “Not enough blood for an exsanguination. Not even close.”

Vester’s brow furrows. “Then how—”

Olivia interrupts, voice clipped. “Her lips. The eyes. See the hemorrhaging? Classic signs of asphyxiation. Smothering.”

My gut tightens.

She meet my stare. “If you want my first report—it looks staged. Someone wanted this to read as suicide. It isn’t. She was already dead before that cut was made.”

Vester shifts his weight, I almost see the tension running tight through his shoulders.

“Someone walked in here with a blade and walked out again,” I exhale. “Which means we’ve got a problem a lot bigger than Leila’s corpse.”

****

Two days.

That’s all it’s been, and it already feels like a godsdamned lifetime. The last forty-eight hours have been an endless slog through questions, denials, and blank stares. We’ve interviewed every bastard who so much as breathed the same air as Leila, every person that was here that day—guards, scribes, Dragon’s Souls, even the kitchen staff. Every name on the roster checked, double-checked. Nothing.

She’s still dead. And whoever killed her is still out there.

Olivia says the final report will be ready in a few days, but the truth is already clear. Someone took her life. Smothered her. That word has been echoing in my skull since it left the healer’s mouth.

The only crack in the whole fucking wall of silence? A single guard abandoning his place. Says there was smoke, a flicker of fire in one of the nearby storage rooms, and he ran to help. By the time he came back, everything was “fine.” Convenient, isn’t it? A spark of chaos, a missing watchman, and Leila winds up dead. Enough for someone with the right clearance, the right nerve, to slip in and do the job.

The one thing I know for certain: Leila was guilty. She wasn’t some innocent caught in the wrong place. She didn’t act alone, and she knew too much. Someone feared what she might give up once we broke her open. And sooner or later, we would have.

Which means this wasn’t just murder. It was containment. A clean cut to keep the rest of the rot hidden.

The day bleeds out, shadows stretching long across the courtyard as people file out of headquarters. Boots scuffing stone, laughter here and there—relief at being done. I should feel it too, but all I’ve got coiled in my chest is a sharp edge of frustration.

The day is far from over for me. I’ll check on Sloane and then head back here again. I managed to convince her to stay at home the last two days, buried in her books instead of wandering these halls where a killer still moves unseen. Gods, the thought of her here—within reach of the bastard who killed Leila, maybe even the same person who tried to murder Sloane—sends heat crawling down my spine like I’m back on a battlefield without a shield.

She’s safer at home. With the soldiers guarding the doors. That’s the only thing keeping me from snapping in two.

For the first time since she woke up in that godsdamned bed, her eyes have started to shine with something close to joy. She’s been hunched over the Mairi volumes, turning pages with a hunger I haven’t seen in her in weeks. She told me she remembered almost everything—that the knowledge was still there, intact, like it had never left her. Her voice shook with excitement. And for a heartbeat, I saw the Sloane I’d nearly lost—brilliant, stubborn, impossibly driven.

Suddenly, a movement in the sky pulls me out of my thoughts. A single gryphon, wings slicing low through the fading light. Something dangles from its talons, wrapped in white. Too far to make out—until it passes overhead.

My gut twists. It’s a body.

What the—

Two more gryphons follow close behind, wings laboring under the weight. Same white cloth. But this time the shape beneath it is massive. Not human. Another gryphon.

The air feels colder, heavier, as if the whole courtyard knows what I’ve just seen. A body. Then another.

I break into a run, boots pounding against stone as I pass through the gates of headquarters and out into the street. The gryphons are cutting east, toward the palace, their white-shrouded burdens swinging with each beat of their wings.

I don’t think. I just run.

People in the street stop to stare, fingers pointing skyward, voices rising in alarm, craning their necks to follow the shadows overhead. I catch fragments—bodies, dead, gryphons—as I shove past them.

The beasts keep low, angling straight for the palace grounds, their wings stirring dust in their wake. My lungs burn, but I don’t slow.

By the time I reach the palace gates, my chest is on fire. I push through the crowd gathering at the entrance and spill into the main courtyard.

The first thing I see is Cat in her flyer uniform. She’s in the center of it all, shouting orders with that voice that cuts through chaos like steel. And for a moment, relief cracks through the fear in my chest. If she’s here, if she’s standing, then maybe this isn’t what it looks like. Maybe it was just an accident.

I see two soldiers rushing, hauling a stretcher between them. The body is no longer wrapped in the white cloth. They disappear into the palace doors, the weight of them heavy enough to drag the camilla low.

Not dead. Just wounded. That has to be it. Otherwise, why bring them back here, to Navarre?

Yes. Wounded. They wouldn’t have flown all this way for a corpse.

I shove past a knot of soldiers and cross the courtyard to where Cat stands, her braid whipping against her back as she barks orders.

“Cat!” My voice comes out harsh. “What happened?”

She wheels on me, fury blazing in her eyes. “The same thing that happened in Zolya,” she spits. “They kept their promise. We were attacked the moment we set foot in Poromiel. Just as we mounted our gryphons—just as we lifted off.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. My relief shatters, replaced by a rush of heat that crawls up my throat.

Cat doesn’t stop. Her voice cuts sharp, like she needs to speak it fast before the rage eats her alive. “The ice caught Sovadunn’s wings. He and Drake went down hard.”

My stomach drops. Mira is going to lose her fucking mind when she hears.

“How are they?” The question scrapes out before I can hold it.

Cat shakes her head once, jaw tight. “Sovadunn’s conscious. Broken bones, but he’ll heal. It’s Drake we’re worried about. That’s why we came back—to put him in a mender’s hands before it’s too late.”

The words rattle around in my skull, heavy as stone.

The palace doors burst open, and Aaric comes tearing down the steps. He doesn’t slow until he’s right beside of us.

“What the fuck happened?” His eyes are locked on Cat. “Are you hurt?”

There’s always tension between them, but now—now it feels sharper, coiled tight, like they’re holding something bigger back.

“Someone knew about the change in route,” Cat says, her voice hard as iron. “They were waiting. They struck the moment we took off.”

Aaric grips her by the arms, not rough, but desperate. Like he’s deciding whether to pull her into him or keep himself in check. “Are you all right?” he asks again, lower this time, almost pleading.

She exhales, a harsh sound. “I fell from Kira. But she caught me before I hit the ground.”

My gut twists at the image—Cat dangling, the gryphos’s talons closing around her in the last instant. Too close.

And Aaric’s face says it all. For a man who guards every word, every gesture, he looks like he’s barely holding the pieces of himself together.

“Who was it?” He demands. “Did you catch them?”

Cat’s jaw clenches. “No. But we found this.” She digs into her jacket and pulls out a disk of metal, cold gray and etched deep. She drops it into my hand.

The weight of it drags at my palm—solid, rough-edged, The emblem cut into the metal disc isn’t clean or familiar. It splits into four arms: the top juts upward in a spike, the bottom narrows into a dagger point, and the sides curve out in crescents that look too much like wings. Symmetrical, but wrong—like it was built for force, not form. Around the figure, a ring of runes is chiseled with precision, each mark clean. The sight of it claws down my spine.

****

By the time I leave the palace, night has swallowed the city. Torches burn low along the walls, their light stretching thin across the cobblestones.

The mender set Sovadunn’s bones, eased the pain, and the gryphon’s already healing faster than most men could. Drake’s another story—alive, but unconscious. Stable, they say. For now.

Mira did exactly what I knew she would—lost her godsdamned mind. Demanded every person who knew the route be dragged in and interrogated on the spot. And honestly, I can’t blame her. If I’d been Sloane, I’d want blood too.

It took Aaric stepping in, steady voice, iron logic, to pull her back. He told her it could’ve been anyone. Someone following by land, waiting for the right moment to strike. That’s the only reason she stood down.

But it doesn’t add up. Why wait until Poromiel? Why not hit them the moment they cleared the border, when they were more exposed? What in the hells were they waiting for?

And what else are we not seeing?

The house is quiet when I step inside. Too quiet. Just the groan of the door as it shuts behind me.

I take the stairs two at a time, every muscle tight with the weight of the day. At the top, light spills from the hall—Sloane’s office door left open.

I stop in the doorway.

She’s there, exactly where I left her this morning. Sitting at the desk, head bent over a sea of parchment and books cracked wide, pages bristling with scraps of notes. Ink stains her fingers, smudges across the edge of the paper like she didn’t bother to stop once she started.

For the first time in hours, something in me eases.

She hasn’t moved from this spot all day. And right now, gods help me, I’m grateful for it.

She lifts her head, eyes catching mine across the room. For a breath, all I can do is stand there.

She looks… fuck, she looks as beautiful as ever. Hair loose around her face, lips stained with the faintest trace of ink where she must have chewed on the quill, eyes bright with that fierce light that never lets go once it takes hold of her.

Her voice cuts through the quiet. “Did you find Leila’s killer?”

I shake my head. “No.” My throat feels rough as the word leaves me. “Something worse happened.”

I step into the room, the weight of the day pressing harder with every word. “Cat and her guards were attacked in Poromiel. Sovadunn went down. Drake too.”

Her eyes widen, the quill slipping from her hand as I go on. “Sovadunn’s mending. He’ll heal. But Drake…” I let out a slow breath. “He’s alive, stable, but unconscious.”

I reach into my coat and pull the disc free. The stone is still cold, heavier than it should be. I set it down on the table between her papers, the etched lines catching the light.

“They found this,” I tell her. My voice sounds harder than I mean it to. “I need to know if you can read it. Anything at all.”

She leans forward, eyes narrowing at the symbol.

“She didn’t make it,” I go on. “Leila didn’t have that kind of training. My guess is someone else carved it. She only imbued it with power. But if you can tell me—if there’s something in the pattern, something that gives it away—it might help us find who’s behind this.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “I know this,” she says, leaning closer. “It looks familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen it before.”

A knot tightens in my gut. “Where?”

Her brow furrows, frustration flickering across her face. “I don’t remember. Maybe in the books I’ve been going through. But I have seen it, Dain. I’m certain of it.”

I study her, the conviction in her voice. No doubt, no second-guessing—only the absence of the memory itself. And that’s somehow worse.

The rune sits between us, heavy as stone and twice as damning.

She starts rifling through the nearest stack of books, pages snapping under her fingers. Her movements get faster, sharper, until I can see the tension coiling in her shoulders, the way her breath catches like she’s chasing something just out of reach.

Ravena’s warning echoes in my head—don’t push her, don’t force the memories.

I step closer, lowering my voice. “Sloane. It’s all right.”

Her hand freezes over the parchment. She looks up at me, eyes burning with frustration.

“You don’t have to find it tonight,” I tell her. “If something comes back, you tell me.”

She shakes her head, flipping through another book, then another. “No, it’s here. I know it is. I just have to—”

“Sloane.” I set my hand on the desk, close enough for her to feel the weight of it. “It’s late, you should rest.”

Her shoulders rise with a sharp breath, the fight still in her. Then, slowly, she lets the book fall shut. Ink-stained fingers linger on the cover before she pulls them back. “Fine. Tomorrow,” she mutters, though I can see the frustration smoldering behind her eyes.

“Tomorrow,” I echo. I let out a breath. “It’s been a long day. I’m going to bed. Good night”

“Good night.” She mumbles back.

I leave the office, the sound of parchment settling in my wake. My feet carry me down the hall, turning automatically toward the room that used to be ours.

But I stop and remember we don’t sleep together anymore.

So, I turn the other way, toward the guest chamber and the hard, joyless bed waiting for me. A bed without her. Cold and unwelcoming.

I make a note to myself—next time I see Avalynn, I owe her a godsdamned apology for every time she came visit and slept in that miserable thing.

-----

SLOANE

I’ve been combing through these damn books all morning, and still nothing. Not a single rune even close to the one Dain showed me. My eyes feel like they’re about to start bleeding ink.

I drop the last tome on the desk with a thud that rattles mug beside me and lean back in my chair. Useless. That’s what I am right now. Completely useless.

The shelves across my office glare at me, all smug and superior with their neat rows of spines. And suddenly, it hits me—Maybe I didn’t see it in these tomes. Maybe saw it when I was tearing this office apart.

I push myself up, a little too fast, and march toward the shelves. My fingers trail over the spines as I walk, titles whispering back at me. On Alchemical Reactions. Treatises of Alloy-Binding. Runic Variations of the North.

I tug Runic Variations of the North free and haul it back to my desk. I flip through the pages, faster, then slower, skimming every sketch, every margin note. Nothing. Not even close.

A sigh rips out of me as I shove the book aside. I march back to the shelf, scanning spines again. Titles blur together in a parade of theories and studies.

Then I stop.

One spine sticks out like a drunk at a royal banquet.

The Greenwood Compendium: Studies and Tales of Navarrese Trees.

Trees? I frown, dragging a finger across the letters. What the hell is this doing here?

And then I remember Dain’s words. “It’s a tree.” 

Before I can think better of it, my hand is already moving. I take the book off the shelf and drag it to the desk. The leather cover is stiff, the edges rough beneath my fingers. I open it, straight to the index.

A… B… C… My finger traces down the columns. I turn another page. S. Finally. My gaze skims the list until it catches.

Suzarel.

There it is. Staring back at me in neat ink.

Okay. So he wasn’t joking. It is a tree.

I really shouldn’t be wasting my time on this, but curiosity claws deeper. I’ll just see what it looks like. I flip to the page. The thin paper whispers under my fingers until the number matches.

Except—there is no tree.

It’s a flower. A single yellow bloom sketched in careful strokes, petals curling open like sunlight caught on the page.

I blink, confused. Every other entry I’ve skimmed so far has been crammed with neat blocks of writing. But here? Just a handful of lines scattered under the drawing. Barely a handful of lines. A note.

The Suzarel tree cannot be studied, as it has only been sighted by dragon riders venturing into Navarre’s northern range, where peaks rise above thirty thousand feet. The drawing of the flower is courtesy of Lieutenant Tenley. Sightings of the tree are said to predate the unification.

I read it twice. Then a third time, slower.

So, it’s a tree no one can actually prove exists. Just stories from riders probably half out of their minds with altitude and frostbite. And this picture—this delicate yellow flower—is all they’ve got to show for it.

Honestly, this is getting less romantic by the minute.

Still, I lean closer, studying the sketch. The petals are wide, almost heart-shaped, curling at the tips. The center is darker, inked heavier, like the artist pressed harder to catch its depth.

Oh, gods.

My heart gives a flip.

I know this flower.

The book stays open on the desk as I bolt out of the office, crossing the hall like something’s chasing me.

In my room, I go straight to the wardrobe. My fingers dive for the bottom drawer, sliding it open. Clothes and clutter come out in a heap until I press the hidden catch. The panel shifts loose.

I reach inside. Paper brushes my fingertips. I pull it free—a letter. Dain’s handwriting. I’d forgotten one was hidden here. My hand dives back in, deeper this time.

And there it is.

Wrapped in sheets of wax paper, fragile and pale but still carrying that stubborn yellow, as if it refuses to fade.

The same flower. Exactly the same as the drawing in the book.

It is real.

Did we actually find it?

I look at the letter and remember him, pointing out I missed one when I asked him about the pet name. I take it between my hands, unfold the paper and begin to red.  

Sloane,

I’m sorry it took me so long to write back—and sorrier still that I won’t be able to see you next weekend in Aretia. Attacks along the northern border have increased, and our unit was sent as reinforcement. With luck, we’ll be back soon.

Today, Cath and I were flying patrol when he climbed higher than usual. I thought he’d spotted a threat, but he didn’t say anything. He just kept going up until breathing hurt. Then he dropped toward one of the highest peaks I’ve ever seen.

The sight up there was… magnificent. I’ve never seen anything like it. The snow was untouched, smooth and blinding under the sun. Above it, the sky stretched that deep, endless blue that always makes me think of your eyes. The mountains ran in every direction, layer after layer, valleys drowned in shadow, ridges burning gold in the light.

And in the middle of that ridge stood a tree. Its trunk was bent, but it looked as if it had always belonged to the mountain. Yellow flowers tipped its branches, bright against the snow. The color reminded me of your hair in the sun.

All I could think, standing there, was how much I wished you’d been with me. It was the kind of view meant to be shared, not kept to yourself. And then it struck me—you were there already. In the sky. In the flowers. In the strength of that tree.

Cath told me its name: Suzarel.

He said the dragons still tell how it came to be. Long ago, one of them lost his mate to a storm that raged for days and nights. When it finally broke, he found her buried beneath the ice at the peak. He stayed there, his grief splitting the rock itself.

On the last night, he pressed his forehead to hers one final time and wept. Where his tears struck the ground, the ice melted, and from that place Suzarel took root. They say the tree carries his love and her magic in its heartwood—roots sunk deep enough to withstand any storm, branches reaching still for the sky she loved. It blooms each year, even in the harshest winters, because love made it strong enough to outlast anything. They even say its flowers bring luck and healing.

It reminded me of you. You’ve lived through loss and storms that should have broken you—but you didn’t break. You found a way to stand, to grow, to love. And somehow, you’ve managed to heal me too.

I kept one of its flowers for you. It’s pressed between paper so it won’t shatter.

I’ll see you soon, my Suzarel.

Love

Dain

The paper trembles in my hands, though it’s not the paper—it’s me. My fingers won’t stay still, no matter how tightly I grip.

I set the flower down beside me, then read the last lines again. I’ see you soon, my Suzarel.

My vision blurs. Damn it. My eyes are stinging, and my throat closes up like I’ve swallowed glass. A knot swells in my chest so sharp it feels like it might split me open.

I can’t breathe past it. I can’t pretend this doesn’t matter. Because I think I get it now.

I get why I fell for him. Why I loved him once. And why I can’t keep hating him. 

I tuck the flower back between the sheets of wax paper, fold the letter, and slide both into the compartment. My fingers graze the corner, ready to shut the panel—and brush against something cold.

Metal.

My heart lurches, hard enough to stop me. Because I know what it is.

I’ve seen it before. I just couldn’t remember where.

Until now.

It was here. Hidden in this drawer.

My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop it, but I close my fingers tight around the edge and draw it out.

And there it is.

A metal disc, circled with runes etched deep into its surface. At the center, an unsymmetrical figure.

The same rune Dain showed me.

Exactly the same.

The air feels too thin, like I’m the one standing at thirty thousand feet.

What the hell is it doing here—in my drawer?

-----

DAIN

Eliana’s office waits at the end of the corridor, door open. I stop at the threshold, raise my hand and knock against the frame before stepping inside.

She doesn’t look up. Her desk is clean and organized, every quill aligned, every parchment stacked. She’s hunched over a sheet, quill racing across the surface, her lips moving as if she’s arguing with herself.

“Eliana,” I say.

Nothing. She keeps writing, eyes locked on whatever problem has its teeth in her.

I step closer, clear my throat, louder this time. “Lieutenant.”

That gets her. She blinks, surfacing like someone dragged her out of deep water, then finally lifts her gaze to me. As always, the first thing that strikes me is her composure. Not a hair out of place, every strand pinned back so precisely it gives her the air of someone who doesn’t tolerate mistakes—not in herself, not in anyone.

Her face is hard to read. Dark brows set in quiet authority, mouth pressed into a line that could tip toward warmth or frost depending on her mood. Eyes steady, intelligent, too sharp to ever be called kind.

“Colonel Mairi,” She sets her quill aside, a faint crease showing between her brows—the only sign she hadn’t noticed me standing there. She gestures toward the chair opposite her desk. “I’m sorry. What can I do for you?”

“I need your help” I step inside closing the door behind me.

I pull out the rune out of my coat and set it on her desk. “Is there anything you can tell me about it? Something that might tell us who made it?”

Eliana doesn’t answer right away. She picks it up, turning the rune in her hands. The scorched metal looks bigger against her fingers. Her eyes trace the symbols etched along the rim, then fall to the figure carved deep in the middle. The crease between her brows deepens.

Finally, she looks up. “Where did you get this?” Her voice has a thread of concern woven through it.

“It’s part of an ongoing investigation,” I keep my tone even, eyes fixed on her, watching the way her fingers hesitate against the metal. “Why? Do you recognize something?”

“It looks familiar,” Her eyes narrow, still studying the rune. “Too familiar. There was a project… years back. A series of experimental runes. The structure, the carving along the outer ring—it’s identical.” She sets it back down between us with deliberate care, as if afraid it might bite.

I lean in slightly, unable to mask my interest. “What kind of project?”

“Amplifier runes,” she replies. “Sloane discovered a way to imbue them with her signet.”

A hard weight drops in my gut at the mention of her name. “You mean her ability to absorb power?”

She shakes her head. “No. Her ability to redistribute it—channel it into other signets, make them stronger.”

Her words snag in my memory. Sloane had hinted at something like this once, but I thought the project had been buried.

“The project never went forward, did it?” I press.

“No. The runes proved unstable. We tried with an Agrarian—he imbued only a fraction of his signet into one. When we put it to use… let’s just say the damage was far greater than the benefits. So, the project was shut down. The unimbued runes with second signets were sent to the archives.”

My jaw tightens. “You didn’t destroy them?”

Her lips press into a thin line, the kind of answer that needs no words. “No. We don’t destroy abandoned prototypes. They’re stored in case one day we find a way to correct the flaws—or at the very least, to reuse the materials.”

Damn it. It’s definitely someone on the inside. Someone who dug through old reports, and managed to replicate it. If they were unstable, that would explain the blast. Not a weapon by design—an accident waiting to happen.

“What about the reports from these projects?” I ask, eyes fixed on her. “What do you do with them?”

“They’re kept with the prototypes,” Eliana replies without hesitation. “Filed in the archives.”

“And who has access?”

Her gaze sharpens. “Only personnel under my command. And higher ranks, if they request it.”

“How many prototypes are stored?”

“Three”

It takes her twenty minutes to dig through ledgers and index slips, muttering under her breath as she flips parchment after parchment. At last, she scribbles a sequence of numbers on a scrap and slides it across the desk to me.

“This is the archive reference,” Eliana says.

I take it, fold the slip once, and slip it into my coat. I thank her before I turn and leave her office.

The archives are housed on the first floor. I pass through the main doors into the library, the smell of ink and vellum thick in the air. At the far end, I turn right. The shelves fall away, and the corridor narrows until I reach the iron-bound doors of the vaults—the true heart of the archives. Military records. Reports. Orders. Blueprints. Everything Navarre wants buried under lock and key. And only the scribes hold those keys.

One waits at the entrance now, standing like a sentinel. Young—probably only graduated a year or two ago.

He inclines his head as I approach him. His voice is almost a whisper. “Good afternoon, Colonel Mairi.”

I don’t know his name. Probably never will. I nod once. “Good afternoon.”

I reach into my coat and pull out the slip Eliana gave me. “I need a file. This number.”

He takes the parchment with long fingers, scans the sequence, then hands it back. Without a word, he turns and reaches for the keys at his chest. The lock groans, metal scraping on metal, and the doors swing open.

Once I step inside, they close behind me with a sound too final, shutting me into the vaults.

The staircase drops away before me, wide and carved from cold stone. Mage-lights drip down the walls, their glow sliding across arches, throwing shadows that move like they have a will of their own.

Each step echoes under my boots, the sound fading too quickly into the hollow quiet. The deeper I go, the narrower the space feels, as though the walls are pressing closer, the weight of the building itself bearing down.

At the bottom, the hall opens into a circular chamber that could just as well have no end. Rows of shelves stretch upward, crammed with volumes darkened by age. Iron railings climb the walls, and ornate railings spiral around the balconies above. Mage lights burn low, their light thin, leaving more shadow than clarity.

At the center stands a round table draped in black cloth, a single chair pulled close. It feels less like an archive and more like a chamber for judgment.

After a moment a door opens across the room. A man steps in. His robes hang heavy, the hood shadowing most of his face. A beard streaked with gray shows his age, and his eyes are the kind carved by years of parchment.

He studies me. “File number?”

“Here.” I hand him the slip.

He unfolds it, reads the sequence, gives a small nod, and tucks it into his sleeve.

“Wait here.” Without another word, he disappears through the same door, and the chamber swallows him whole.

I’m left standing in the center, the black-draped table just a few feet away. The silence presses in until my ears start to ring. I fold my arms and fix my boots to the floor, fighting the urge to pace.

Above me, a scribe moves along the balconies. His robes shift against the iron as he leans down to pull a volume, light striking his profile. He looks my age—maybe a year younger. Could’ve been me.

If I’d chosen differently. If I’d followed Asher Sorrengail into the archives instead of listening to my father’s lectures about duty.

Would I be up there now? Head buried in parchment, my hands stained with ink instead of blood?

And Sloane… would she have crossed paths with me anyway? Would she have looked twice at a man who keeps records instead of a sword? Would we still have ended up together, no matter what life I chose?

The door across the chamber creaks open again. The scribe reappears, his robes dragging as he crosses back toward me. A thick bundle of parchment rests in his hands.

He sets it on the black-draped table. “File number, as requested.”

I glance at the stack, then back at him. “Where are the runes?”

“There were no runes in the vault tied to this sequence, Colonel. Only documents.” He say with flat eyes.

“What do you mean there were no runes?” My voice cuts sharper than I intend.

The scribe doesn’t flinch. His tone stays even, almost bored. “I mean someone with the necessary permissions must have retrieved them from the vault. All relevant information should be contained in the file. Please ring the bell by the door once you’ve finished.”

He inclines his head, robes whispering as he turns and retreats the way he came. The door closes behind him with a muted thud, leaving me alone with the stack of parchment.

I don’t bother with the chair. I pull the file closer, break the ribbon binding, and spread the sheets across the black cloth. My fingers move fast, skimming lines of cramped handwriting, Sloane’s handwriting—sharp strokes, angled letters, every page a reminder of how her mind works.

The first documents outline theory, calculations, trial notes. Then an image stops me cold.

There it is. Not just similar. Not just close. The exact rune. Same shape. Same symbols cut into the outer ring, same flame mark carved at the center.

My chest knots. Whoever removed the prototypes is the one behind the attacks. That much is clear.

I flip further, faster now, the pages rasping beneath my hands. Searching. Searching.

Chain of custody. There.            

I follow the column down with my finger. Until I hit the last line.

Extraction of runes—April 8, 642. A month and a half before the first blast.

I trace to the right, to the name and signature scrawled in black ink.

A blow lands square in my ribs. The world stops moving, and I can’t breathe. Can’t think. All I can do is stare at the name:

Major Sloane Mairi.

Chapter Text

SLOANE

Okay. Deep breaths. Keep it together.

I press my palms to my ribs, forcing the air in and out, eyes flicking toward the bed like the piece of metal lying there it’s about to lunge.

I just found a rune—one that looks exactly like the one Dain showed me. The same rune meant to kill Cat—sitting nice and cozy in my drawer like it’s always belonged there. Perfectly fine. Nothing to panic about.

I pace the room, back and forth, back and forth, as if the motion will erase the hunk of metal burning a hole through my thoughts. My palms are slick. My stomach’s tying itself into knots. And the more I tell myself not to lose it, the more I feel like I might start screaming.

What the fuck? What. The. Fuck. Is it doing in there?

I spin on my heel, nearly trip over the rug, and chew at a nail until my skin protests.

How? How did it even get here? Did I put it there? Did someone else?

Okay. Breathe. Think.

Maybe it’s a coincidence. Things look alike all the time—buttons, beetles, and apparently murder runes designed to end a queen’s life.

No. Don’t be stupid. It’s not a coincidence. Same metal. Same shape. Same symbols cut into the outer ring, exact down to the last nick.

Maybe I made a replica. Maybe I was trying to figure out what was used in the first attack. Yes, that’s it.  That sounds… plausible. Maybe it was for Levere.

Except—why would I carve a perfect copy? Why would I—why, why, why—

I sit on the edge of the bed and stare again at the rune.

Why didn’t I tell Dain? Why did I tuck it away like some guilty trinket? Do I tell him now?

No. There had to be a reason I didn’t. There must be a reason I lied. I should trust the woman I used to be. Except that woman also wound up in a hospital, unconscious for a week, and woke up with her memory wiped clean. Not exactly a glowing endorsement of her decision-making skills.

Still—there has to be a reason. Doesn’t there?

I pace again, nails biting into my palms.

But this rune… this could be it. The thing that cracks the whole case open. Zolya. The attempt on Cat. Whoever’s behind all of it. This might be the key.

Except it was also hidden in my drawer.

Tell him? Don’t tell him? Gods, this is a nightmare.

I stare at the rune as I try to make up my mind. If I show it to Dain, what happens? He’s Colonel Follow-the-Rules. Would he arrest me? Hand me over with a polite nod and a stack of paperwork?

I mean, technically, it would be the smart thing to do for him. Evidence is evidence. And with my memory gone, it’s not like I can defend myself with a moving speech about how misunderstood I am.

But then… I’ve also seen him trying to protect me. And I’m his… wife. Would he really throw me in chains? Or would he fight for me, even against his own rules?

Fuck, what do I do?

If I hand this over right now, I might as well hang a sign around my neck that says prime suspect. And let’s be honest—Dain would have no choice but to treat me like one. Colonel Duty and all that.

So… no. I keep it to myself until I know why it was here.

I shove the rune back into the compartment, slam the panel shut, and press my forehead to the wardrobe until my pulse quits trying to hammer its way out of my throat. I feel like I just buried a body instead of hiding a chunk of metal.

The front door creaks open at that exact moment.

Mrs. Litman’s voice drifts up, warm and polite. “Dain, you’re back early.”

Too early. He’s not supposed to be here yet.

“Mrs. Litman. Where’s Sloane?” His voice is low, hurried—more anxious than sharp.

“Oh, she’s upstairs, second floor,” She answers.

My throat goes dry. I hear him take the stairs two at a time, boots thumping harder with every step. They stop outside my door. A heartbeat later it swings open.

Dain steps in. He shuts the door and stands there, not speaking at first, just looking like I’m a puzzle he can’t fit together. Finally he pulls a folded sheet of parchment from his coat.

“I spoke with Eliana,” he says,  low. “I showed her the rune. She recognized it immediately. Said it was from a project years ago—experimental amplifiers. She told me you were the one who designed them, using your signet to strengthen others.”

My throat tightens. I made them?

“The project was shut down,” he continues, eyes fixed on mine. “Three prototypes were sent to the archives, along with the reports. Access restricted.”

He steps closer, slow and controlled, and offers the parchment like it weighs a hundred pounds. “I checked the records. They’re not in the archives. Someone took them out.”

My chest caves in.

He pauses, breathes once, then says, “Your name is on the chain of custody. It looks like it was you.”

I take the sheet; my hands fumble. My name sits at the bottom of the list in black ink.

Dain doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. That silence presses heavier than any accusation.

My knees nearly give out, so I drop onto the edge of the bed before I do something embarrassingly theatrical like collapse at his feet. The parchment scorches my palms. They’re slick with sweat. My throat clamps down until every swallow feels like a stone.

I did this. Gods — I made those runes. I pulled them from the archives. One is still tucked in my drawer. My drawer.

I’m not just implicated—I’m buried. My heart spikes, thudding hard; it feels like it might spill out. A cold, sharp emptiness runs through my arms. My stomach flips; nausea twists low and unpleasant.

Tyrrendor.

The word slams through me like a hammer. When Dain told me some provinces wanted independence, for one ridiculous beat I’d thought—what if it could finally secede from Navarre? And then, at the ceremony, he mentioned separatists. In Tyrrendor.

What if I was part of them? What if I helped? What if I handed them the damn runes myself?

My vision narrows. The edges of the room blur; the ceiling swims. Pins-and-needles crawl into my fingertips until my hands go numb. The parchment slips from my fingers and flutters to the floor, but I can’t move to pick it up. Tremors shake my limbs; I feel hollow and weak, like I might topple.

What if this was all me? What if I wanted to stop the gryphons from reaching Navarre, to keep Aaric from crushing an uprising before it began? What if the plan was to strike when Navarre was weak?

What if I’m responsible for all those deaths?

Oh gods.

Oh gods oh gods oh gods.

My lungs burn; I start to hyperventilate. Dizziness blooms at the corners of my sight. Cold sweat beads at my neck. My knees quake under me.

This isn’t nerves or fear. It’s panic—raw and relentless—the floor falling away and me tumbling.

I fold over, forehead nearly resting on my knees. Air tears out of me in ragged bursts, too quick, too sharp. My body won’t listen. I can’t slow it. I can’t stop it.

But then I feel hands. Warm, firm, catching my wrists before I tear into my own legs.

I only hear the rush of blood in my ears, like stones tumbling in a barrel. Somehow his voice slices through the noise, low and urgent.

“Sloane. Look at me.”

I can’t lift my head, can’t focus, but I feel his hand at my back, rubbing small circles— solid, not soft. The noise eases enough that I can make out more words.

“Breathe,” he says, close now. Too close. His breath brushes my ear. “Breathe with me. In—” He drags air into his lungs, slow and loud. “Out.”

I choke on a gasp, failing miserably. My lungs don’t obey.

His hand slips under my chin, tilting my face up. His eyes catch mine; he doesn’t blink. I force my focus and see the color—sandy brown—and that tiny, ordinary fact steadies something inside me for a dizzy second.

“Suza.” He whispers the name and it lands harder than the panic. I blink, gasping; the sound cracks in my throat.

“In,” he says again, measured and urgent. His voice becomes the metronome I have to hitch to. He inhales slow; I try—really try—to follow. My chest protests, but air scrapes in.

“Out.” His thumbs roll small circles at my pulse points, a simple pressure and rhythm. It tugs me back from the edge.

I manage another breath—half sob, half exhale—and his voice softens, the soldier’s edge gone for the barest sliver. “That’s it. I’ve got you.”

The words are heavy and ridiculous and somehow cling. My breathing stutters but at least it isn’t spiraling out of control anymore. My chest still aches, my head feels light, and my palms won’t stop tingling, but the world has stopped spinning long enough that I can sit straight again and think… sort of.

“It was me,” I whisper. The words scrape out, raw and cracked.

Dain’s brows knit. “What do you mean?” His voice is low, careful, like he’s afraid to push too hard. He’s crouched in front of me, his hands still at my wrists.

“I—” The word sticks in my throat. My lips move but nothing comes out. Gods, why is it so hard to just say it?

My gaze jerks toward the wardrobe, then away again. The knot in my chest swells until I think it’ll choke me all over again. “There’s… another one.” I manage at last, voice barely audible.

He leans closer, sharp eyes searching my face. “Another one what?”

“It’s in the wardrobe,” I stammer, words tripping over each other. “Bottom drawer. The one for—” I swallow hard. “The one for the handcuffs.”

Dain doesn’t waste time. He rises and crosses the room in three long strides. He drops to one knee in front of the wardrobe, hand going straight to the bottom drawer. The wood groans as it slides open, and my pulse spikes. He digs through the clutter, fingers pausing exactly where the seam is.

Of course he knows how to open it. Of course he does.

He reaches inside and pulls it out.

The rune.

He turns it over in his hand, eyes fixed on it like it’s the final piece of a puzzle that damns me completely.

I want to speak—anything, something—but the words stick in my throat.

Then his eyes find mine. No accusation. No suspicion. Just that relentless, unshakable focus of his.

“What is this doing here?” His voice is quiet as he stands, but the weight of it nearly buckles me.

“I don’t know,” I whisper, throat raw. My hands twist together in my lap, useless. “I swear, I don’t. I only found it today. I didn’t even remember it was here until I saw the drawing in that book. I didn’t—” My voice fractures, thin and shaking.

Gods, I need to move. I shove off the bed and start pacing, steps sharp against the floorboards. My palms drag down my arms, like I can scrub the panic out of my skin.

“It was me, wasn’t it?” I blurt. “I designed them, I signed them out, I hid one in my own drawer. Gods, Dain, all of it points to me. I’m the one responsible for the attacks.”

“No.” His jaw tightens.

I freeze mid-step. “No? What part of this looks like no to you?” If I wasn’t panicking I’d laugh.

“You,” he snaps, and the word hits like a whip. His eyes lock on mine, fierce and unwavering. “Because I know you.”

My stomach lurches. I want to believe him—gods, I do—but the evidence is screaming in my face.

“But what if—"

“Do you honestly believe you’d do something like that?” He cuts me off, something close to anger in his voice.

“I don’t know,” I shriek. My voice ricochets off the walls. “I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“Damn it, Sloane. You are still you.” He drags a hand down his face, fingers pressing hard against the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to knead the frustration out of himself. “Marrying me didn’t change your nature. You’re the same stubborn woman who refused to train her signet for months because she felt guilty about killing Lilith Sorrengail—the woman who hunted your mother and dragged her to execution.”

The words press in behind my ribs. Heat stings my eyes; I blink it back.

“So no,” he says, fierce and certain, stepping closer. “I don’t care what this looks like. I know your nature. I know your heart. And I will never believe you capable of this.”

His certainty slams into me like a thrown stone. Something inside cracks, and I don’t know how to respond.

I sink back onto the bed, elbows braced on my knees, pressing my palms hard against my face. For a beat, the only sound is our breathing—his steady, mine ragged.

I drag my hands down and lift my gaze. The sun streaming through the window frames him in gold; his light-brown curls catch the light as if mocking me for ever thinking he could be anything other than infuriatingly noble. He is turning the rune between his fingers with a soldier’s carefulness, like he’s weighing its weight in truth.

“It feels empty,” he mutters, not looking up. “Like the one they tried to use on Cat. As if it’s already been drained. Used. I think—” he swallows, then quieter, “I think this is the rune they used in the attack at Zolya. The rune was recovered after the assault. Levere had it, and then he reported it stolen—before Eliana or you could examine it.”

My chest drops. The room tilts again.

“What if I stole it?” The words rip out of me, small and reckless. “So no one knew that I took them out of the archives? What if someone tried to kill me because sooner or later you were going to find out it was me and I knew too much—like they did with Leila?”

“No. Levere’s sister said he trusted you. Perhaps he gave it to you to keep—trusted you to hold it safe.”

“Why would he do that? It doesn’t make sense.” I’m already on my feet again, pacing in sharp lines across the floor. My arms fold tight around me as if that could hold me together. My voice drops, bitter and raw. “Dain, sometimes the simplest explanation is the right one.”

“For fuck’s sake, stop with the nonsense.” His tone snaps sharp, but beneath it I hear the tremor of something else—fear. “It wasn’t you. I just need to find out what the fuck is going on.” He drags a hand down his face, thumb pressing hard against his temple like he’s trying to rub out the headache.

“And in the meantime?” My voice cracks. “I’ll be lock in a cell?”

“What? Of course not.” he shoots back, urgency flashing in his eyes “No one can know about this. Any of this,” He steps closer, his voice low, steadying. “They’ll take me off the case—Vester too. That’s why I took that damn paper.”

“You stole it from the archives?” My eyes snap open in shock. He is joking, he has to be joking.

“Yeah.” He admits it, mouth twisting. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“That’s tampering with evidence. What happens when the scribes notice the chain of custody is missing?” My chest tightens all over again.

He exhales hard, shoulders squaring as if bracing himself. “Let’s hope by then we know who’s behind all of this.”

“And what if we don’t?” My voice shrinks to a whisper.

Dain lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, maybe Iris Drue finally gets her wish and orders my execution without so much as a trial. Malek knows she’d enjoy the paperwork.” He rubs at the back of his neck.

“So that’s it? You steal evidence now? Gods, Dain, what happened to the man who worshipped every damn rule in the Codex?”

His gaze locks onto mine, unflinching, like he’s making sure I don’t look away as he crosses the space between us.

“Seems,” he says quietly, each word measured, “The Codex lost its altar. I only worship you now.”

The words knock the air right out of me. My lips part, but nothing comes—no quip, no protest.

His hands rise, firm but urgent, sliding up to cup my face. My breath stutters. He tilts my chin until I have no choice but to look into those gorgeous eyes.

“You should know,” he says, voice low and raw, “that I would do anything for you, Sloane.” His gaze holds mine, unyielding, every word etched into those sandy-brown eyes. Somehow, I seem to be edging closer and closer to him.

“You should know,” He swallows, his thumb brushing over my cheek, like I might splinter if he lets go. “That I love you. There’s no life for me without you in it.” We are inches apart now; his scent makes me suddenly oblivious to anything else in the world. And all I can think is—this is it, isn’t it? The moment I knew was waiting for me, ever since I opened my eyes in that hospital bed and saw him standing there. My treacherous eyes drop to his lips. And then—

His mouth is on mine.

The world cracks open.

His lips are soft and warm. There’s a sudden heat between my legs that races up my spine, spilling into every limb, every nerve ending. The wet stroke of his tongue grazes my lower lip, stealing every worry I had and replacing it with the frantic beat of my heart.

I gasp against him, startled by the sharp edge of hunger tearing through me, and his hand slides to the back of my neck, anchoring me. He pulls me closer, and without thinking—without hesitating—I kiss him back.

I’m kissing Dain Aetos back.

Our mouths open together, and when our tongues touch it’s like a spark flung into dry tinder—sharp and immediate. The way it ignites me. He tastes annoyingly good. Like new-favorite-flavor good.

Gods. What the fuck am I doing?

Still, my hands lift to his face; his trimmed beard scrapes my palms. He presses into me with a sound low in his throat—half growl, half plea—that sends something feral ripping through my chest and drags me deeper under.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

But his lips keep moving against mine, insistent, coaxing. And damn him, even at kissing, he can’t just be good—he has to be maddeningly perfect. His mouth works mine open with slow, ruthless skill, his tongue sliding against mine in strokes that are equal parts command and temptation. The press of his lips is hot, sure, and just rough enough to make me shiver. Teeth catch my lower lip, and the sting makes me moan into him.

I lose the ability to think in sentences. There’s only desire. My mind screams this is wrong, but my body is ruthlessly clear: this is right.

I’m kissing Dain Aetos—and I’m losing myself in him. And it feels so, so fucking right.

So I keep kissing him—pouring into it the desire, the confusion, the recklessness, and the fear clawing through me.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, both of us breathless. His thumb strokes my cheek again, gentler this time, like he’s memorizing me all over again. The room is hushed, quiet except for the ragged mix of our breathing.

I should pull away. I should say something scathing and sarcastic to break this dangerous tension. But my lips still burn, my pulse is still racing, and I know with a terrifying clarity that I want more.

And judging by the way Dain looks at me—like I’m both the battlefield and the victory—he knows it too.

Which is exactly why I blurt, “Well, now you can add ‘seducing the prime suspect’ to your list of crimes today. You’re on a roll.”

His brow arches and there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t,” I warn, my voice wobbly even as I try for sharp. “Don’t you dare smile at me right now. I’m in the middle of a crisis.”

His thumb stills against my cheek, but his gaze softens. “Gods don’t I miss you.”

- - - - -

DAIN

How could I be so fucking stupid?

I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it coming.

Of course she panicked.

She’s been having those attacks since she was fourteen. Guess that’s what happens when you’re dragged to watch your mother burn under dragon fire, and a few hours later your father’s head is rolling across your floor. Try growing out of that.

The streets are crowded as I cut back toward headquarters. Merchants shouting prices, carts creaking under sacks of grain. Kids dart between wagons, chasing each other while their mothers scream at them to stay out of the street. A courier on horseback nearly plows into a farmer’s cart and keeps riding like he owns the road. Same midday chaos as always.

And I’m moving through it, jaw tight, still replaying the look on her face. The way her breathing turned sharp, shallow, like she was drowning in open air. I was the one who put that paper in her hands. I was the one who triggered it.

Gods, I’m a fucking idiot.

But what was I supposed to do—hide it from her? Pretend her name wasn’t on the damn page? I don’t keep secrets from her. I needed to show her the file. She deserved the truth. Maybe it would even shake something loose in her memory.

And the attacks had stopped. Or at least, I thought they had. Years without one. Probably since we moved in together. I figured she’d beaten it.

But then again… she woke up in a hospital with eight years missing, married to me—the man responsible of her brother’s death—Thoirt gone, and with a target on her back. Too much. Too fast. Of course the attacks were going to come back. Should’ve seen it. Should’ve braced for it.

But I didn’t.

And still—I kissed her. After all of that, I fucking kissed her.

At least when we pulled apart, her attention wasn’t on the panic or the paper. It was on me. Entirely on me.

It was the same look she used to give me when it all started. Pure focus, like nothing else existed. Like I was the only thing worth her time. That look made me feel like the most powerful man in the world.

Gods, I’d forgotten that.

I’d forgotten it was one of the reasons I fell so hard for her in the first place—like a damned fool. The way those bright blue eyes locked on me… pure magic.

Her breath still lingers on my lips—warm, sweet, glorious.  Fuck, this is what victory tastes like. It was only a kiss. But hell, I was hard and wanting more. Took everything I had to shove it back down.

But I know she needs space. After eight years with her, I know her better than my own reflection. Sloane pushes when she feels cornered. Press her now, and I’ll lose her all over again. Give her room, and maybe—just maybe—she’ll come back to me.

The headquarters comes into view, and the streets are still buzzing with midday noise. Hawkers pushing bread and salted fish, infantrymen off-duty drinking from skins in the shade, dogs tearing at scraps in the gutter.

I cut across the square and head for the main gates. The guards snap to attention, but I barely register it. My head’s still full of Sloane—her eyes, that kiss, and the fact that I was stupid enough to trigger her panic in the first place.

Fuck, I already want to turn back. But I can’t. I need to find a way to solve this shit. Prove that she had nothing to do with it. And Amari help me, make sure no one finds out about those damn runes.

The hardest part will be keeping it from Vester. But I can’t drag him into this. If everything goes to hell, it won’t just bury me—it’ll make him complicit.

No. This one’s mine to carry.

I walk through the heavy doors and step into the courtyard. Wide, sun beating down hard on stone. Soldiers run drills in formation, blades flashing, instructors barking orders until their voices go raw. The clang of steel carries across the yard, mixed with the thud of boots hitting packed earth.

Leila’s still our best lead. Whoever silenced her did it because of who she could expose, I’m sure of that. We have to find out who she was working with. That’s the only thread left. Vester’s already moving on it. He’ll have the petitions drafted, orders signed. He doesn’t waste time.

Across the noise and dust, I spot him. Cutting clean lines through the chaos like none of it touches him. He crosses the yard without hurry, eyes already on me.

“Where the hell were you? I’ve been looking everywhere.” He starts walking beside me.

“Had to stop by the house,” I tell him, voice flat. “What happened?”

“They found him.”

I pause. “Found who?”

“The man with the snake skeleton tattoo,” Vester says, tone flat as ever. “The one who left the threat in the palace. He was spotted coming through the northern gates. He resisted arrest”

Relief hits, sharp and fast. Finally, someone we can drag answers out of.

“He’s in the interrogation wing now.” Vester continues. “Under guard. Three men watching him.”

We cut across the yard and head inside, the din of training drills fading behind us. My boots echo off the stone as we push deeper into the building, toward the interrogation wing.

I’ve spent more hours in those rooms than I care to count—leaning over tables, watching sweat bead on foreheads, pulling truths people swore they’d take to their graves. Those walls reek of fear. Fear, and lies.

But nothing rattles people like me sitting down across from them. Not the chains, not Vester knowing when they’re lying, not the threat of death. It’s the moment they realize what I can do. That I can reach inside their head, see what they saw, feel what they felt.

The look on their faces never changes. Horror. Not because I might uncover treason or conspiracy, but because I’ll see the shit they try to bury deep. The petty cruelties. The guilt. The secrets they’d never confess to anyone. That’s what terrifies them—being known.

And fuck, sometimes I wish I couldn’t. Memory isn’t clean. It’s not a record, it’s a mess. Half-truths mixed with distortions, false images stitched together with the real. The mind edits, rewrites, hides what it can’t face. And when I reach in, I get all of it. The raw and the broken. The shame, the fear, the things they’d rather forget.

When my signet first manifested, all I could touch were the moments right on the surface—whatever had just happened. A few seconds of clarity, like replaying the last scene of a play. But the more I trained, the deeper I went. A minute back. An hour. A week. Now… sometimes I can push further than I want to.

And it’s not just seeing. It’s feeling. Their fear slams into me like it’s mine. Their grief catches in my throat. Their panic burns under my skin. Sometimes it’s hard to tell where they end and I begin.

That’s the part no one understands. They think the danger is in what I find. The real danger is what I carry after.

Fuck, I hate this shit.

But today? Today I want it. No wasting time with questions and lies. No back-and-forth until someone cracks. I’ll take what I need, straight from the source.

The corridor narrows. A guard waits outside one of the doors, back rigid against the wall. I don’t slow.

I push the door open and step inside.

Two guards stand just inside, one on each side of the frame. At the table sits the man with the tattoo, iron shackles biting into his wrists. His face is a mess—swollen lip split open, one eye half-shut under a purple bruise, dried blood crusting at the corner of his nose. His hair hangs loose, matted with sweat and dirt.

His clothes are little more than rags—leather vest worn thin, sleeves torn at the seams—the kind of grime you only get from weeks on the road. He looks like hell, but his jaw is still set, eyes flashing with defiance even through the damage.

“What the fuck is this?” His voice is hoarse, cracked. “I’ve done nothing. You’ve got the wrong man.”

“You walked into the palace and left a threat behind,” I tell him, flat and sharp.

He shakes his head, a humorless laugh scraping out of his throat. “I don’t even know what was in that fucking letter. I was paid to deliver it, that’s all.”

Vester studies him from the side, arms folded. “Paid by who?”

The man shrugs, wincing at the movement. “Don’t know his name. Don’t care. He bought me drinks, left a pouch of coin and a note.”

His lip curls, bitter. “Work’s work. You think anyone like me gets to ask questions?”

My jaw tightens. He’s either the dumbest bastard alive or he’s playing for time. Either way, I don’t have patience for it.

I lean across the table, fist closing around his jaw. He stiffens, but I don’t give him a chance to bark another word. The man jerks away, chains rattling against the table. His shoulders strain, but I don’t let go. I push harder, and dive into the wreckage inside his head.

A memory hits.

His arrest.

Fuck me.

Fists in my gut. A boot to my ribs. The crack of knuckles against my jaw. I feel every blow land—sharp pain blooming through bone and muscle until my own breath stutters like I’m the one taking the beating. Panic floods my chest, wild and frantic. His thoughts scatter: all fight and no plan. The sting of iron shackles biting into raw wrists. Boots scraping against cobblestones as they drag him through the gate.

The humiliation burns hotter than the pain. Faces watching. People staring. Rage at being treated like nothing.

I grit my teeth and push harder, narrowing in. Letter.

The air in his memory shifts. Heat. The sour burn of ale on my tongue. Hunger gnawing at my gut. And under it, raw and demanding, that pulse of need—sex, drink, drugs—anything to fill the void. The stench of sweat and spilled beer clings to my skin even though I’m not the one sitting in that tavern.

A table is under my hands, sticky with old ale. A pouch heavy with coins thuds onto the wood. My fingers fumble with a ribbon, blurred because I’m too drunk to keep them still.

My teeth grit. His vision is fogged, double at the edges. The man across from him is only a shape—dark cloak, voice low. No name. No clear face. The memory wavers every time I try to hold it, like trying to grip smoke.

“Deliver this to the palace and tomorrow you’ll get the rest of the payment.”

And then—clarity, just for a heartbeat. My gaze pins on his hand. A gold ring catching the light, gleaming against dirt and shadow as the man slides the note across the table. I look at it again.

Not just gold. There’s a crest carved into it.

A shield divided in two, blue and gold. In the center, a set of scales etched fine, balanced perfectly. Below them, two small circles pressed into the metal—coins, maybe. Or round sigils.

The scales don’t scream nobility. But it could be any minor house’s mark, some forgotten bloodline clinging to its pride.

Still, it’s all I get before the memory collapses back into blur and stink.

I take the piece of parchment. The words on the page swim uselessly—lines that mean nothing to me—but I can feel what he felt when he looked: not fear, not doubt, just greed.

The prisoner groans out loud, eyes rolling back, sweat streaking down his temple.

I push once more, harder, but all I get is another flood of sensations: the reek of stale ale, the scrape of coins as he counted them, and that lazy, drunk satisfaction that he’ll drink himself stupid again tomorrow.

I push deeper, clawing past the haze. Next day. That’s what he said. The rest of the payment tomorrow. There has to be something.

I see the palace. His boots scuffing across polished stone. The letter sliding into the attendant’s hands.

I press harder, but it’s not there. Either he never saw the bastard again, or the memory’s just empty. Another dead end. Another fucking clue that leads nowhere.

I rip myself out before I lose more time. The world slams back into place—the stink of sweat and blood, the iron table under my palms. The prisoner’s shaking, breath ragged, eyes wide with terror like he just woke up from drowning.

“What happened the next day?” My voice comes out sharp.

He doesn’t answer. Just stares, throat working, trying to breathe.

I slam my hand flat on the table. “I said, what happened the next day?”

His lips part, the words rasping out. “He never came back. The fucker never paid me the rest.”

Figures.

Behind me, Vester’s voice cuts in. “What did you see?”

I release the man’s jaw and step back, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. “Not much. He was too drunk to see straight. Only thing he noticed was a ring.”

Vester arches a brow. “A ring?”

“Gold,” I mutter. “With a crest. That’s all.”

****

The palace is cooler, brighter, but it doesn’t make the weight lift. Sunlight cuts through tall windows, painting the marble floors in pale strips. Servants move quiet and quick, their eyes dropping as I pass. Somewhere deeper, voices rise and fall in debate—the hum of politics that never ends.

I don’t slow until I reach the council wing. Two guards outside the double doors shift to attention the second they see me. One pushes the door open.

Inside, Aaric stands near the map table, sleeves rolled up. His hair’s a little mussed, strands falling out of place like he’s been dragging his hands through it. Shadows hang under his eyes—he hasn’t been sleeping much, if at all. He looks like shit. Scrolls and markers are spread across the surface. He looks up, expression sharpening when he catches mine.

“Dain,” Aaric says, eyes narrowing. “Tell me you’ve got something.”

I cross the room, stop on the other side of the table. The distance feels official, not friendly, but that’s how he needs it.

“We found him,” I answer. “The man with the tattoo. Picked up at the northern gates this morning.”

Aaric straightens, hand braced against the edge of the table. “And?”

I shake my head. “He’s useless. A drunk who delivered the letter for coin. He never knew what was in it, never saw the bastard’s face properly. All he remembers is a ring.” I pause, watching Aaric’s reaction. “Gold, with a crest. Looked like a shield, split blue and gold. Scales in the center. Two small circles beneath them. Could be coins, could be sigils.”

Aaric frowns, thumb dragging along his jaw. “You think it’s a house mark?”

“That’s my guess,” I admit. “Some minor line, maybe. I don’t recognize it. Could be old, or small enough it never mattered in Navarre.”

He nods slowly, gaze dropping back to the map but not really seeing it. Aaric’s been steeped in noble politics since we were boys. I’d trust his memory on this over any herald’s records.

A shake of his head. “Doesn’t sound familiar. I’ll have the records dig. If it’s a house crest, we’ll find it.”

“Good,” I mutter. It doesn’t feel good. Another maybe. Another fucking thread that could lead nowhere.

His gaze lifts again, sharper now, cutting straight through me. “What about the rune? Did you uncover anything?”

I look away, just for a second, like I’m weighing how much he really wants the answer. Aaric isn’t just the king. He’s Sloane’s friend. Hell, he knows her as well as I do. Just like me, he’d never believe she had a hand in any of this.

The problem is what happens if word gets out. If anyone even whispers her name in connection with those runes and Aaric’s caught looking like he knew—like he ignored it—the whole reform project he’s killing himself to build takes a hit. The king can’t afford to look compromised.

I’m not handing him that burden.

So I give him half.

“Nothing solid,” I say. “Still chasing leads.”

Aaric exhales hard, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We need this finished. We need it ended before it unravels everything we’ve built.”

Of course we do. Not just because Sloane’s tangled up in this mess. Not just because I already stole evidence out from under their noses. The worst part is knowing there’s still a third rune out there, waiting to be used. A clock ticking down, and I don’t even know how much time we have left.

But I can’t lay that on him. Not now.

“I know,” I say instead. “We’ll find them. We’ll drain every resource we’ve got.” I meet his eyes, my voice rougher than I intend. “Believe me, Aaric—I’m going to hunt down the bastards who tried to kill Sloane.”

Aaric lets out a long sigh, then circles the table, coming to stand beside me. “How’s she?” he asks quietly. “How are things between you two?”

My mind flicks straight back to the kiss. I can’t even think about it without feeling the corner of my mouth wanting to pull up like a fucking teenager. No way in hell I’m handing that to him.

“Fine,” I say instead. “I think. At least she hasn’t run out of the house yet.”

That gets him. Aaric’s mouth curves into a grin, the first real one I’ve seen all week. “Well, you tricked her once into falling for you,” he says, clapping me on the back. “I’m sure you can manage it again.”

I huff out something that could pass for a laugh. “Ha. Real funny.”

Aaric just smirks, then turns away, crossing to the side table. He pulls the stopper from a squat glass bottle, amber liquor catching the light as he pours into two cups. The smell of it drifts across the room, sharp and warm. Gods, I could use it.

He hands me a glass, then raises his own. I don’t even bother waiting—I knock back a mouthful, the burn sliding down and settling in my chest like a small mercy.

I set the glass on the table and glance back at him. “How’s Drake?”

Aaric tips his glass back, drinks deep, then says: “He’s fine. Conscious. Mending. And Mira—well, she’s already back to that unsettling version of herself. You know, like looking at a dragon watching its hoard. Only, the treasure’s Drake.”

The corner of his mouth quirks, but there’s no mistaking the relief under it.

I huff out a laugh, low and rough. “Lucky bastard,” I say, shaking my head. “Hope it lasts this time.”

Aaric grins into his glass. “I give them a month.”

I swirl what’s left in my cup, then glance at him. “And Cat?”

The smile fades. Aaric sets his drink down, shoulders hardening a fraction. “Furious,” he admits. “She wants to go back to Poromiel. Everyone keeps telling her it’s safer here, but she won’t hear it. She’s not speaking to me—not since I refused to back her decision. But the attacks had been made in Poromiel, we can’t ignore that”

His mouth pulls thin, eyes fixed on the map table instead of me. “But I’d rather she hate me than see her buried. Better angry than dead.”

“She’ll forgive you,” I say, my voice flat but sure. “Anger burns off. Graves don’t.”

- - - - -

SLOANE

Everything’s going to be fine.

I tell myself for the hundredth time, as if saying it enough will make Zinhal finally change tactics and toss me a winning hand. He can’t ignore me forever… right?

It’s been an hour since Dain walked out. An hour since he left me with the taste of him on my lips, his chain-of-custody papers, and about a thousand new worries I did not order. So naturally, I do the only sensible thing: I block everything… or at least I try.

I’m sitting at the desk in my office. Stones and chunks of wood line up across the surface. Theory’s over—this is practice now.

I’ll start with simple things. Yes. Simple things to keep my mind occupied. If I just keep it simple enough, maybe the rest of my life will follow.

The book sits open on my desk, the page with the image staring up at me like it knows how deep in shit I am. The rune is there, crisp lines, neat instructions—mocking me. I trace it once with my eyes, then again, trying to burn it into memory.

I set a chunk of wood in front of me.

Deep breath. Pull it together.

Thoirt’s power used to feel like a current I could dip my hands into. Now it’s a well—bright, but heavy and joyless. I reach down, tug at it, and start moving my hands the way the page tells me.

I kissed Dain Aetos. I’m the worst sister in the world.

No. No. Stop it. Focus.

I crack one eye open, steal a glance at the page, then shut it quickly. Another breath. Another pull. On to the next figure.

If that’s how he kisses, imagine how he—

My eyes snap open. A shiver cuts through me, sharp and unwanted. I clamp my thighs together and shake my head hard, like I can fling the thought out of my skull.

“For fuck’s sake,” I whisper.

I drag in a long breath and start over. I pull, I shape, I try to follow the rhythm of the rune.

How do they execute traitors these days?

My chest squeezes tight.

Nope. That’s it. I can’t do this.

I shove the wood aside and lean back in the chair, breath ragged, trying to picture strangling that voice in my head.

The chain-of-custody is on the desk like a dare. I pick it up without thinking and unfold it. When Dain gave it to me, I was already spiraling, so of course I only saw the last line and ignored everything else. Now I slow down, because who knows when my hands will stop shaking long enough to read straight.

File number: stamped, neat. Contents: three dossiers and three runes. Then a table—rows and rows of names, people who pulled these files or runes before me. Each line follows the same pattern: name, position, date of extraction, signature, the scribe who handed the files over. On the other side, the return info: date delivered back, scribe who received them, signature again.

And at the very bottom—my row. Left side filled in. Right side? Empty. Delivery date, receiving scribe, signature—blank.

Which means, according to this very official piece of parchment, I should still have them.

I study my name closely. Yes, it definitely looks like my handwriting. Then my signature. It looks like mine too, but to be fair, I never sign the same way twice.

My eyes slide to the next column. The scribe’s name: Ugo Eldred.

I skim the page again. The same handful of scribes show up over and over, names repeating down the rows. Except this one. Ugo Eldred appears once—on my line.

That’s odd, isn’t it? Everyone else repeats; he doesn’t.

Well… maybe he was new. First day on the job or something.

Maybe I could track him down. Ask what he remembers, if he remembers me.

I snort under my breath. Brilliant plan, Sloane. What am I supposed to do—wave this sheet under his nose? Hi, could you please confirm this record my husband stole from the Archives?

Yeah, that’ll go well.

I read the name again. Ugo Eldred.

It scratches at something in the back of my mind, like a splinter I can’t dig out. Familiar. I’ve seen it before.

But where? The only place I’d ever read a scribe’s name would be in some official record… and I haven’t seen any other official records since I woke up.

…Have I?

Chapter Text

DAIN

The day has gone on too damn long and by the time I reach the house, it’s already dark.

Between The Archives, the interrogation, the meeting with Aaric, the endless signatures, and the orders to mobilize teams to find out whoever Leila was working with—I’m done. Completely.

All I want is silence, a drink, maybe five minutes without someone asking for a report or an update.

Instead, the first thing I hear when I open the door is:

“Why won’t you open, damn it? Open. Open, you stupid—stupid—” Sloane’s voice echoes from the sitting room, sharp and full of frustration.

When I step closer, she’s standing with her back to me, shoulders tense, head bowed, facing the fireplace. The thing’s unlit. She’s bent over like she’s trying to murder it.

“Sloane?”

She spins around, sharp and sudden, frustration written all over her face—flushed cheeks, tangled hair, eyes wild with exasperation.

And of course—of course—she’s wearing that damn “pajama”. Just shorts and that faded tank top that somehow manages to look innocent and dangerous all at once. The same one that, for reasons beyond all logic, has a history of ending with my self-control in ruins.

Then I see it—

The wine bottle clutched in her hands. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

“Did you try using a corkscrew,” I ask, “or are you just taking your frustration out on the bottle?”

She shoots me a flat, murderous look. “Of course I tried the corkscrew. The damn thing’s stuck.”

She lifts the bottle just enough for me to see it—the corkscrew already jammed halfway in, hanging there like proof of her battle.

I step farther into the room, unbuttoning my coat as I go. “Maybe it’s protesting the abuse,” I mutter.

“What?” she snaps.

“Nothing.” I shrug out of the uniform jacket and hang it on the back of the sofa.

Sloane exhales hard, tilting her head back and rolling it side to side. The movement bares that spot on her neck that’s always been my undoing—and fuck, it shouldn’t look that good.

“Gods, I just need a stress relief,” she whispers.

Every muscle in my body goes tight. The phrase hits low and hot. My brain knows better; the rest of me clearly doesn’t.

She didn’t mean it that way, soldier. Stand down.

“You want help before you break the bottle—or your hand?” I ask.

“No. I can handle this.” Her tone is firm—all resolve.

Then she plants one hand around the neck of the bottle. “Just needs a firm hand.”

Oh, she has no idea how bad it needs that.

She braces, twists—and there it is. The cork pops free with a sharp crack, a splash of wine spilling down her wrist. She leans in and licks it clean.

…Gods.

“See? Told you I could handle it.” She turns toward me, chin up, a little too proud for someone who just wrestled a bottle into submission.

I swallow hard. “No one ever doubted that.”

Her smile curves slow. “You say that like you’ve seen me do it before.”

Don’t answer that, Dain.

“Something like that,” I mutter, fighting not to smirk. I look away and rub the back of my neck. The movement buys me a second—maybe two—to pull myself together.

She moves toward the kitchen, bare feet light against the floor. Cabinet doors open, a faint clatter of crystal.

“You want a glass?” she calls.

The question catches me off guard. Since she lost her memories, she’s done everything possible to keep distance between us—and after today, after the kiss—I figured she’d build thicker walls, not offer me wine.

“Yeah,” I call back.

Sloane returns with two glasses, the bottle tucked under her arm. She hands me one without meeting my eyes.

When her fingers brush mine, I notice it—what’s missing.

No ring. Not the engagement band. Not the wedding one either. I still can’t get used to that.

The healers handed me a small pouch the day I took her home—everything she’d been wearing when they found her. The rings were inside. I haven’t given them back. Haven’t even mentioned them.

I know her. She won’t put them on now.

So I keep them. Hidden. Like some idiot hoping one day she’ll ask for them.

Sloane fills my glass first, then pours her own, and sets the bottle on the table.  She curls herself into the armchair across from me—knees drawn up, the glass balanced on her thigh.

The chair’s too small for her to sit like that, but somehow she makes it look comfortable. Natural.

I take the seat opposite her, the one that still feels too far away and too close at the same time.

She doesn’t look away. Not once. Just studies me over the rim of her glass, eyes sharp and unreadable.

Then, out of nowhere—

“Does the name Ugo Eldred mean anything to you?”

I frown. “No. Why?”

She keeps her gaze on me, silent for a beat. I tilt my head slightly, waiting for the rest.

“He’s the scribe who logged the runes on the chain of custody,” she says. “But his name shows up only once. The others repeat. His doesn’t. It felt… off.”

I nod. “Could be off. Or it could be nothing.”

Her brows climb. I take a slow drink and lay it out.

“Sometimes the archives pulls a floater from other departments when they’re drowning in work—one day on loan, then gone. Or someone’s sick and a temp covers a single shift.”

I set the cup down. “Audits do that too. And apprentices? They sometimes sign under their master’s name or with a provisional mark. Shows up as a one-off.”

She doesn’t blink. I add the other side.

“Or it’s the bad kind of odd. A false name. Somebody hiding in plain sight.”

Sloane takes a slow sip of her wine, eyes narrowing in thought. “The name felt familiar,” she says after a moment. “I think I’ve seen it before. Do you still have the search warrant Lever’s sister gave me?”

She catches the confusion in my face and leans forward slightly. “You mentioned it was a copy—and that you don’t remember signing it yourself. I think that’s where I saw the name.”

I shake my head. “It can’t be the same person. The scribes who handle copying duties don’t get sent to the archives. Different chain entirely.”

“But a copyist could’ve forged my name,” she says quietly. “And my signature.”

I’m almost certain the name won’t match. But if digging into it keeps her focused instead of spiraling, then fine. I’ll take that trade.

“I left it here,” I say after a moment. “Most likely Mrs. Litman tucked it somewhere ‘safe.’ And with her, that could mean anywhere. She always remembers where things are, but her filing system only makes sense to her.”

Sloane lifts her glass, turning it between her fingers as she listens.

“Ask her in the morning. If the same name’s on the paper, I’ll ask Jesinia. Quietly.”

Her brows lift. “Quietly?”

“I don’t want more people dragged into this,” I answer.

Sloane nods, taking another sip of her wine. Then, a spark of something lighter flickers in her eyes. “So… Jesinia lives here too? In the city?”

“She works with the Curator of headquarters,” I say. “Was out of the city for a while, but I think she got back recently.”

Her face brightens—subtle, but enough to notice.

“Are we… close?” Sloane asks.

“Pretty close,” I say, leaning back a little. “She’s probably the one you complain to about me.” One corner of my mouth pulls up.

Sloane tilts her head. “Do I do that often? Complain about you?”

I let out a low breath that could almost count as a laugh. “Constantly.”

One eyebrow quirks up. “Really?”

“All the time,” I say. “Apparently, I’m infuriating. Arrogant. Too by-the-book. Something about my face being ‘punchable’ once every month.”

Sloane snorts, trying to hide her smile behind the rim of her glass. “Seems some things didn’t change.”

“Guess not.” I can’t help the faint smile that pulls at my mouth.

She swirls her wine. “And what about you?” she asks. “Do you complain about me too?”

I tilt my head. “Do you really want to know?”

“Maybe.” She takes a sip, eyes glinting over the rim. “Depends on how bad it is.”

I pretend to think it over. “Let’s see… I might’ve mentioned your impossible temper once or twice. Your habit of leaving your things everywhere. The way you talk back to people who outrank you—like you used to when I was your Wingleader.”

Her smile grows, but I’m just getting started.

“Oh, and you steal the blankets. All of them. Every night.”

“Do I?”

“Like a damn thief,” I say. “And you snore.”

Her eyes widen. “I do not.”

“Yeah, you do,” I tell her, trying not to smile. “Not loud—just enough to make it sound intentional.”

She glares at me, mock-offended. “Intentional?”

“Mm-hm. And when I nudge you awake, you’ve got the nerve to look me dead in the eye and say you weren’t even asleep.”

Sloane bursts out laughing, nearly spilling her wine. The sound hits somewhere under my ribs. I’d almost forgotten what that laugh could do.

“Wow,” she says, catching her breath. “That’s a lot of complaints.”

“Maybe,” I admit, my voice dropping a little. “But for some idiotic reason, they just make me love you more.”

That stops her—half a second of stillness.

I take a slow sip of wine, forcing the air to stay easy between us. Her eyes flick to mine, bright and searching.

“What about me?” she asks quietly. “Do I really love you… despite everything?”

“You do.” I let a smirk tug at my mouth. “You find me irresistible.”

A faint blush creeps up her cheeks, and she tries to hide it by turning her face.

“Gods, you’re impossible.”

“That’s what you always tell me. ” I say softly.

The silence stretches between us, long enough to make the air feel heavier.

Sloane clears her throat. “That’s probably enough wine for me,” she says, setting her empty glass on the table. “I’m going to bed.”

“Yeah,” I manage. “Me too.”

We both stand. She turns toward the stairs, and I fall into step behind her. The house is quiet except for the sound of our steps and the faint creak of wood beneath us.

My gaze drifts—can’t help it. The way she moves. The way the light from the mage lights slides across her shoulders, the small sway of her hips. Fuck, I miss her. I have to fight the urge to set my hands on her.

At the top of the stairs, she stops in front of her door—our door—and turns.

For a moment, neither of us says a word.

I expect her to go in. She doesn’t. She just stands there, hand on the latch, looking at me. The space between us feels charged, like the air before a storm.

Her gaze flicks down my chest, then back up to my face. She’s waiting—for what, I don’t know. Maybe for me to say good night. Maybe for me to move.

“Good night,” I whisper.

“Good night,” she murmurs back.

But she doesn’t move. Neither do I.

I should walk away. Gods know I should. But I don’t.

Instead, my feet carry me forward on their own, slow and careful, until there’s barely a breath of space between us. I can see every detail—her lashes, the faint flush clinging to her cheeks, the way her lips part just slightly as she gazes up at me. Her bright blue eyes giving me that look. The one that always gets what she wants.

Gods, I love her. I love her.

Neither of us moves. The silence stretches thin. My pulse hammers against it, loud enough I swear she can hear it.

I cup her face, almost unconsciously.

And then I lean in. The first touch is barely there—warmth, the shape of her mouth fitting against mine like a memory slipping back into place.

I press deeper. Her breath mingles with mine, wine-sweet. My hand finds her jaw, thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone; her hands climb the back of my neck and curl there, pulling me closer.

She parts for me—just a fraction—and I take it. The kiss tilts; slow turns into sure. Lips catching, breaking, returning. The edge of her tongue brushes mine and heat sparks low. Gods, how I’ve missed this.

I angle my head, teeth catching softly on her lower lip before I draw it in, just the way she likes it. She answers with a moan that goes straight through me. I step closer, closing the last of the space, guiding her back until her shoulders meet the door. My body pins her there, my mouth slides to her jaw, and then to the line of her throat. She gasps.

My hand settles at her waist. Hers tighten at my nape, her breath stutters—short, uneven— as I kiss that spot of her neck. And for a heartbeat, I forget, the rune, the case—everything but the way she tastes, the way she leans into me like she remembers exactly how to. The pressure of her body is painfully sweet against my aching cock.

Then—the soft click of the latch. She’s opened the door behind her.

I stop, breathing hard. She looks up at me—cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes bright, almost… glassy.

She can’t be drunk. Can she?

For a beat, we just stand there, breathing the same air. I can still taste the wine on her lips, still feel the heat of her skin lingering on mine.

I could step with her. One more inch, and we’re past a line I’ve been staring at for far too long.

No.

Not like this. Not after the day she’s had. Too many hits, too much noise, and a little wine humming in her blood.

I want her clear. I want her choosing me with both eyes open.

And fuck, there’s the other thing—five months since we stopped the fertility suppressant. Back when we thought that finally settling in the city meant we could start a family.

If I go in now—if we cross that line—we’re taking a risk we can’t afford. Not with everything that’s happening.

“Good night, Suza.” My voice comes out hoarse.

I press a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep,” I add. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Something flickers in her eyes—disappointment, relief, both. “Good night, Dain,” she whispers.

Sloane slips inside, and the door closes soft between us.

I stand there like an idiot, jaw tight, hands useless at my sides. Every part of me is cursing. I drag in a breath that tastes like old wood, and her damn perfume—then force my feet to move.

The guest room feels darker. Colder.

I head straight to the washroom, brace my hands on the basin, and splash water on my face. Droplets run down my jaw, drip onto the porcelain. I look up.

The man in the mirror looks like hell—tired eyes, bruised thoughts. I try to focus on something else. The case. The crest. Leila. Anything but her.

It doesn’t work.

Fuck, this is harder than any battlefield.

I exhale, slow and rough, then drag a hand through my hair while I make a mental note to ask for the damn pills tomorrow.

- - - - -

AARIC

If you could know how and when you’re going to die, would you want to?

Yeah. I did.

That’s how this whole mess started.

Actually, no. That’s a lie. Nothing ever starts with just one moment.

The present is always a chain reaction—someone’s dumb choice, another’s bad decision wrapped in good intentions—it’s all connected. Tug one thread and the future unravels.

People like to think destiny has a plan. Cute idea. I’ve seen enough to know it doesn’t. It’s just chaos wearing a crown and pretending it knows what it’s doing.

Anyway. The light hasn’t broken yet, but it’s close. The sky behind the curtains has turned that faint silver that means I’ve officially run out of night.

She’s asleep beside me—Cat.

She came here last night. It was supposed to be a conversation. A reasonable one. About her not returning to Poromiel until the investigation’s done.

You may think it went well, given the current circumstances. You’d be wrong. The argument just paused and turned into something far more enjoyable.

Her hair’s a dark halo of chaos on the pillow, her back warm against my chest, and there’s a small mark on her shoulder. Mine. Not intentional, but I’m not sorry either.

See, I knew this would happen eventually. Not years ago, but… recently. Two years, maybe. I never told her. Didn’t push it. I wanted her to choose it. Choose me. Not because of what I’d seen—but because she actually wanted it.

Don’t get me wrong—I haven’t seen anything since Molvic’s death. No visions, no flashes, no ominous nonsense. Just silence.

The first light slips through the curtains, pale and cold. It hits her hair, the edge of the sheets, my hand. And just like that, I’m not here anymore.

Another dawn. Another field. The same kind of light, but heavier—thick with dust, smoke, fear.

Threshing.

The day Molvic chose me. The day it all started, at least for me.

They used to call it a rite of passage. Truth? It was a massacre with better branding.

I’d seen him once before, at Presentation. The most breathtaking creature I’d ever laid eyes on. Sapphire scales like forged steel, eyes like molten gold. If power had a body, it looked like him.

That day, I wasted too much time trying to keep my squadmates alive—trying to stop idiots from killing other cadets for a shot at glory. By the time I went looking for a dragon, the fields were almost empty.

Then I felt it.

That presence behind me. When I turned, he was there.

They’d told us never to approach a blue dragon. Supposedly they killed anything dumb enough to try. But guess what? I was young and confident enough to think I was the exception.

He moved closer, each step shaking the ground. His roar cut the air—hot, sulfurous—a sound designed to make smart people wet themselves, drop to their knees, or flee. I didn’t. Probably because all my sanity had already fled my body screaming.

He looked at me—no, through me—and for a heartbeat, I understood what it meant to be small. Not weak. Just… small.

He stopped a few paces away, teeth bigger than my sword and close enough that I could count them if I wasn’t busy trying not to die.

And then—because reality apparently wasn’t terrifying enough—I heard his voice inside my head. Deep. Old. Amused.

“Who are you?”

Didn’t answer right away. My blood was pounding too loud. Was that a bond forming, or was he just playing with his food?

“If you answer correctly, it means we are bound,” he spoke again, mockingly. “If not… it means I’m about to roast you.”

Cool. No pressure.

My throat was dry, but I forced the words out anyway.

“I’m Aaric Gra—” I stopped, because lying to a dragon seemed like the fastest way to test the whole “roast you” part. “Prince Camlaen Aaric Tauri. King Tauri’s third son.”

Molvic’s eyes narrowed. Then he roared. The sound hit like a thunderclap. I stumbled back, ears ringing.

“Your name and title mean nothing to me,” the voice growled in my skull. “I asked who you are.”

Now, imagine your balls halfway to your throat while a humongous fire-breathing lizard asks you an existential question and you have no damn clue how to answer. Because that’s basically what happened.

Every tutor, every priest, every weapons master had told me who I was supposed to be. But standing there, about to become dragon barbecue, none of it sounded true.

So I said the first honest thing that came to mind: “I don’t know who I am yet. But I know I don’t want to be like him.”

He tilted his massive head, smoke curling around me.

“I don’t want to hide behind wards while others die,” I added. “I want to fight too.”

For a second, I thought I’d overplayed my hand. That honesty was the wrong answer.

Then he rumbled—low, amused.

“Not the worst answer I’ve heard today,” he said. “You’ll do. Also, next time, think your words. No need to shout, little king.”

And just like that, I wasn’t alone anymore.

The memory breaks when my hand trembles. Then the pain hits—sharp, behind my eyes, spreading fast.

Shit.

I forgot my damn potions again.

That’s what happens when you spend the night too busy fucking the Queen of Poromiel instead of taking care of yourself.

Go ahead. Judge me. I deserve it.

I try to slide my arm out from under Cat without waking her. She shifts, murmurs something, then settles, one hand on the empty space I leave behind.

Her hair’s still a tangled mess, her breathing slow, her face relaxed. She looks… at peace. It’s strange, seeing her like this. Cat never looks at peace.

For a second, I almost stay. But the pounding in my skull changes my mind.

I get up, feet hitting cold floorboards, and grab the vial on the table. My hand shakes before I even touch it. I pull the cork out with my teeth and swallow the potion. Bitter, metallic, familiar.

It hits fast, dulling the pain but never killing it completely.

When Molvic died, something in me went with him. The healers call it ‘residual severance’ which sounds fancy for ‘your dragon died, and now your soul’s rotting from the inside.’

They said time would fix it. That was a lie.

It’s like withdrawal. Every nerve still remembers what it was like to be whole—and keeps screaming for it.

The potions help. Most of the time. Enough to fake it through council meetings without keeling over.

But the truth’s simple: my body learned how to live with Molvic’s power. Not without it.

I pull on my trousers, grab my shirt, and leave the room quietly. The adjoining chamber’s dim, dawn slipping through the windows like it’s sneaking in.

On the table, a pitcher waits. I pour a glass of water. My reflection warps in it, my hands a touch more controlled—barely.

I’m halfway through drinking when I hear soft footsteps behind me. I turn.

Cat’s in the doorway. Completely naked. Obviously.

She doesn’t say anything. Just walks toward me, all confidence and zero modesty. Every curve in place. Every movement slow enough to be on purpose.

She takes the pitcher from my hand and drinks. Her throat works with each swallow, and I can’t look away. The memory of her against me still lingers— tangled limbs, moans, the taste of her skin.

She sets the glass down beside the chessboard, then turns and bends to pick up her clothes.

And yep—there goes my ability to think straight.

“Morning,” I say, because apparently that’s the best I can come up with.

Nothing.

She looks at me for half a heartbeat over her shoulder—cool, unreadable—and turns away like I’m yesterday’s mistake.

I laugh under my breath. Can’t help it.

She moves toward the bedchamber; I follow, leaning in the doorway as she dresses.

“You know,” I say, “it’s almost impressive. You won’t talk to me now, but last night you couldn’t stop saying my name.”

That gets her. She freezes. Sharp breath. The glare she shoots me could cut stone.

I grin anyway.

“There it is,” I murmur. “Was starting to think I’d lost your attention.”

She storms toward me, fury in human form.

“You think this is a game?” she snaps.

I straighten. “Depends. Are there points involved?”

Not the right answer.

“I’m the Queen of Poromiel,” she says, eyes blazing. “I don’t take orders from you—or from Maren, or Drake.”

So, round two of the same fight. Great.

“I’m going back,” she says. “Whether you stand behind me or not.”

“No.” My voice leaves no room. “You’re not.” I step closer. “Not because I command it, but because you’re not reckless, Catriona.”

Her gaze burns into mine.

“They already tried to kill you,” I remind her. “That’s not politics anymore— that’s a security threat. Neither Maren nor Drake will risk your life again.”

I meet her eyes head-on. “If you die, Poromiel collapses. You have no heirs. You haven’t named a successor. You’re its anchor. Besides, I’m not about to watch you walk into a blade to prove a point.”

She shakes, furious, exhausted, stubborn as hell. “Seven years since the war, and most of Poromiel’s still in ruins.” She adds, bitter, “What an anchor I turned out to be. And now all of you want me to hide in Navarre while they starve?”

“Just until we find who’s behind this,” I say, softer. “You’ve done everything in your power, Cat. None of this is your fault—you inherited a financial wasteland. You didn’t cause it.”

She turns away. “No, I didn’t cause it. But fixing it is my responsibility. Blaming the dead won’t rebuild Poromiel. It won’t feed anyone.”

I move closer, turn her toward me. “And being dead yourself won’t either,” I say. “If you want to rebuild, you need to live long enough to do it.”

She laughs—sharp, bitter. “And how long am I supposed to wait? Three months since Zolya, and nothing.”

“We have to trust Dain,” I say. “That’s his part now.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but I lift a hand.

“Ours,” I add, “is to stay focused. The motion still needs to pass. If we lose that vote, everything we’ve worked for collapses. Right now, your best chance—your only chance—is external aid.”

For a long second, she just stares at me, fire and exhaustion in equal parts.

“Cat,” I say softly. “I know what it costs you to stay here. But if you go back now, you might be walking straight into their promise.”

And I can’t lose you too.

She exhales, sharp, turning away again—but I catch her arm, steady. She looks back, not quite meeting my eyes.

“I’ll think about it,” she says finally, quiet and tired.

- - - - -

SLOANE

Okay, this is… hard to admit, but I think I’m developing an actual crush on Dain Aetos.

There. I said it.

Despite everything that’s going on, I woke up this morning smiling.

Like, actually smiling. Lightheaded. Ridiculous. The kind of giddy that feels both wrong and... kind of nice.

I’m honestly afraid I’ve reverted to the emotional maturity of a teenager, and any minute now I’ll start doodling his name in the margins of my notes—exactly like I did when I was sixteen and thought I’d die without that stable boy whose name I can’t even remember now.

Except this time, I’m twenty-nine and it’s not some stable boy.

It’s Dain. Fucking. Aetos.

Also, my husband.

Also, the man I blame for Liam’s death.

So, yes. Apparently, my brain’s decided to take a vacation and leave my heart completely unsupervised.

I can still call it a crush if he’s already my husband and I’ve kissed him twice, right?

Well—twice that I remember, anyway.

Gods, I used to be good at this. Keeping my distance. Keeping my walls. But then he goes and—and, you know, does things. Says things. Kisses me like that. And suddenly I’m thinking ridiculous thoughts like maybe he’s not entirely horrible.

And now the man just walks into a room and my brain goes, oh look, butterflies.

It’s pathetic.

And instead of talking about what happened yesterday morning, we just… skipped that part and went straight to the making out again. Gods, all I wanted to do was jump his fucking bones.

What is wrong with me?

And the worst part? I know he knows.

That smug look he gave me when he said, you find me irresistible.

…I never stood a chance, did I?

The sound of the front door opening puts a stop to my spiral.

Mrs. Litman. Thanks Amari. I need to focus on things far more important—things that don’t involve… lips. Or hands. Or other parts of his body that felt really hard last night.

So I rush out of the room, practically tripping over the hem of my robe, and take the stairs two at a time.

Mrs. Litman hasn’t even closed the door yet when I blurt out,

“Hi, Mrs. Litman. Do you happen to know where Dain left a search warrant? Maybe two weeks ago?”

She blinks, a little startled by my tone. “Oh, I don’t remember any search warrant specifically,” she says in that calm, careful voice of hers. “I’m not even sure what one looks like. But any papers I’ve found from Dain, I left them in the bottom drawer of his desk— the one where he keeps your rings.”

Rings?

I blink as I process the information.

Those rings?

For some reason, that tiny detail hits harder than it should.

“Oh. Right. Thanks,” I say, trying to sound casual.

Mrs. Litman gives me a knowing smile before disappearing toward the kitchen.

She did that on purpose, didn’t she?

I stand there for a moment, staring at the kitchen. And then, of course, I head straight for his office.

The door creaks open, and I instantly regret it.

Dain’s office looks exactly like the kind of place I should not be in. Everything about it screams precision—dark wood, heavy walls, the faint smell of ink and old paper that somehow feels like him. There’s a window with iron latticework that lets in just enough light to make the dust in the air look intentional, like it’s part of the decor.

The desk is spotless, which is both unsurprising and deeply annoying. No clutter, no chaos—just neat stacks of documents, a cup with quills arranged by size, and a single clock ticking like it’s reporting for duty.

On the wall hangs a map of the continent—huge, detailed, the kind you could lose an entire hour staring at. And I swear even the frames on the other wall are aligned with military precision.

The chair behind the desk is all dark wood and crimson velvet, tall enough to look like it’s judging me.

I hover by the doorway for a second, fighting the urge to tiptoe. The air in here feels private—like every inch of this room is only his, and I’m trespassing. But he did tell me to look for the warrant, so technically I’m not breaking any rules, right?

I circle around the desk and sink into his chair before I can talk myself out of it. It’s firmer than I expect—because of course it is.

I lean forward and pull open the bottom drawer. Everything inside is disgustingly organized. Papers on the left, folded by size. Seals aligned. Not a single stray note. And on the right—

A small black box.

Oh, gods.

I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.

Which is, naturally, why I open it.

Inside, nestled against dark velvet, are two rings. The sight hits me harder than it should—like someone took a hammer to my ribs. I pick up the one that catches my breath. Gold, but not flashy. The stone—deep red—glows faintly in the morning light. The band curves in soft patterns, almost like leaves caught in motion, and tiny facets of light flicker along its edges. It’s beautiful. Strong. Just like he would’ve chosen.

I hold it a moment longer than I should, tracing the carvings with my thumb before setting it carefully back in the box.

Then I take the other one.

Gold. Simple. Unadorned. The kind of ring that could belong to anyone.

At first, it looks completely plain—until I tilt it, and the light catches a faint shimmer inside the band.

Tiny letters, carved so delicately they almost disappear into the gold.

You have my heart, my Suzarel.

The words are so small, so understated, it feels like a secret he meant for no one else to see.

Oh, crap. Now those doodles of his name will definitely have a little heart dotting the i.

I clear my throat and force myself to focus. Right. The order. The actual reason I came in here.
Carefully, I place both rings back in the box and close the lid.

Then I pull out the stack of papers. Dozens of them—reports, permits, requisitions—all perfectly arranged. It takes a minute of flipping through crisp pages before I find it: the search warrant.

I scan the first few lines, but my eyes go straight to the bottom.

And there it is—the official seal pressed into the parchment, the ink still dark and sharp.

Ugo Eldred.

*****

The late-morning air is warm against my face as I walk toward headquarters, the streets still half-empty for this time of day. Sunlight spills between the rooftops, glinting off the brass buttons of my uniform with every step.

Naturally, I didn’t wait for Dain to come back home to tell him that the name on the scribe’s seal—the one on the copy of the search warrant for Levere’s sister’s house, which, by the way, Dain doesn’t even remember signing—is the same damn name as the scribe who supposedly delivered the runes to me.

This is my mess, and I need to clean it up… or something like that.

My boots click against the cobblestones, steady and purposeful—because if I keep moving, maybe I won’t think about how this will definitely turn into a fight later. I can already hear him: you left the house by yourself and someone might try to kill you, blah, blah, blah.

Honestly, I’m his wife. Not his prisoner.

Although… considering the pair of handcuffs tucked in that cursed drawer, maybe I am… occasionally.

By the time I reach headquarters, the courtyard’s already buzzing—uniforms coming and going, the sharp ring of boots on stone.

I nod to a few officers on my way in, not even caring if I actually know them, keeping my expression somewhere between busy and don’t talk to me. It works. Mostly.

Inside, the air is cooler. The place hums with that constant low murmur of voices and papers being shuffled.

I head straight for the Archives. No detours.

As soon as I step inside, a young scribe hurries past me, arms full of scrolls. I catch him before he disappears between the shelves.

“Excuse me,” I say, matching his pace. “Do you know where I can find Jesinia Neilwart?”

He blinks, like the question caught him off guard, then straightens his posture. “Lieutenant Colonel Jesinia Neilwart?”

“Yes. Her,” I reply, trying not to sound as impatient as I feel.

The scribe shifts the stack of scrolls in his arms and nods toward the far end of the hall. “Someone down that corridor,” he says, tipping his chin toward the second passage on the right. “Ask for her at the reception desk. They’ll point you in the right direction.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, already moving before he finishes.

The reception desk looks exactly like the rest of headquarters—too tidy, too polished, and staffed by people who take their jobs a little too seriously.

I stop in front of the clerk, forcing a polite smile. “Hi. I’m looking for Lieutenant Colonel Jesinia Neilwart.”

He glances up from his ledger, quill still poised in midair. “Do you have an appointment?”

Damn it.

“No,” I say, biting back a sigh. “But it’s urgent.”

He studies me for a long second, like he’s debating whether ‘urgent’ is a good enough reason to risk getting yelled at by his superior. Finally, he sets the quill down. “Name?”

“Major Sloane Mairi.”

That gets his attention. He straightens immediately, nods once, then disappears behind a partition.

Fifteen painfully long minutes later, he reappears. “Lieutenant Colonel Neilwart is currently in a meeting,” he says, voice carefully neutral as he slides a note across the desk.

I take it from him, scanning the words.

Sorry, Sloane — see you in an hour at The Third Cup.

“Do you—uh—happen to know what The Third Cup is?” I ask, before my brain catches up with my mouth.

The man looks up, clearly puzzled. “It’s a café,” he says slowly, like he’s not sure if I’m joking. “Across the square? You can’t miss it.”

“Right. Of course.” I force a nod, tucking the note into my pocket. “Just testing you.”

He blinks. I turn on my heel before I embarrass myself any further.

I leave the archives and I’m halfway to the exit the building when I hear a voice behind me.

“Sloane?”

Shit.

I turn around—and there she is. Eliana.

She walks toward me, the corners of her mouth lifting just enough to look polite. “How’s the relearning going?”

“Oh, excellent,” I say, tapping my temple with my index finger. “Everything’s safely stored right here.”

Her eyes widen, a visible wave of relief washing over her. “Really? You’ve remembered everything?”

“No. No. Not that kind of remembering.” I shake my head. “I mean, the knowledge’s still there, never left. But not the memories. I remember everything I’ve study so far, but I don’t remember when I learned it or which projects I’ve worked on or with whom I’ve done it.”

Eliana’s expression shifts—relief turning quickly into disappointment. “Do you think you’ll remember everything before the briefing?”

I almost roll my eyes. I have no idea how to tell her no without sounding like a lost cause, so I just go with, “I’m trying my best. I’ve finished the theory part, now I’m working on the practical.”

“Good, good,” she says, nodding a little too eagerly. “Maybe that’ll help trigger your memories.”

Then her tone sharpens just a bit. “You’re not practicing at home, are you?”

“Yes,” I say without thinking.

Eliana startles, eyes widening. “You can’t practice at home, Sloane. What if you blow the whole place up? That’s why you have a lab.”

I blink. “I have a lab?”

She actually rolls her eyes. “Gods, you really don’t remember anything. Yes, you have a lab,” she says firmly. “You should practice there. Maybe the place itself will help trigger something.”

“Okay, I’ll do that,” I say, trying to sound agreeable.

“Good,” Eliana replies. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.”

She starts to turn away, then stops mid-step. “Oh, by the way—your husband stopped by my office yesterday.”

Shit.

“He showed me a rune that looked… strangely identical to the amplification runes you developed. Oh, right—you don’t remember those.” She waves a hand. “Anyway, that doesn’t matter. I gave him the archive number. Did he mention anything to you about it? Or if he found something unusual?”

Shit. Shit. Shit.  

“No,” I say quickly.

Her brows lift. “No, he didn’t mention anything? Or no, he didn’t find anything strange?”

Gods, what am I supposed to say to that?

“He said he didn’t find anything out of the ordinary,” I manage, forcing what I hope passes for a calm tone.

Eliana exhales, visibly relieved. “Good. Because honestly, I didn’t have time to go check the archives myself.”

I nod, keeping my expression neutral while my stomach does a full somersault.

*****

The Third Cup looks exactly like the kind of place where secrets accidentally change hands.

It’s dim but not gloomy. Warm light flickers from brass sconces and half-melted candles, turning the cracked green walls into something almost charming. The air smells rich and comforting—freshly baked bread, roasted coffee, and a hint of cinnamon.

I pick a table close enough to the door to see Jesinia the moment she walks in. Most of the tables are occupied: officers in uniform, healers in plain coats, a few civilians pretending not to eavesdrop. The furniture is all dark oak, solid and uneven, polished in the middle by years of elbows and coffee rings.

Only a little sunlight filters through the tall windows, dimmed by the thick vines curling across them. The air hums with quiet chatter and the occasional clatter of porcelain—cups meeting saucers, spoons tapping against glass. Someone laughs too loudly near the counter, a sound that ripples through the room before fading into the murmur of voices.

It’s not a bad place, really.

I’m halfway through my coffee when the door opens and a scribe steps in.

Jesinia.

She hasn’t changed much.

Still has that composed, unshakable look about her—the kind that makes you feel like she’s already ten steps ahead of whatever you’re about to say. Her hair’s darker than I remember, though maybe that’s just the light from the window catching in it, warm and soft against the pale folds of her cloak.

And of course, she walks in without a hint of hurry—just that effortless, steady grace that somehow makes everyone else look like they’re rushing for no reason.

Jesinia spots me almost immediately and heads straight toward my table. I stand before I even think about it.

She wraps her arms around me in a brief, warm hug—the kind that says it’s been too long without needing any words at all.

When she pulls back, she gives me a quick once-over, her eyes catching on my hair.

Her brows lift as her hands move, fluid and precise. “Did you cut your hair?”

Oh. Right. I’d forgotten about that.

“Yes,” I sign back, a little sheepish.

Her smile widens, soft and genuine, before her fingers flick again. “It looks good on you.”

We sit. The quiet between us isn’t uncomfortable; it never was. It’s the kind of silence that feels lived in—filled with small gestures and familiarity. She’s the one I used to talk about Liam the most.

Jesinia’s hands move the moment we settle, quick and graceful. “Gods, Sloane—where have you been?” Her brows draw together, a crease forming between them. “I’ve gone to your office several times since I got back, and it’s always locked. I was starting to get worried.”

I blink, realization hitting me like a soft punch. She doesn’t know.

Jesinia keeps signing, her eyes bright and her movements warm but insistent. “I have so much to tell you. But you go first—mine will probably take longer.”

Ha. I really, really doubt it.

Her expression shifts, curious now. “So, what’s been happening since I left? And what’s this urgent thing you needed to see me about?”

I take a slow breath, fingers hovering over the table before I start signing. “Well, It is actually kind of a long story.”

Jesinia tilts her head, watching me closely. Her eyes always had that sharpness—like she’s reading more than the words.

“I went missing. Had an accident,” I sign. “A month ago.”

Her posture stiffens.

“I hit my head. Lost some memories.” I pause, then add, “A lot of them, actually—the last eight years.”

Jesinia’s eyes widen, her mouth parting slightly. The shift in her face is subtle but unmistakable—shock giving way to something quieter, heavier.

She signs slowly, deliberately. “You don’t remember anything?”

“No, nothing at all. Just the beginning of the battle at Draithus… and then waking up three weeks ago, in the hospital.”

Jesinia leans forward, her brow furrowed, searching my face as if she might find the missing memories herself. Then she exhales, pressing her lips together before signing again. “Gods, Sloane. I didn’t know. I—” Her hands falter. She settles for resting one over mine.

I squeeze her hand before signing again. “I’m better now. A little more adjusted to… all of this. My new life, I guess.”

Jesinia nods, her smile gentle but edged with concern. “That’s good,” her hands move, firm and fluid. “And if there’s anything I can do to help, you know I’m here for you.”

She pauses, her expression softening even more. “We’re good friends, Sloane. Really good friends.”

That catches me off guard for a second. The words actually warm my heart a little, and I give her a small smile.

“Actually,” I sign, “there is a favor I wanted to ask you.”

Her eyes brighten immediately, and her fingers move without hesitation. “Of course. Anything.”

“Do you know a scribe named Ugo Eldred?”

Jesinia’s expression shifts. Her posture straightens, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. Then she signs slowly. “Yes. You’ve asked me about him before.”

My heart simply… stops.

Her brows draw together, the memory coming back to her as she continues signing. “I looked into it for you. The last time we spoke, I told you that he retired in late April this year. Moved to Certa to live with his daughter.”

- - - - -

AARIC

The sun’s already leaning west, flooding the room in that heavy amber light that makes everything look older than it is.

My desk? A battlefield of scrolls and correspondence—every seal a different demand wearing a polite mask.

One stands out—dark red wax, crest of the Low Senarium.

Sawyer Henrick.

Yes, that Sawyer. If you’re wondering what became of him—no, he didn’t end up a Dragon’s Soul. Not after Sliseag.

When his bond broke, he asked for early retirement. The council agreed—missing a leg tends to settle arguments. He went back to Luceras. His province. His home. Where they still tell stories with his name in them.

The first letter came months later, right after we called elections for new representatives. He wanted to run. Said he could still serve, just… differently.

Of course he won. Luceras calls him a hero. Standing against the Venin like he did will do that to a man—and tie a province’s loyalty into a neat knot.

He started writing regularly once the Low Senarium opened its first sessions—reports, minutes, the occasional question about motions, treasury apportionments, or guard deployments.

Now that they’re debating the amendment to the Poromiel–Navarre alliance, the letters arrive almost daily.

I break the seal and unfold the parchment. The tone’s the same as always: clear, efficient, focused. I can hear his voice in every line.

He was a good squad executive, though not for long. Worried about his cadets. About us.

“Any sign yet, Graycastle?” he used to ask me every other day.

He meant well. They all did. Everyone assumed my signet was just late to show. Hell, so did I. But back then, my biggest concern wasn’t exactly bursting into flame in the middle of the dining hall. It was that I might be losing my fucking mind.

Turns out I wasn’t. The signet manifested a month after Molvic chose me. I just didn’t understand it.

Here’s the joke: I only figured it out four years ago.

Yeah, I know how that sounds.

A month after I bonded Molvic, the dreams started. Once or twice a week at first. Then almost every night. Not dreams with sense or story—just flashes that feel too real to be made of sleep.

In most of them, I was king. Not crowned with cheers—just… trapped.

I saw a province torn by war—fields scorched, banners shredded, streets swallowed by smoke. The dead everywhere. Women, children, old men. No dragons. Just people—angry, rising with whatever their hands could hold.

And me.

In the middle of it, cutting through insurgents with my own sword because there was no army left to command. No flame to call. Only steel.

Every strike left my hands slick with blood that wasn’t mine. It clung to my skin until I could feel it under my nails even after I woke. That part followed me into daylight—the iron taste that wouldn’t leave.

I used to tell myself it was fear—becoming my father, repeating his worst choices. My favorite nightmare.

But there were other dreams.

They came less often, but they lingered longer.

A woman.

I could never see her face. Sometimes she stood in shadow; sometimes the light caught her hair, never enough to know her.

And yet I loved her. Don’t ask me how I knew. I just did.

I knew her laugh, the tilt of her head right before she challenged me, the heat that came with her near.

In some dreams, we played chess.

I lost—me, who hadn’t been beaten since I was ten. She always slid her bishop into place, pinning my king.

“Checkmate,” she’d say, not softly.

Sometimes we talked instead—about the kind of kingdom we’d build if we could start from ash and try again.

Other times we didn’t talk at all—it was just hands, tongues, skin. Yes, that kind of dream. The one where you wake with a tent of sheets and a sense of her still there, a heat that refuses to fade.

I told myself it just meant I was lonely. Or just a man. Pick your poison.

And then there was the worst. The one that used to make me wake drenched, heart thundering, palms cold. The one that stitched everything together.

In that dream, I sat the throne. The hall was bare—no banners, no light. The crown weighed like iron until my spine ached. I tried to speak, to command, to move—nothing answered.

Not the guards. Not the court. Not even my own body.

Then the voice.

“You’re no better than your father,” it said. “Molvic would be ashamed of you.”

You saw that coming, right?

Chapter Text

SLOANE

I officially hate horses.

Which is new, because I used to love them. When I was younger, I thought they were majestic—manes flying, hooves pounding, all that noble-animal nonsense. But now? Every time mine snorts or stumbles for absolutely no reason, I can’t help thinking how much better dragons were.

For starters, with Thoirt I actually got a view. Nothing beats watching the world shrink beneath you until even mountains look like toys. Sure, you might fall and die—but at least you’d die with scenery. Thoirt didn’t need reins or spurs or any of this “gentle pressure” idiocy—one thought and she knew exactly what I wanted. She usually didn’t give a fuck, but she got me.

And most importantly… Thoirt never took a shit midflight.

If we still had dragons, we’d already be in Certa. Instead, it’s been five endless hours of this trotting torture, and I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever walk properly again.

Gods, I miss her. I’d give anything to at least have the chance to say goodbye.

“How was your Last Flight?” I ask Dain, mostly to distract myself.

He glances over, looking unfairly good for someone who’s been riding for five hours. He’s got that straight-backed, perfectly-in-control thing going on—every muscle moving exactly how it’s supposed to. The shirt he’s wearing pulls just enough to show the strong and defined shape of his arms, and Oh, gods I—

“My last flight?” he echoes, the tone in his voice snaps me out of my completely innocent, definitely non-lascivious thoughts. It’s guarded—like I just asked him to dig into a wound that still hurts.

Shit. Maybe it’s one of those things no one really talks about.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I say quickly. “If it’s… personal or whatever.”

“It’s okay.” He clears his throat. “It was about two months before yours. In Basgiath. The weather was perfect—clear skies, steady wind, good visibility.” His jaw tightens as he looks ahead. “Cath showed off. Right after the drums started, he just—took off. Loops, dives, rolls. Nearly threw me off twice, the arrogant bastard.”

“You didn’t enjoy it?”

He turns to me, and a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. “I enjoyed every fucking minute of it.”

I smile, small. “Did you say goodbye? Right at the end?”

“No. I was too busy trying not to cry for goodbyes.” His laugh is low, almost embarrassed.

He goes quiet, and I see the way his eyes soften—like he’s somewhere else entirely.

“But right when they were breaking the bond,” his voice is low, “he told me… ‘Stop trying to prove yourself. You are more than enough… even for a human.’”

He swallows, clears his throat again. “I passed out right after that. Woke up the next morning in the Healers’ Quadrant.”

My chest tightens. “So that was the last time you saw him?”

He shakes his head.

“I saw him once more—flying over me as I was leaving Basgiath.” He lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half ache. “And that’s when I cried. Like a fucking baby. All the way home.”

I look at him. There’s a faint smile on his face, but his shoulders have sunk, and I have this stupid, ridiculous urge to reach over and hug him. I don’t, obviously.

Still—it hits me. The trust it takes to say something like that. He didn’t have to. He could’ve just done the whole stoic-colonel routine. But he didn’t.

“I miss her,” I whisper. “Thoirt.”

It comes out smaller than I mean it to. “I miss her so much.”

“I know,” he says simply. No questions. No lecture. Just that. And somehow, it’s exactly what I need.

We ride in silence after that. The only sound is the dull rhythm of hooves on dirt. The road winds between moss-covered stone fences, the sky hanging heavy and gray. It smells like rain—wet earth and waiting thunder. The kind of air that promises it’s about to ruin your day. Perfect.

Yesterday, I told Dain what Jessenia said about Ugo Eldred.

And of course, his first reaction wasn’t “interesting, let’s investigate.” No, it was a lecture on why I shouldn’t be wandering around alone with a target on my back. — Shocking, I know.

By the way, that lecture sounds a lot less reasonable when you’re being scolded by someone who forgets I’m not a gods-damned damsel in distress.

Anyway, after that little performance, we finally agreed to pay this Ugo Eldred a visit.

So here we are.

An hour away from finding out what kind of connection I had with the scribe—why I asked Jessenia to look into him before I disappeared and someone tried to kill me.

My stomach twists. It starts in my gut and climbs until it’s pressing behind my ribs, whispering what if you don’t want to know?

What if I really am connected to all of it? What if, when we find the truth, it turns out… it really was me?

The thought hits like a punch. My stomach knots tighter. I grip the reins until the leather bites into my palms.

Damn it. I need to think about something else.

“So,” I say, forcing my voice lighter, “did we get married before the dragons left?”

Dain’s horse shifts closer, hooves splashing in a shallow puddle. “No,” he says. “After.”

“You said home…” I trail off, watching the rain-dark horizon. “Where was that?

“Well, once you graduated, they assigned you to the Southern Wing—same as me, just different posts. Took us a while to get them to reassign us both to Aretia.” He adjusts the reins, posture as straight as ever. “We lived there for about a year and a half. That’s what I meant when I said home.”

I nod, trying to sound casual. “And when did we get married?”

“I proposed a few months after Thoirt left,” he says. “We married a year later.”

Oh, Gods. For some ridiculous reason, I want to giggle. Like hearing him say I proposed out loud does something weird to my insides.

“So…” I clear my throat, pretending to adjust the strap of my saddle. “How did you propose?”

A hint of a smile crosses his face before he speaks.

“I’d been carrying the ring for months,” he says. “Trying to find the right moment, the right words. But nothing ever felt right. Everything I planned sounded… stupid.”

I don’t want to react. I really don’t. But I can’t help it—I’m grinning, dammit.

“Then one night, we were just—home. You were lying on me, reading, the fire going. And I said, ‘You know, we should probably get married.’”

I turn my head toward him, incredulous. “That’s it? That was your big romantic speech?”

“Yeah,” he says, chuckling. “You thought I was joking. Said something sarcastic—I can’t even remember what—but I told you I was serious.”

“And then?” I raise an eyebrow.

“You turned around, I pulled out the ring,” he says. “And you kissed me before I could even finish the question.”

I can almost see it—the flicker of firelight, that quiet domestic kind of peace that sounds… dangerously nice.

“That’s… not terrible,” I manage. “Though you could’ve just, you know—brought me flowers or something.”

He snorts. “You’d have complained about the color.”

“Probably.”

We both smile. The kind that lingers for a breath too long before either of us looks away.

*****

An hour later, Certa finally appears in the distance—like some stubborn mirage that refuses to vanish.

The road winds through open fields and turns muddier the closer we get, leading straight toward a rocky hill rising from the flats. The outpost sits on top of it, walls thick and uneven, surrounded by houses packed so tight they look like they’re arguing over space.

Certa was originally built to guard the trade routes and protect the caravans. But trade grew, and so did everything else—merchants, craftsmen, families. Now it’s basically a small town wrapped around an old fortress that still pretends it’s in charge.

I glance at the road ahead, the long causeway half-submerged in mud, and shift in the saddle to ease the ache in my back. I swear, if this Ugo Eldred turns out to be another dead end, I’m throwing myself off that hill.

By the time we reach the gates, even the horses look done with us. The guards wave us through toward the stables, and once we hand them off, I realize I can finally feel my legs again—and that’s not necessarily a good thing.

Two soldiers stand at the entrance, spears crossed like they’re guarding the royal treasury instead of a glorified trade post. Dain flashes his insignia, they straighten immediately, and just like that, we’re in.

Inside, it’s… not what I expected.

The main street climbs steep between stone walls, twisting up toward the old keep. Shops squeeze into every corner—blacksmiths, cloth merchants, spice stalls spilling color and noise into the street. The air hums with hammer strikes, shouting vendors, the smell of bread and metal.

Kids chase each other through the crowd, soldiers haul crates, a woman argues over the price of honey. It’s chaos—but it’s alive.

We pass under a wooden arch carved with old insignias—half military, half merchant guild—and I can’t help noticing how the banners blur together, colors faded from sun and dust.

Finding Ugo Eldred should be simple. Ask around, follow directions, knock on a door. Easy.

We start in the market square, which is basically a tangle of stalls, shouting, and chickens. Most people just shake their heads. But finally one woman points uphill toward the older part of town.

We leave the market and follow her directions. The street narrows until it’s barely wide enough for the two of us. Stone walls rise on both sides, slick with moss, and the stairs feel endless—like whoever built them had a personal grudge against legs.

“Why” I say between breaths, “would and old scribe live on top of a cliff?”

Dain doesn’t slow down. “Maybe he values peace and solitude.”

“Or maybe he hate visitors.”

At the top, the path levels out into a narrow lane bordered by low walls and crooked houses.

“That’s got to be it,” I say when I spot a house that sits a little apart from the others.

It’s walls lean a little, the roof’s all sharp angles and dark slate, and the shutters look like they’ve survived about five different paint jobs.

The courtyard’s small and covered in gravel that crunches under my boots. It smells like damp stone and something green—ivy, maybe.

Dain studies the place, expression unreadable.

I step closer and knock. Once. Twice.

No answer.

He shifts beside me, about to say something when the latch clicks. The door creaks open just enough for someone to peer out.

She can’t be more than fifteen. Dark curls fall over her shoulders, skin pale against the green of her dress. But it’s her arm that catches my eye—bare from wrist to elbow, traced with black lines that twist across her skin. A rebellion relic.

Something twists inside me.

Then I see her face. Wide blue eyes—sharp, watchful. I’ve seen those eyes before, years ago, when they were rounder and full of laughter.

“Julianne?” I whisper.

Her expression freezes. Whatever softness she had is gone in an instant.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says. Her voice shakes a little. She glances out to the street, checking both sides before stepping back and letting us in.

------

AARIC

If you’ve never been inside the High Senarium, imagine a temple built by someone who thought humility was a disease.

The ceiling soars high enough to make a man reconsider his faith. Chandeliers hang like frozen suns. The table—round, polished, and far too large—is a symbol of equality, or so they say. In practice, it’s just a convenient way for everyone to stare directly at the person they plan to betray next.

And those chairs? Upholstered in leather so fine it probably has a title of its own. You don’t sit on them; you negotiate your position.

I’d like to tell you the air smells of law and order, but it’s mostly old parchment, ambition, and the faint perfume of hypocrisy. Still, it’s impressive. Even I’ll admit that.

Nine seats. Eight filled—for now.

One for each province, one for Navarre’s general, one reserved for my future queen, and one for me—the poor fool expected to keep them from stabbing each other with their pens.

If you’re wondering what brings us here, it’s money. Isn’t it always?

The Low Senarium already voted—overwhelmingly in favor. No surprises there.

So now it’s our turn.

I clear my throat. “By decree of the Crown and with the consent of the Low Senarium, we convene to vote on the Act for the Supervision and Registration of Provincial Banks.” I project enough authority to silence the side whispers.

Six ducal heads and Mira turn toward me, all different shades of interest, boredom, and barely concealed greed.

“This act,” I continue, “aims to unify fiscal policy, prevent speculation, and restore confidence in the royal currency.”

You’d think I’d be used to it by now. But no—every time I stand in this chamber, it hits me: I’m trying to convince six people, all born to power, that they shouldn’t abuse it. Which, in case you were wondering, is like telling a dragon to mind its own pride.

No, that’s not fair. Most of the time I only need to convince four. Because there’s Xaden Riorson—honestly, if half the men here had his sense, I’d sleep better at night.

And there’s also the youngest of the council, Dara Jonker, twenty-one, Duchess of Deaconshire. Too idealistic. Too curious. Too smart. She speaks of reform like it’s a hymn and of equality like it’s contagious.

Honestly, I have no idea where that came from. Her father was as retrograde as the furniture in this chamber, and yet here she is, ready to burn the whole system down with me. So, I’m not complaining.

You probably think the reason I want to destroy the system is because I hate it. Which is a fair assumption, given that I’ve made that pretty clear since… well, since I was old enough to realize it was rotten.

But that wasn’t the real reason. The truth is, I wasn’t just trying to change the system. I was trying to change the future.

See, when Cat shouted those words at me—the same ones that had haunted my sleep when I was younger—it hit me.

They hadn’t been dreams. They’d been visions. The first ones I ever had.

And one of them included me—suffocating an uprising.

I thought if I changed everything—shifted the power, spread it around—I could stop what I’d seen. The death. The fires. The blood on my hands.

So, I did what any reasonable man with too much authority and not enough sleep would do: I rewrote the rules.

I gave the people a voice.

Created the Low Senarium, filled it with representatives chosen by the public.
You’d be surprised how many nobles called it madness. Then again, most of them panic when someone other than themselves gets to speak.

I stripped them of their control—the governorships of the provinces, the tax collections, the city appointments.

All of it, gone.

Transferred to citizens elected by vote, not bloodline or favor.

The reforms have been coming into effect slowly, one decree at a time.

Take these six ducal seats in front of me, for example—they won’t be here in less than two years.

Riorson couldn’t care less. He’s probably counting the days. After the war, I think all he’s ever wanted is peace—and time with his family. Can’t blame him. The hardest job in the world is the one you hate showing up for.

Then there’s Dara Jonker. A little too excited for her own good. Says she’s running for a seat in the High Senarium, not the governorship of her province—that, apparently, she’ll leave to another misfortunate soul.

Ambitious, reckless, and entirely too hopeful. I almost envy her. Almost.

But the other four… gods.

They keep throw tantrums like children denied dessert.

They’ve fought every reform, every vote, every whisper of change that didn’t end with their names on the profit.

And between you and me? I’d bet half my crown they’re funding the rebel groups we keep hearing about—little factions inside their provinces that dream of rolling us back to the old order, in the hope of sparking an uprising.

Yeah. That thing I was trying to prevent? Turns out I might be the one causing it.

The table opens to debate. And of course, the first to speak is Milos Priam.

When your name is carved above half the vaults in Elsum, and your bank crest is stamped on more notes of credit than the Crown’s own seal, any law touching finance is... personal.

He rises with that practiced calm of a man who’s never been interrupted in his life. The kind of calm that says I own the room, and possibly everyone in it.

“Your Majesty,” he begins, voice smooth as lacquer. “While we all recognize the Crown’s intentions, the proposed act threatens the economic stability of our provinces. The markets of Elsum rely on autonomy—on trust built over generations.”

Translation?
He doesn’t want anyone looking too closely at how his fortune was “built.”

He goes on about freedom, prosperity, and—my favorite—“the sacred duty of noble stewardship.”

I almost applaud. The man could make greed sound like charity.

Around the table, a few heads nod in solemn agreement. Not because they care about his argument, but because they care about their own pockets.

Milos gestures toward me like we’re partners in reason, not opponents in principle.
“What this act proposes, Sire, is a dangerous centralization of power. Surely, Your Majesty sees the risk in placing so much authority in the hands of a single institution?”

But what I see is him—standing there, smiling but silently praying no one remembers that the single institution he’s protecting happens to bear his name.

Milos finishes his speech to the sound of polite silence—the kind that only exists because no one dares to yawn out loud.

He’s pleased with himself, of course. Men like Priam always are.

Then Xaden Riorson leans forward.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. Some people command attention; others own it. Roirson’s the latter.

“With all due respect, Duke Priam,” he says, his tone even, clipped, dangerous in its restraint, “stability isn’t the same thing as control. And autonomy without oversight—well, we’ve all seen where that leads.”

Milos straightens, the edges of his smile tightening like a man who’s just realized the ground beneath him isn’t as solid as he thought.

Riorson continues, calm as ever. “The act doesn’t strip the provinces of freedom. It ensures accountability. If your institutions are as sound as you claim, then transparency shouldn’t be a problem.”

Milos opens his mouth, but Riorson doesn’t give him the chance. I almost feel sorry for him.

No, I’m lying. I don’t.

Riorson turns his gaze to me instead—sharp, unflinching. “If the intent of this act is to prevent collapse, then I support it. Entirely.”

There it is.

That quiet, immovable conviction that makes men like Priam furious—and the rest of us a little grateful he’s on our side.

------

SLOANE

Sixty-eight of the officers who fought in the Tyrrish Rebellion had kids under sixteen. A hundred and seven of us in total. My mother made protective runes for each one.

When the rebellion fell and our parents were executed—burned by dragonfire—those runes burned us too. Left marks on every single kid who carried one. Black lines, spiraling up the arm that held it.

That’s how it was for all of us. Except one.

The youngest. She didn’t carry a rune—her mother did. She was pregnant at the time. So, Julianne was born with it. A rebellion relic written into her skin.  

The last time I saw her, she was barely four—wild curls and sticky hands trying to grab my braid. And now she’s standing in front of me.

“What do you want now?” she says, crossing her arms.

“Do you… know me?” I ask, still trying to process this. “Are you—are you Ugo Eldred?”

She opens her mouth, frowns, and looks at me like I’m stupid.

“What’s wrong with her?” she asks, turning to Dain.

 “Um… she hit her head. She’s having some trouble remembering things.”

I keep staring at Julianne, speechless. Why? Why is she here?

“And who are you?” she asks him.

“I’m Colonel Dain Mairi,” he says evenly. “Her husband.”

“Husband?” Julianne raises an eyebrow at me. “What happened to that hot gryphon flyer who came with you last time?”

Dain shifts his stance and clears his throat. “Look, we’re looking for Ugo Eldred. Is he here?”

Julianne watches us for a long moment. Then she exhales, steps aside, and nods toward the hallway she’d been blocking.

It’s narrow, a little dark and our steps sound too loud on the floor. At the end of the hall, a door is open. I take one step inside and stop.

The room smells faintly of herbs and damp sheets. Light slips through the curtains, cutting across the bed by the window. An old man lies there, completely still. His hair is white, his hands are folded over his chest, and his skin is so pale and thin it almost blends with the pillow. A brown blanket is pulled up to his ribs, moving just a little with each breath.

He looks peaceful. Too peaceful.

A pulse of dread crawls up my spine. “What happened to him?” I manage.

Julianne’s standing in the doorway, blocking most of the light. Before she can speak, the sound of a door slamming open echoes through the house.

Julianne flinches. “Shit,” she mutters under her breath. “That’s my aunt. You need to leave. Now.”

Dain straightens immediately. “We’re not leaving until—”

“You don’t understand,” she cuts him off, panic flashing in her eyes. “If she sees you here—”

“Julianne?” a woman’s voice calls from the hallway. “Is that Terrel?”

Julianne freezes.

The footsteps come closer.

“Thank the gods you came early,” the voice says. “He’s been looking—”

A woman wearing a Dragon’s Soul uniform stops cold the second she sees me. Her eyes widen, then narrow, and all that surprise hardens into fury.

“You,” she spits.

Before I can even move, she crosses the room. Her hand slams into my shoulder, shoving me back against the wall. The impact rattles through me, knocking the breath out of my chest.

“You did this to him!” she snarls, pressing her forearm against my throat.

Everything happens too fast.

Julianne lunges after the woman, trying to stop her, but Dain grabs her and pulls her out of the way.

Pain explodes in my stomach as the woman’s fist connects. I fold forward with a gasp—but my body moves before my brain does. I shove her back. We crash into the edge of the table, sending books and glass clattering to the floor.

Her hand claws at my throat; I twist, grab her wrist, and slam her against the wall.

“Stop!” Julianne screams, her voice breaking. She tries to wrench free from Dain’s grip, but she can’t.

The woman lunges again, but this time I’m faster. I grab the front of her uniform and drag her down with me. We hit the floor hard, breath knocking out of both of us.

Something inside me snaps.

I pin her beneath me, my palms slamming against her face. Heat floods my skin—sharp, electric, like anger made solid.

Her eyes widen as her skin goes pale, almost gray. Her body jerks once beneath me, then starts to weaken, her hands slipping from my wrists. I can feel her power pulling into me, raw and frantic.

“You’re killing her!” Julianne screams. But the words barely reach me—just noise over the roaring in my ears.

Then something clamps around my waist. Strong. Solid. I’m yanked backward, hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.

Dain.

He drags me off her, one arm locked around me, pinning my arms against my sides.

Julianne drops to her knees beside the woman, tapping her cheek, whispering something I can’t make out. All I hear is the pounding in my chest, loud and uneven, filling my head until it’s the only thing that exists.

The woman lies still. Eyes open. Skin pale.

I killed her.

The thought hits hard, cold, final. My stomach twists.

I turn toward the bed—toward Ugo Eldred. He hasn’t moved. His face looks the same as before: gray, still, lips slightly parted.

Did I do the same to him?

Then a sound cuts through the ringing in my ears—a sharp inhale, rough and desperate. The woman gasps. Her chest rises once, then again.

Relief hits me with wave of nausea so hard it almost doubles me over. I tear free from Dain’s grip and stumble toward the door. My boots slip against the floor, my shoulder hits the wall, but I keep moving. I just need to get out.

By the time I reach the front door, my vision’s spinning. I push it open, and the cold air slams into me.

I suck in a breath—too fast, too shallow—and bend forward, hands braced on my knees. The air burns going in, but at least it’s air.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to steady the rush in my chest. In. Out. Again.

“Sloane!” Dain shouts my name. The door slams behind him, and I stay there, bent forward, trying not to throw up.

“I didn’t mean to,” I manage. “She attacked me, and I—” My throat closes around the rest.

The air’s cold against the sweat on my skin, and I can feel the first drops of rain starting to fall. But the image is still there—the woman’s face, her skin turning gray, her eyes fading. My stomach twists again.

“She’s breathing,” Dain says, his voice closer now. “She’ll be fine in a couple of hours.”

His boots scrape against the stone as he comes to stand beside me. He reaches out, grabs my arm, and helps me straighten.

“Come,” he says quietly. “We need to find a place to stay while we figure out our next move.”

****

The rain starts as soon as we leave the house.

At first it’s just a drizzle—the kind that pretends it’s harmless—and then it turns into a wall of water. Within minutes, my hair’s plastered to my face, my coat’s useless, and Dain looks like he walked through a river instead of a street. We don’t talk. The sound of the rain is too loud, and honestly, I wouldn’t know what to say even if I wanted to.

By the time we spot the inn, my teeth are chattering so hard it’s embarrassing. From the outside, the place looks small—two floors, a crooked sign swinging in the wind, and light spilling through the cracks around the door. When Dain pushes it open, the warmth hits like a miracle.

The innkeeper takes one look at us—drenched, dripping, clearly not locals—and sighs.  “Only one room left.”

Dain rubs a hand over his face, water running down his wrist. “We’ll take it,” he says before I can object.

After the woman hands him a key and waves toward the stairs. I mutter something about Zihnal and follow him up, leaving a trail of rainwater on the floorboards.

The room is small but dry—just one bed, big enough for two people if neither of us moves too much.

“Don’t start,” Dain warns without even looking at me.

“What? I wasn’t going to say anything.” Which is, of course, a lie.

He sighs. “Dry off. I’ll deal with the rest.”

The door closes behind him, and for a while, the only sound is the rain against the window.

About an hour later we’re warming up by the fire. Dain’s hair is still damp, and a drop of water slides down his neck, catching the light before disappearing beneath the scar on his shoulder. He’s barefoot, wearing only a pair of loose pants.

I’m wearing his shirt—because, as if everything that happened today hadn’t been enough, I also forgot my damn pajamas. The fabric hangs loose on me, soft and warm, brushing mid-thigh. It smells faintly of him.

In any other situation, I’d probably be admiring the very distracting muscles on his stomach. But right now, all I can think about is what happened in that house—the surge of power, the woman’s face, the way the magic tore through me faster and harder than it ever had before. It shouldn’t have been possible to draw that much, that quickly.

Whatever I am now, it’s more than what I used to be. And that terrifies me.

“Have I killed someone before?” I ask finally. “Other than Lilith Sorrengail?”

Dain doesn’t answer right away. The fire snaps, a spark leaping onto the stone.

“You were a Rider,” he says at last. “And we were at war. You had to.”

The words sit heavy between us. I swallow hard and nod.

“How many?” I whisper.

He turns toward me, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know.” He pauses. “But I do know you saved far more lives than you ever took.”

He reaches out, slow and careful, and takes my hand. Then he lifts it and presses it against his chest—right over that big, ugly scar near his heart. The heat of his skin seeps through my palm, his heartbeat is strong and uneven beneath my fingers, alive in a way that makes my own pulse trip.

“You found a way to use runes to heal people,” he says quietly. “Without a Mender.”

He lifts his arm. The firelight catches on a scar low on his side I hadn’t noticed before—thin lines carved into his skin, forming the outline of a rune.

It’s rough, uneven, like it was drawn by someone desperate and half out of time. I reach out without thinking, my finger tracing the edges of the mark, following each curve and cut.

Dain’s breath catches. His hand closes gently over mine, keeping it there against his chest. His other hand cups my face.

He studies me for a long moment, eyes searching mine as if trying to read what’s going on inside my head.

“You did what you had to,” he says. “We all did. But that doesn’t erase the good you’ve done, Suza. Or that big, stubborn heart of yours.”

The words hit something deep and fragile inside me. Then he leans in—just a little—enough for me to feel the warmth between us. My hand is still on his chest, his heartbeat speeding beneath my fingers, and mine stumbles to match.

Naturally, that’s when someone pounds on the door.

“Food!” a woman’s voice calls from the hallway. “You ordered stew and bread?”

****

We sit at the small table by the fire. The stew is still steaming, and the smell alone makes my stomach remember I haven’t eaten since morning.

“Okay,” Dain says, setting his spoon down. “This is what I think happened.”

I glance up. His tone has shifted—calm, focused, the way it gets when he’s Coronel Mairi.

He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on me.

“Levere had the rune. He showed it to you. You recognized it—and went to the archives yourself. You saw the last name on the custody record and realized you hadn’t requested the transfer. So, you asked Jesinia where to find Ugo Eldred.”

He pauses, watching me carefully.

“Then you came here with Levere—during those days you were gone without telling me anything,” he says. “To speak with Ugo. And something went wrong.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I tried to kill him. And now he’s a vegetable.”

Dain shakes his head immediately. “No. If that’s what really happened, the girl wouldn’t have let us through the door.”

I stare at him. He’s got a point.

“Maybe it was just an accident,” he says. “Maybe her aunt blames you.” He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly as he thinks. “What doesn’t add up is why you recognized the girl at all.”

“Because she’s the youngest of us,” I say. “Black curls, blue eyes—she’s not exactly easy to forget.”

“Right,” he says slowly. “Well, something else must’ve happened, because none of this explains why someone tried to kill you. You must’ve found something out.”

“After what happened in that house,” I mutter, “I don’t think we’ll find anything else.”

“I’m going back tomorrow,” his voice filled with resolve. “The girl seemed more reasonable than her aunt. Maybe I can get her to talk—or read her memories.”

“I’m coming with you.”

He shakes his head. “No. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to show your face there again.”

I don’t argue. He’s right. Going back would probably end with another broken table—or worse.

So I just nod. “Fine. You go.”

For a while, we eat in silence. The fire crackles low, rain tapping against the window like it’s never going to stop.

Dain finishes what’s left of his stew, pushes the bowl away, and leans back in his chair. “We should try to get some rest,” he says.

“Yeah,” I murmur, suddenly aware of how heavy my eyelids feel. My body’s still sore from the fight, from the ride, from everything.

Only, there’s one little problem left to address.

“There’s just one bed,” I point out.

“Yeah, and I’m not sleeping on the floor,” he says flatly, crossing his arms, like the conversation’s already over.

“Oh, so chivalry’s dead…” I mutter.

“Not dead,” he says. “Just cold, wet, and done for the day.”

I stare at the bed, pondering my options.

“Sloane, we’ve slept in the same bed for years. I’m perfectly capable of sleeping beside you without trying to make a move—if that’s what you’re worried about.”

I turn to him. There’s that faint, infuriating smile again—smug and completely convinced he’s the one I’m worried about.

“Okay then,” I murmur, giving up a fight I’m not even sure I wanted to win.

He reaches over, stirs the embers with the poker until the glow fades to a faint red, then sets it aside. The room softens in the dark, shadows stretching long and lazy across the walls.

I walk to the bed, trying not to make it awkward and slip under the covers, wincing as the cold fabric touches my skin.

Fuck, this is really cold.

I turn onto my side, facing the wall. Safer that way. Then I feel how the mattress dips when Dain joins me. His movements are careful, measured— as if there’s an invisible line down the middle neither of us is supposed to cross.

My pulse picks the worst possible time to turn traitor. I hold my breath, trying to stay still, as if that’ll help me stop feeling everything all at once.

“Relax. I won’t bite,” he teases, but then his voice drops lower. “Unless you want me to.”

The words hit low in my stomach, warm and reckless before I can stop it.

“Shut up,” I manage, voice tighter than I’d like. “You’re impossible.”

I can almost hear him smiling. The silence that follows is heavier. The fire’s dying, the air’s cooling again, and I can’t tell if I’m trembling from the cold or from him being so close.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“I’m cold.”

Dain doesn’t answer, but I feel him shift behind me, the mattress dipping slightly as he turns toward me.

“Come here,” he whispers, his voice deep enough to make something in me shiver.

I glance over my shoulder, just enough to catch the outline of him in the half-dark. He’s watching me, waiting.

“I think you said you wouldn’t try to make a move on me,” The sarcasm in my voice does a terrible job of hiding my nerves.

“I won’t,” he says. “I’ll just keep you warm.”

I hesitate, staring at the wall like it might give me advice.

This is a terrible idea. Or a perfect one.

With a quiet sigh, I shift a little closer, just enough that my back brushes his arm. Dain doesn’t do anything right away. Then, slowly, he moves closer, and his arm slides around me.

Oh, gods.

Every muscle in my body goes tense for a heartbeat. Then something in me gives up fighting it. The heat of him seeps through the thin fabric of his shirt, chasing away the cold that’s stuck in my bones.

He exhales softly against my hair. The sound does strange things to my insides—calm and chaos all tangled together.

“You okay?” he murmurs, his breath brushing the back of my neck.

“Yeah,” I whisper.

His thumb moves slightly, tracing an absent circle over my arm. It’s small, unconscious, but it makes my pulse trip.

For a while, neither of us says anything.  His arm stays around me, his chest feels solid and warm against my back, his breathing slow against my neck.

Why, in the name of every god I’ve ever ignored, did I have to practically make him promise not to try anything?

Then a stupid, reckless thought takes shape in my head before I can stop it.

How easy it would be to just… turn around.

I bite my lip, glaring at the dark and make up my mind.

Okay, this is it. I’m doing this. I’m—

Wait. Has his breathing evened out? Because it kind of sounds… slow. And steady.

Fuck.

He’s asleep, isn’t he?

I close my eyes, silently cursing every moral decision I’ve ever made.

And still, somehow, I fall asleep smiling.

- - - - -

AARIC

It’s late.

Outside, the city finally rests—windows dark, streets quiet, the kind of silence that only comes when even the restless have given up for the night.

But inside, the dining chamber feels too bright, too polished, too awake for this hour.

Soft mage lights throw gold against the stone walls, making the banners look older than they already are. The air smells like roasted lamb, fresh bread, and desperation— like someone really thought this dinner might fix things.

Yep, it was me.

Two places are set at the long table. One for Cat, one for me. The servants have done their part: candles lit, wine breathing, enough food to feed a small battalion. Which is optimistic, considering I might be dining alone. Again.

If she’s still angry, I’ll be eating cold lamb and self-awareness for supper. You’d be surprised how often that happens.

The doors open, and every thought I had about eating alone promptly dies.

Cat walks in. And just like that, the room stops pretending to be warm—it simply is.

Her dress is black, the kind that doesn’t absorb the light but bends it around her. The sleeves cling to her arms like smoke, the bodice traced with delicate gold stitching that somehow manages to look both regal and dangerous. The neckline… well, let’s just say the tailor deserves a medal.

Her hair is down tonight, dark waves spilling over her shoulders, softening what the dress refuses to. It’s unfair, really. She looks like the reason men stop thinking clearly—and I’m apparently no exception.

Cat pulls out her chair with the same grace she does everything—with intent. Fully aware that I’m watching whether I want to or not. The fabric of her gown shifts as she sits, catching the light in all the wrong ways for my concentration.

A servant appears to pour the wine. I wait until he leaves before I open my mouth, mostly because I’m not sure what version of my voice will come out.

“Glad you decided to join me,” I say.

She arches one brow, the picture of unimpressed royalty.

“I figured someone had to make sure you didn’t drink the whole bottle yourself.”

That earns half a smile from me. “I would’ve saved you a glass.”

She hums—noncommittal, but it sounds a lot like victory.

The first night she ever walked into my rooms. The night after she insulted me in front of everyone.

I’d been losing my fucking mind for hours, trying to understand what the hell had happened—why every choice, every move I’d made to change the future, to win the war, somehow led back to that damn dream.

Still, I managed to look like it hadn’t surprised me at all—I mean, the fact that she walked into my rooms, not the whole nightmare-coming-true part.

She didn’t say much at first. Just walked right in like she owned the place and sat across from me, completely unaware that she’d just rewritten my entire understanding of the universe.

Then she reached out, picked up one of my chess pieces, and moved it. Just like that.

And that’s when my heart stopped.

All I could think was: you have to be fucking kidding me.

Because it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be her—the woman from the dreams.

She couldn’t have been in front of me so many times without me even realizing, right?

No, to be fair, the first time I ever saw Cat, she really got my attention. I mean, how could she not? She’s beautiful, yes—but it’s more than that. It’s that… thing she has. The way she carries herself. That quiet confidence that fills the room before she even says a word. The kind of presence that makes people look twice without knowing why.

The way you can tell, instantly, that she’s the kind of person who knows what she wants, knows how to get it, and is brave enough to go for it.

But back then, she was too busy using that energy to throw tantrums over Riorson. Which, honestly, was a little—

What’s the word?

Right. Unsexy.

The attitude, not the woman. Just… to be clear.

And of course, there was the other thing—she definitely never looked twice at me.

So, naturally, I did the only reasonable thing a man in my position could do. I asked her to play chess.

Don’t judge me. I had to be sure, all right? Dreams or not, I wasn’t about to start assigning mystical meaning to a woman who’d insulted me in front of the hole Senarium.

Anyway, We played. She lost. Badly.

Which was fine—actually, it was perfect. Because in my dreams, the woman always won. So, clearly, Cat wasn’t her. Mystery solved. Case closed.

Except… not really. Because the idea wouldn’t leave me alone.

For two years. Two. Whole. Years.

Yeah, I know how that sounds. But in my defense, I was busy. I had a monarchy to reform. A kingdom to hold together. I didn’t exactly have time to sit around wondering if the woman who called me a useless coward was also like, you know, the love of my life.

But still—sometimes, when things got quiet, the thought slipped back in. What if I’d been wrong?

Fast forward two years later: rumors of separatist groups start spreading, Mira comes up with her Gryphons idea, and I find myself in Poromiel.

And there she is. Same impossible woman. Different light, different kingdom, same effect.

So, of course, I asked her to play again. And she won. Not just won—she beat me with the exact same move the woman used in my dreams.

Like I said before, I never told her.

There are other things I haven’t told her either.

Like the last visions I had—right before Molvic died.

In them, I saw a mass exodus in Poromiel: people fleeing the farmlands, fields collapsing into dust, the monarch killed, a civil war tearing everything apart. The end of Poromiel as we know it.

I didn’t tell her because… well, those visions felt far away. Not tomorrow. Not twenty years from now. Far, far more distant.

And I figured—if there’s a chance they never happen, why make her carry that weight?

Of course, I didn’t leave it to luck. When I sent the agrarians to the southern fields in Poromiel, I told them to inspect the soil, the crops—everything. All clear. Nothing collapsing.

No reason for her to worry. It’s a future she doesn’t have to face—not in her lifetime, anyway.
But now, my heirs might.

I haven’t told anyone about that. Well, just one person. Though she doesn’t remember now.

And the thing about my visions? Most of them never came true. Some faded before they ever happened; others twisted into something completely different.

See, people think seeing the future means knowing it. It doesn’t. The future isn’t a straight line—it’s a constellation. Every decision, every hesitation, every word swallowed or spoken tilts the orbit of what comes next.

And it’s not just my choices that matter. The world breathes through billions of lungs at once, each one shifting the wind in its own direction.

So the future… it splinters. One choice becomes ten; ten become a thousand. Infinite universes branching like roots beneath the same soil.

The way I see it—it’s like standing in the middle of a vast, star-filled void. Each light is a possibility.

In one, we lost the war. In another, it never started.

And yet… here I am—completely mad about her.

She clears her throat, pulling me out of my thoughts. “How was your day?” she asks.

“Fine,” I answer. “Sawyer says he wants to discuss the Low Senarium’s latest draft.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. “You and me?”

“Unless you’d rather I send Priam in my place.”

Her lips twitch. “Tempting.”

I can’t help it—I grin. “You wouldn’t survive five minutes in the same room.”

“Please,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You barely do.”

She looks at me over the rim of her glass. “So… when exactly are we meeting Sawyer tomorrow?”

I shrug, pretending to think about it. “In the morning, before their session starts.”

She hums, sets her glass down, and stands. “Then I suppose,” she says, walking around the table, “we should get some rest.”

My brain catches up about two steps too late.

She stops beside me, close enough for the scent of her perfume to mess with my head.

Her voice drops, soft and amused. “So, Your Majesty—” a pause, a smile—“is it your bed tonight… or mine?”

And before I can even attempt a diplomatic response, she’s already walking away, leaving me staring after her like a complete fool.

Gods, I love this woman.

- - - - -

SLOANE

It’s warm. The kind of warmth that makes you want to stay still forever.

Something solid presses against my back, and there’s a slow, even rhythm under my hand—heartbeats. Not mine.

I’m half-asleep, caught somewhere between dream and dawn, and honestly? I don’t hate it. His chest rises beneath my palm, steady and alive, his skin radiates heat, his hand rests over mine, fingers curled loosely, like he’s afraid to let go even in his sleep.

The weight of his arm around me feels… safe. Unfairly so.

My leg is tangled with his, my head tucked under his chin, and for once, the world outside this bed doesn’t exist. Just breath, and warmth, and gods, I think my heart actually flutters. I pretend it doesn’t mean anything and drift back to sleep.

****

The bed feels empty when I wake up again. Warm, but empty.

I blink against the soft light sneaking through the curtains. The rain’s stopped, though the sky still looks sulky and dramatic. And I feel like I’ve never slept so good in my entire life.

“I was starting to wonder if you’d ever join the living,” says a voice that sounds entirely too awake for this hour.

I turn, and there he is—Dain, standing near the door, sliding into his uniform jacket. His hair’s damp, like he washed up a few minutes ago, and he looks so… annoyingly handsome.

“Morning,” I mumble, my voice still thick with sleep.

“There’s coffee and bread on the table.”

I sit up slowly, push the blanket aside, and follow the smell of coffee like it’s a divine calling. The mug’s still steaming, the bread warm to the touch.

He’s watching me. Not in the casual, friendly way — no, his gaze is traveling over my body, quiet. Warm. The kind of look that makes my pulse skip.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I say, trying for casual and failing miserably.

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve seen me naked.”

His lips curve, just barely—that dangerous kind of smile. And I’m already regretting my words.

“But I have,” he says, voice low enough to make the air between us hum. He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s standing right in front of me. He leans in, his lips near my ear.

“So many times,” he whispers, “I could map every freckle, every scar, every curve from memory.” He grabs me by the waist, pulling me close enough for my breath to falter.

“So many times,” he repeats. “That I know exactly what to do…”

He pauses, just long enough for my pulse to trip.

“How to touch…” His fingers trail down the curve of my neck, slow and certain, sending a shiver of anticipation down my spine.

“And where to kiss…” His lips skim the line of my jaw, stopping just short of my mouth as a low pulse of desire unfurls inside me.

“To make you…” he says, right against my lips.

I swear my heart has never hammered so hard before. Every part of me feels alive, painfully aware of him—of us.

But then his head turns toward the door.

Make me what? I think desperately.

His hand falls away, letting me go.

No. No. Why is he stopping?

Make me what?

MAKE ME WHAT?

And then there’s a damn knock at the door.

For fuck’s sake. I’m starting to hate that woman.

Dain doesn’t move. He just stands there, like he’s waiting for her to speak, but the silence stretches on.

Another knock. Louder this time.

He straightens. “Yes?”

Nothing.

I glance at him, then at the door, my pulse tripping again for entirely different reasons now.

The knock comes again—slow and purposeful.

Dain’s hand instinctively brushes the dagger at his belt as he steps toward the door.

He opens it, and his shoulders drop the instant he sees who’s there.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his tone caught somewhere between surprise and restraint.

“Is your wife here? I need to speak with her.” Julianne’s voice comes from the hallway.

Dain steps aside, letting her in.

She walks inside like she owns the place. Her chin is slightly raised, eyes bright with that teenage mix of defiance and nerves.

“I wanted to apologize,” she says as soon as she spots me—though her tone doesn’t sound sorry at all. “For my aunt. She shouldn’t have attacked you yesterday.”

“Well,” I say, arching a brow. “That’s... considerate of you.”

“She’s fine,” Julianne adds before I can ask, waving a hand like the matter bores her. “Her ego took the hardest hit, but she’ll live.”

I bite back a laugh.

“Why did she attack her?” Dain asks, his voice cool and clipped.

Julianne crosses her arms, weight shifting to one hip. “She blames her,” she says flatly.

I stare at her. “Blames me for what?”

Julianne tilts her head, studying me like I’m something strange she can’t quite figure out. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t.”

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, as if she’s trying to decide how much to say—or how much trouble it might cause her.

“My grandfather retired about three months ago,” she starts, eyes flicking toward Dain, probably expecting him to interrupt. He doesn’t. “Which was weird enough, honestly. There was nothing in this world that old man loved more than his work. Not even food. Or us.”

She shrugs. “Anyway, he moved in with us and when he arrived, he was… different. Restless. Always looking over his shoulder. My aunt didn’t notice—she’s barely ever home—but I did.”

“About two months ago, you”—she points at me—“and that gryphon flyer came to visit him.”

She pauses, glancing at Dain first, then at me.

“Go on,” he says.

Julianne nods, pushing a strand of hair out of her face. “And it’s not like I was eavesdropping,” she adds quickly, though the look she gives me says she absolutely was. “But I heard you asking about his work in the archives. About some runes. He got really upset. Told you he didn’t remember you, or any damned runes, and that he was too old to deal with your nonsense. Then he threw you both out.”

 She pauses again, then sighs. “Right as my aunt was coming home. So, she saw you.”

The silence that follows feels like it’s pressing against my ribs.

“What happened next?” Dain asks, his voice level but edged.

“My grandfather was… really upset after that. Like, super nervous. Even my aunt noticed—and trust me, she doesn’t notice much,” Julianne says. “The next morning, another man came to see him. He bowed when the door opened, so I think he was a noble.” She hesitates, eyes narrowing. “My grandfather told me to go to my room before he let the man in, so I didn’t see him. And, again—not that I was eavesdropping—but he started yelling. Loud.”

Julianne’s arms tighten over her chest as she goes on, her voice steadier now, almost rehearsed.

“He said things like… how was he supposed to know the rune would end up with you.” Her eyes flick to me. “That they needed to find the woman who stole everything, because if they didn’t, they were going to get caught. That maybe their best option was to come clean. And then…” she pauses, her throat working before she forces the words out, “he said he was thinking of me. That he’d done everything for me.”

The room feels suddenly colder.

“I never told my aunt about that.” Julianne looks away, her jaw tightening. “But after that man left, my grandfather got even worse—so anxious my aunt had to give him something to help him sleep.”

Her gaze drops to the floorboards. “The next morning, right before leaving the house, I went to say goodbye. He smiled at me and said, ‘You’re going to make a wonderful Marquess.’ Which made no sense. By the time I turn eighteen, noble titles won’t even exist anymore.”

Julianne exhales, a short, hard breath. “He jumped from the roof that morning.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unreal. I feel Dain go still beside me, his jaw tightening.

Julianne swallows hard but keeps her chin up. “That same day, I came here. To the inn.” Her eyes flick toward me, sharp and steady. “I told you what had happened. You told me not to say anything about the nobleman’s visit—to anyone.”

She lets out a shaky breath. “I didn’t. Not even to my aunt.” Her fingers twist together, restless. “So now she thinks you upset him—that whatever you said pushed him too far. He was just an old man…”

Her mouth tightens. “But I think it’s just easier for her to blame you than to admit she wasn’t paying attention.”

Julianne turns to leave, but then pauses at the door.

“Oh—we can’t find his scribe’s seal.”

Chapter Text

AARIC

Do you ever regret something?

Not the small kind of mistake. I’m talking about the kind you can’t fix, no matter how many apologies you offer or how many nights you lie awake wishing you could.

If you have, tell me—did you manage to forgive yourself?

Because I didn’t.

During the war, I thought I could help us win it. I mean—of course I did. Who wouldn’t, if they had what I had? The ability to see ahead. To look into the patterns of what could be and pick the paths that led to victory.

You’d think no one could possibly get that wrong. And yet, somehow, I did.

I kept looking into that vast, star-filled void—nights without sleep, days without reason—trying to find futures where we didn’t lose everything.

But you know what I saw? I saw the Venin winning. I saw the Continent running dry. I saw all the people I cared about dying over and over again, in a thousand different ways.

Cheery stuff, I know. Makes you wish you had my signet, doesn’t it?

Anyway, at some point I realized something I wish I hadn’t. In every future I saw, I survived. I never saw my own death.

So, in a lapse of… I don’t know, curiosity? Morbid stupidity? Call it what you want—I decided to look for the futures where I didn’t make it. Where I died.

And I found one.

I saw Molvic fall—mortally wounded—and after that, the vision started to blur, fading out within minutes.

But I pushed. Because I needed to know what came next. The effort—the power—it took to see beyond that point nearly burned me out. Still, I kept going. Until I saw it.

Navarre—standing. Poromiel barely holding, but still on its feet. Alive.

I don’t need to tell you what happened after that, do I? You already know.

And I don’t like talking about it.

The point is, I never forgave myself. I don’t think I ever will.

Because maybe I could’ve done things differently. To be honest with you, I probably saw ten percent of what was really there. But we were desperate. And time… time was slipping through our hands faster than we could hold it.

But maybe I could’ve searched longer, looked deeper. Maybe there were other paths—better ones—that I didn’t have the patience, or the courage, to find.

Or maybe if I hadn’t been so damn arrogant to see I didn’t even understand the first thing about my own signet, maybe things would’ve turned out differently.

So how do you keep going, then? How do you live with something you can’t forgive yourself for?

You find a purpose.

See, life—it’s not about being happy. That rumor was probably started by a five-year-old holding a chocolate ice cream.

Life’s about meaning. Happiness is temporary, most of the time it’s gone before you even realize you had it. But meaning… meaning lasts.

Once you understand why you’re still here, once you find that one thing—It makes all the rest bearable.

But I won’t lie to you.  After everything that’s happened, I might be a little too happy for my own good right now.

It’s not daylight yet, but the room isn’t pitch-black either.

Catriona’s draped over me like I’m some kind of mattress. And I have to admit, the whole arrangement is just so damn perfect. Her head rests on my chest, her skin warm against mine. The weight of her body presses down in the most delicious way. And here’s my favorite part—my hand is on her ass.

Yeah, I know. It’s stupid. But I’m grinning like an idiot anyway. Thank Amari she’s asleep and can’t see me— it’s not exactly the image of royal composure I’ve spent years perfecting.

Cat sleeps light—I learned that fast. The tiniest sound, the smallest shift, and she’s awake. So I stay still. Careful. Even breathing feels like a tactical risk.

I’m starting to get used to this. Waking up with her next to me. Or, in this case, on top of me. Her warmth. Her weight. The way she takes up all the space she wants.

The problem is, she’ll have to leave eventually.

I’ll still see her, of course, though not as often as I’ll like. She’ll come back to the city now and then, the way she has these past few years. And there’s the wedding, the treaty, the coronation… she’s got more reasons to be here than half the dukes combined.

Plus, she promised to attend every High Senarium vote she could. Which, between you and me, might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever promised me.

Then there’s my coronation in Poromiel. Technically, I could visit more often, but let’s be honest—riding a horse isn’t exactly faster than flying a gryphon.

Still, it won’t be enough.

This whole I stay in Poromiel, you stay in Navarre setup? Yeah, that’s not going to work.

Well—at least not for me. Because, minor detail, I don’t have a fucking clue what she wants.

So far, what we have is—well. Let’s just say it’s a lot of great sex and zero conversations about feelings.

Not that I’m complaining. I’m not an idiot. But still—

I exhale, louder than I should have, and immediately regret it. Because that sound? That tiny, idiotic sound? It’s the one that ruins everything.

Catriona lets out a tiny grunt against my chest—half sigh, half complaint—and starts to stir.

I glance down… and there they are. Those big brown eyes, still soft with sleep, staring right at me.

“Hi.” I whisper.

“Hey,” She smiles, just a little. Her voice rough and warm with sleep.

And then— true to her name— she stretches. Graceful. Unhurried. All soft limbs and wicked curves.

Temptation disguised as laziness. Honestly, it should be considered an art.

She keeps looking at me as her body shifts against mine. Gods, I swear this woman takes way too much pleasure in testing my limits. And of course, I’m already failing—I’m rock hard in seconds. And judging by the way her brow arches—yeah, she notices.

“Well,” she murmurs, her words all silk and mischief, “looks like someone’s completely awake.”

I huff out a laugh. “What can I say? I’m motivated.”

She tilts her head slightly, eyes glinting, smile curving slowly, dangerous.

Gods help me.

Her fingers trace a slow path up my chest, and my brain starts filing for early retirement. Her smile deepens as she leans in, her lips brushing the corner of my mouth before continuing their slow, intentional descent.

Neck. Chest. Abdomen.

Every kiss feels like a challenge, and she knows damn well I’m losing—enthusiastically.

I lean back, hands behind my head, fully prepared to enjoy whatever scene is about to unfold in front of me.

Her breasts brush lightly over my cock, and somehow that tiny sensation makes it twitch with excitement. My breath stumbles, my thoughts scatter.

Yep, this is it. This. Her. I want this every damn day. I want her every damn day.

I should probably stay quiet, let this play out. But no, of course not. That would require common sense.

“Catriona, what are we doing?”

She freezes. Her lips still against my skin, her breath steady, warm, far too close for a man who’s trying to think clearly.

When she looks up, her expression is a quiet puzzle—somewhere between amusement and warning.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she murmurs, that wicked smile curving her lips.

“Don’t” I say, my voice dropping. “You know what I mean.”  

And just like that, it’s gone—the warmth, the teasing, the way her body felt against mine. She tenses, pulling back, sliding off me in one smooth, practiced motion.

“I just want to be clear,” I say, sitting up, trying to sound reasonable. “That’s all.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just sits there—quiet, staring at something I can’t see. Then she turns to me. Her eyes soften, and for a second, I think she’s actually going to say it. The thing I’ve been waiting to hear for... yeah, longer than I’d like to admit.

But then there’s a flicker in her eyes, quick, gone before I can name it. Fear? I can’t tell.

Her back straightens, her tone smooths over, like nothing ever happened.

“We’re just,” she says, light, almost casual. “… having a little fun.”

Fun.

Right.

I let out a dry laugh and run a hand through my hair. “Cat, we’re getting married in two weeks.”

She exhales, slow. “Exactly. There’s too much going on already. The stakes are too high. Maybe we shouldn’t… complicate it even more.”

I blink at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She stands, the sheets slipping away as she crosses the room. I follow her with my eyes—because honestly, how could I not?

She starts dressing, every movement sharp and controlled. “This,” she says, not looking at me. “Right now. This is exactly what I mean.”

I sit up, watching her picking up her dress. “I don’t understand how talking about what we both want is what complicates things.”

“What we both want?” She turns then—exasperated, tired, angry in that way that only happens when she actually cares. “Let’s just pretend we ended up wanting the same thing. Where would we even live, Aaric?”

I open my mouth, but she keeps going, words spilling faster now.

“If I move to Navarre, I lose direct control of Poromiel. My ministers will tear each other apart for power, or worse—use my absence to fuel a rebellion. If you move to Poromiel, the Senarium will call it desertion of the throne. And if we try to live in both? Then we’re running two courts, two guards, two councils, two sets of everything—twice the bureaucracy, twice the expense, and twice the chaos.”

She stops, breath uneven, and neither of us says anything.

And I get it. Of course I do. Every word she said makes perfect sense. That’s the problem.

“Cat—”

She cuts me off before I can say anything else. Doesn’t even look at me. “Maybe it’s better if we stop. Whatever this is.”

I stare at her, trying to process the words.

“You don’t mean that,” I tell her, keeping my voice low.

But she doesn’t turn around. “We have that meeting with Sawyer,” she says, in a clipped, and professional tone. “We should get ready.”

And just like that, she’s gone.
Door closing softly behind her.

If you’re wondering how I manage to destroy perfect moments—it’s a gift.

_ _ _ _ _

SLOANE

The present Manual of Procedures of the Navarre Military Research and Development Command (hereinafter referred to as “the Manual”) is of general observance and serves as an instrument for information and consultation.

My eyelids weigh about ten pounds each. I let them drop for what’s supposed to be two seconds, and it feels way too comfortable.

I blink. Hard. Then again. And continue reading.

…a means of familiarizing oneself with the organizational structure and the different hierarchical levels…

My eyes start crossing somewhere around “organizational structure.”

I blink again. It doesn’t help. The words keep blending into each other. I press my cheek against my palm and squint at the page, trying to focus.

…its consultation allows for the clear identification of the functions and responsibilities of each area that composes it and to avoid duplication of duties…

My eyelids betray me again. The manual slips a little from my fingers, and for a glorious, weightless instant, I consider surrendering—just closing my eyes, resting my head against the table, and sleeping for just five minutes.

But then again, I promised myself I’d stay awake at least until page two.

It’s just that… Gods, I’m so tired.

Even though I was destroyed last night after we got back from our little trip to Certa, I didn’t sleep at all—too busy thinking about what Julianne said and also about that night at the inn. How I fell asleep faster than I had ever before and how I kind of missed him.

I can almost smell him again right now. Warm, clean skin and… cedar? I’m seeing the room too, but it’s not the same one. The light is green, and there’s a bird sitting on the desk. The bird squawks, and Dain should definitely avoid duplication of duties—

My chin slips off my hand, and I realize I’m falling asleep when I nearly head-butt the table.

Okay, I can’t do this.

How bad would it look if I asked Eliana for a summary?

I lean back in my chair and stare at the pile of manuals stacked like a small fortress on my desk.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

All I wanted was to use the lab. That’s it.

So, I went to Eliana for clearance, and she seemed pleased at first—but then she gave me a look. Like the polite kind of look people give when they’re not sure if you should be trusted near fire.

“Since you don’t remember everything yet,” she said, so gently it almost sounded like pity, “maybe start with the Manual of Laboratory Safety and Protocols.”

Which sounded reasonable enough.

Then she added, “And since you’re at it, you might as well review the Sample Handling and Storage Manual too. Just a quick read.”

A quick read, okay.

“And if you’re going to read that one,” she said, stacking another book on top, “you should probably take a look at the Project Proposal and Approval Manual.”

Reasonable was gone at that point.

And that’s how I ended up here—alone in my office at Headquarters, with more than twenty manuals staring back at me.

Damn it. So much for an exciting day.

I glance at my desk.

It’s a disaster. Papers everywhere, open notebooks, loose notes that may—or may not—be important.

Eliana also mentioned that I should probably tidy up my workspace.

Maybe I should start with that instead. Something easy. Something that doesn’t involve a single word like protocol or hierarchical.

I’m about to do that when someone knocks.

Shit.

Please don’t let this be the beginning of the parade of people asking me to do things I no longer remember how to do.

I stay perfectly still. Maybe if I don’t move, they’ll think I’m not here. That’s how it works with bears, right?

The knock comes again—louder this time. And then the door opens without waiting for me to say a thing.

My shoulders drop in relief the instant I see Jesinia’s face appear in the doorway.

She smiles, eyes bright, and lifts her hands to sign a simple question:

“Coffee break?”

I can’t help it—I grin back.

Five minutes later, we’re sitting at The Third Cup. It’s crowded—uniforms everywhere, half the people pretending to read reports while secretly gossiping.

Jesinia and I manage to find a small table by the window. She sets her cup down, steam curling between us, and signs, “What happened with Ugo Eldred? Did you write to him?”

Right. That.

I told her I was looking for him because I’d found out he might be some distant relative.

“We went to visit him.”

Her brows lift. “And?”

“Nothing, it was a just a misunderstanding.” I lie to her “Turns out he’s Julianne’s grandfather—the youngest of the marked ones.”

Jesinia taps her fingers against her cup before signing, “Ah, yes. I know of her. Her father was a Marquis. Her mother was pregnant when he was executed. She died giving birth.”

Her hands slow down a little, movements softening. “Months later, her mother’s sister managed to get custody of Julianne. It’s a sad story.”

I nod and take a sip of coffee that’s far too hot. Then I remember Jessinia is practically a walking encyclopedia.

“Do you know what happened to her father’s title?” I ask her.

“It was transferred to another family.” Her hands move quickly now, practiced and sure. “When Riorson reinstated the marked ones, he made it conditional. The titles would return to the original bloodlines once the heirs turned eighteen.” She pauses, “Until then, they receive a small stipend to cover their education and living expenses.”

Jessinia tilts her head, then she adds, “Of course, once the reform of noble powers takes effect, they’ll lose everything—income, influence, and the lands that come with the title.”

Well, there it is. A perfectly good reason to side with a separatist group—secure your granddaughter’s future. People have done worse for less.

Jessinia’s fingers move again, pulling me out of my thoughts. “So, how have you been? How’s work? How are things with Dain?”

Work. Dain. Two words guaranteed to make my brain ache in completely different ways.

“Well, things with Dain” I hesitate, then decide maybe it’s not the worst thing to talk about it. “I think I understand now why I fell for him. Why I forgave him. Why I married him.”

Her brows lift slightly, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“He’s… noble,” I continue. “Kind. He cares about me—a little too much sometimes… It’s annoying.” I roll my eyes.

She smiles at me like she knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“But I guess that’s just the way he loves. And it feels like he actually sees me. And loves me exactly as I am.”

She tilts her head, eyes softening. “He does love you. Too much.”

“And, well… maybe I’m… a little attracted to him,” I sign, trying for casual.

Which, of course, is the understatement of the century. But Jesinia doesn’t need to know all the details. I just need to say it—to get it out of my system before it eats me alive.

She blinks once, now she rolls her eyes, so hard I almost hear it.

“A little attracted?” she signs, her smile spreading, almost teasing. “Please, Sloane. You’ve thought he’s ridiculously hot ever since the first time you saw him.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. How many people did I tell that? What in the hell was I thinking?

“That’s enough about me,” I sign—quickly, trying to change the subject before my face turns completely red. “What about you?”

Jessinia exhales, then looks at me like she’s about to announce the biggest event of the year. Honestly, I’m already feeling a little too excited here.

And then—

“I saw Sawyer,”

Oh.

I have no idea what that means. Weren’t they… together? What am I supposed to say to that?

She’s still looking at me, waiting.

“I’m sorry,” I look at her “You’ll have to give me some background here.”

 “Of course. You’re right.” She nods “Sawyer and I ended things a long time ago—during the war, actually.” Her hands slow down as she continues. “It was me. I couldn’t do it anymore—waiting for a man who might never come back.”

“After the war, we saw each other a few times,” she goes on. “But when they ended Sawyer’s bond with Sliseag… it broke something in him. He said the army no longer made sense without his dragon.”

She looks down at her hands for a moment before adding, “He had a sort of identity crisis. He retired. Went back to his hometown. We lost touch after that.”

Then, a small shrug. “Later I heard he ran for representative of Luceras in the Low Senarium—and won.”

I take another sip of coffee, “Where did you see him?”

Jesinia hesitates, her fingers brushing the rim of her cup before answering. “I ran into him on the street yesterday—on my way home.” She pauses a little. “It was… unexpected. For both of us.”

“Although, I knew it was a matter of time,” she continues. “The Chamber’s in session, he’s in the city, and I just got back from my trip.”

I smile faintly. “And? What happened?”

Jessinia exhales, her shoulders lowering. Her eyes soften as she signs, “I thought I’d gotten over him a long time ago. But just one look at him—and I knew I wasn’t.”

I feel something tighten in my chest.

“What did he tell you?”

Jessinia signs slowly now, her movements softer, almost nostalgic. “We just stood there for a while… smiling like idiots.”

Her mouth curves, a small, bittersweet smile. “He looks thinner, you know? But still just as handsome.” She pauses, then adds, “He hugged me and asked how I’d been. I told him I was fine. We talked a little. He said he’d be in the city for a while. And then we said goodbye.”

I blink. “That’s it?”

Jessinia looks up, her lips twitching like she’s fighting a smile. “This morning,” she signs, “he sent me a note. Inviting me to dinner.”

I sit back, eyebrows raised

She looks… happy. There’s a brightness in her eyes, and it makes something inside me unclench. For once, it feels nice to talk about something that isn’t political plots, or runes, or amnesia.

Then she glances at the small watch strapped to her wrist, and her eyes widen.

“Gods,” she signs, quick and sharp. “It’s been fifteen minutes already. We should get back.”

I groan. “You mean back to my fortress of manuals?”

She laughs silently, shaking her head, and gathers her things.

_ _ _ _ _

AARIC

Let me tell you something about the Council Chamber.

There are a lot of intimidating rooms in this palace. War rooms. Audience halls. Even the kitchens—especially if you catch the wrong cook in a mood.

But this one? This one takes the damn cake.

It’s the kind of chamber that makes you feel like you should confess something the moment you walk in.

Dark oak from floor to ceiling. Shelves loaded with books no one’s read since the unification.

And the window—oh, the window. Massive, gothic, looks like it belongs in a temple, not a political office.

There’s a single desk in the center—mine, clearly. Black, heavy, ridiculously polished. And behind it, the chair. The kind of chair that says whoever sits here is in command… or at least pretends convincingly enough to be.

The moment I step inside, all the composure I managed to muster in the last hour flatlines immediately.

Not because of the room, of course.

But because Catriona is already there. Perfect posture. Perfect silence. Perfectly avoiding my eyes.

Sawyer’s here too—standing by the desk, flipping through a few papers until he spots me at the door.

“Your Majesty,” he says, straight-faced, because apparently formality is funnier when you’re friends.

“Don’t start,” I warn, crossing the room.

He smirks—just barely—but at least that’s one friendly face in the room.

I glance toward Cat while I circle the desk. She still won’t look at me.

“Sit,” I tell Sawyer, dropping into my chair. “And tell me you’ve finally found a place to live.”

He chuckles under his breath, the sound a little too tired. “Not yet. Still at the inn.”

See, members of the Low Senarium usually live in the provinces they represent, but they spend most of the year—eight or nine months—here in the capital during parliamentary sessions. Which means they all need temporary housing.

Now, the High Senarium is a different story; They get official residences inside the palace. Part of the perks of being at the top of the political food chain—for now.

All except Xaden Riorson, of course. He’s got an official residence too, but does he live in it? No. Garrick transports him whenever he’s needed here.

Wait, wait. That’s giving me an idea…

I can’t very well borrow Garrick. But if Sloane’s knowledge is still intact, maybe—just maybe—she could help.

“Well the offer still stands” I tell Sawyer as I glance at Cat again.

She still doesn’t look at me. Which is impressive, considering I’m right here, being incredibly difficult not to look at.

“Thaks, but the inn’s fine, for now,” he says. “Close enough to the Low Senarium.”

I nod, leaning back in my chair

“So” Cat cuts in, straight to business. “What was it you wanted to discuss with us?”

He looks at her, clears his throat, and—oh, joy—smiles. The kind of smile that says you’re going to hate this.

“Right,” he starts. “I wanted to brief you before the session resumes. There have been… adjustments proposed to the motion.” Sawyer hesitates, which is never a good sign.

“Go on,” she says, voice smooth as glass.

“The Low Senarium is proposing that the financial aid be converted from a direct grant into a monitored investment—managed, of course, by the Navarrian Treasury.”

Ha, sure. Let the people you were at war with for, oh, just four hundred years, handle your national finances. What could possibly go wrong?

And there it is. The sound of something breaking—except it’s not glass. It’s Cat’s composure cracking by the tiniest fraction.

She turns to me, finally. Her eyes meet mine, steady, sharp.

“Managed by the Navarrian Treasury?”

Sawyer nods. “They claim it’s for transparency and mutual accountability”

“Control,” she cuts in. “They mean control.”

Now, here’s the fun part: I’m supposed to defend the Senarium, or at least pretend to, because it’s my own political structure.

And I’m also supposed to keep the woman I—well, the woman I can’t seem to stop loving—from declaring war on half my council.

So what do I do?

I smile. A careful, diplomatic, please-don’t-stab-anyone kind of smile.

“I’m sure,” I say slowly, “they meant it as a gesture of cooperation.”

Yeah. Even I don’t buy it.

Cat exhales, sharp and controlled. She looks back at Sawyer.

“Tell them Poromiel won’t agree.”

“Maybe,” I interrupt her, “you should take a little time to analyze things first.”

Her head turns toward me so slowly it could qualify as a military maneuver. Those sharp brown eyes lock on mine — calm, lethal.

I can practically hear her thinking, You’d better have a death wish.

“Analyze?” she repeats, perfectly polite in that terrifying kind of way.

“I’m not saying agree,” I continue, forcing myself to sound calm. “Stall. Let them think you’re considering it. We keep the upper hand, and we buy time to find a way to turn it around.”

Cat leans back in her chair, eyes narrowing. “So, I should pretend to consider a clause that strips my country of its financial sovereignty?”

Sawyer shifts, uncomfortable. “There’s… one more clause.”

Oh, good. Because we were running low on tension.

He glances between us, clearly wishing he were anywhere else.

“The Low Senarium also wants to rename the initiative. To, uh… The Poromiel Stabilization Treaty.”

Those fucking idiots.

I drag a hand down my face. “Because nothing says ‘mutual respect’ like implying our allies can’t stand upright on their own.”

Sawyer winces. “Aaric, it’s just language—”

“Language starts wars,” I mutter.

And right there—Cat’s gaze softens for half a second. Just one heartbeat where we’re on the same side again.

She doesn’t move for a while. Then she straightens, smooth and decisive.

“The name’s definitely a no,” she says. “As for the rest… Poromiel will think about it.”

Sawyer exhales like a man who’s just survived a battlefield. Which, to be fair, he kind of has.

“Understood,” he says, already gathering his papers.

I lean back in my chair, watching her and offer a tiny smile. Diplomatic, harmless.

She meets my eyes just once—no fury this time, just that look that says you’d better make this right, Graycastle.

Progress, I tell you. That’s what I call this. A mild, temporary, absolutely-could-explode-any-second kind of progress.

_ _ _ _ _

SLOANE

By the time afternoon rolls around, I’ve somehow managed to read three entire manuals without falling asleep.

Well—maybe just a little. But no one needs to know that.

And I even cleaned my desk.

In the process, I found a small notebook that looks like some kind of journal—though not about my life. More like a project log. Diagrams, notes, half-finished ideas. My handwriting, my thoughts.

But the most miraculous part?

I made it through the whole day at the office without panicking.

Every time someone came in to ask for something, I told them—politely, even—that for now they’d have to speak to someone else. Then I explained about the memory loss, that I was in the process of re-learning my job.

After that, most people just reintroduced themselves. And, surprisingly, I’ve met a good portion of my team. They seem… nice.

By late afternoon, Dain and I headed home together— me carrying the notebook I’d found, him carrying a stack of papers.

“Interrogation reports,” he said when I glanced at them. “Leila’s unit.”

We’re just about to have dinner.

Dain’s setting the table, moving with that quiet precision of his—lining up the plates like it’s some kind of military exercise.

I lean against the kitchen doorway, watching him.

Somehow this whole living-under-the-same-roof thing doesn’t feel like a hostage situation anymore. It’s starting to become… almost familiar.

And then, just as he reaches for the glasses, someone knocks on the door.

Dain answers it.

A second later Victor Vester steps inside without waiting for an invitation, a couple of thick books tucked under one arm. He doesn’t bother with greetings—or basic manners, apparently.

He just looks straight at Dain and says,

“What are you hiding?”

My heart stops. Just—stops. Everything inside me goes still, except for the trembling in my hands.

Dain straightens, posture shifting just enough to make the air around him feel heavier.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, calm and sharp at once.

Vester narrows his eyes. “You’re lying,” he says lightly, like he’s commenting on the weather. “But okay. Let me give you some context.”

He drops the books on the nearest surface with a dull thud. “I ran into Eliana a few hours ago. She asked if we’d made any progress on the investigation involving the rune you showed her.”

My pulse starts hammering.

Vester continues, tone measured, deliberate. “Which was odd, because you mentioned only showing it to Sloane—who said she thought she’d seen it in a book.”

He crosses his arms, studying Dain. “But I managed to get Eliana talking without sounding like a fucking imbecil who has no idea what’s going on in his own investigation.”

Dain doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“Now, here’s the interesting part,” Vester goes on. “Eliana told me she gave you the number of a file—some prototype runes that looked a lot like the one you showed her. But apparently, Sloane told her you didn’t find anything unusual in the archive.”

Vester’s voice hardens just slightly. “Which is strange, because I went to the archives myself. I asked for the last file Colonel Mairi consulted… and it turns out the runes are gone, and the entire chain of custody has disappeared as well. And that’s definitely not unusual.”

His words hits me like a blow to the gut—sharp, cold, knocking the breath right out of me.

Vester’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“So I’ll ask you again,” he says low but edged like a blade. “What the hell are you hiding?”

Dain’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer right away—just stands there, shoulders squared, as if he’s sifting through every possible word in his head before choosing one.

The silence stretches, heavy enough to make my skin prickle.

Vester tilts his head, studying him.

“All right,” he says finally. “Let’s try an easier question.”

He takes a slow step forward. “Did you take the chain of custody?”

The room feels smaller, tighter. Dain’s still as stone, his expression unreadable.

Vester exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re not making this easy, Mairi,” he mutters. “You know if I report this, I won’t be the one running the interrogation—and it’s not like there’s another memory reader around.”

My stomach twists and my blood turns to ice.

Dain doesn’t move. He just stands there, calm, silent, every muscle locked tight.

Vester stares at him for a beat too long, and I can see it—the flicker of frustration breaking through his polished composure.

“Do you know who took the fucking runes?” he snaps.

And then Dain moves—just barely. His shoulders drop, the tension draining from his stance. He looks at me, and all I can see in his eyes is sadness.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

I can feel my pulse in my throat, sharp and loud.

He turns back to Vester, exhales, and says, “You’ll have to report me.”

Vester just stares at him, stunned, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. And I can’t either.

If he reports Dain—and Dain refuses to talk—then…Gods. Vester basically just said what happens next. Torture or… worst. The thought hits me so hard I almost forget to breathe.

Dain crosses the room, takes his jacket from the chair, and heads toward the door— quiet, calm, as if he’s already made his choice.

And that’s when it clicks. This is why I didn’t tell him, isn’t it? Why I hide everything from him. Because I knew he would do anything, anything to protect me.

“It was me” I hear myself say.

Vester’s head snaps toward me.

Dain stops mid-step, “Sloane, stay out of this.” His voice is now furious.

I ignore him and cross the room, closing the distance between us, and look Vester straight into his eyes so he can read me.

“It was my name on the chain of custody,”

****

Half an hour later we’re all sitting in the living room. Things are… calmer, at least on the surface.

Dain and I are on the couch; Vester sits across from us, elbows resting on his knees.

I feel like we just went through an interrogation, which, technically, we did.

I told him everything. And now Vester is just… staring at us—quiet, steady, unreadable. The silence between the three of us feels heavy—thick enough to choke on.

Finally, he leans back in the chair and crosses his arms.

"Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his tone even.

Dain doesn’t flinch. His back stays perfectly straight. “Because I didn’t want to involve anyone else,” he says. “Anyone who knew and didn’t report it would be considered an accomplice.”

Vester studies him for a moment,

“Then why not tell Sorrengail?”

Dain’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Because Mira would’ve had no choice but to remove both of us from the investigation—and she’d have to imprison Sloane until everything was cleared up.” He continues. “And considering someone already tried to kill her twice—and what happened with Leila—I wasn’t willing to take that risk.”

Vester turns to me. “And your memory?” he asks. “You still don’t remember anything?”

I shake my head.

“I need you to say it out loud,”

My throat feels tight. I clear it and manage, “No. I still don’t remember anything.”

Silence again.

Vester’s looking between the two of us like he’s weighing something in his head. Then his gaze shifts back to Dain.

“Did you read the girl’s memory?” he asks. “Did she hear the noble’s voice?”

Dain’s jaw flexes. “No. She told us she didn’t see or hear him. And besides, it’s illegal to interrogate a minor without an adult present.”

Victor lets out a short, humorless laugh. “But stealing evidence isn’t, apparently.”

Dain doesn’t answer.

“Mairi, are you aware she could’ve been lying?”

Dain exhales through his nose, just barely. “I don’t need to be a truth reader to know when a fifteen-year-old is lying,”

For the first time tonight, Vester’s mouth twitches—almost a smile. “What about the scribe? Were you able to read his memories?”

Dain’s expression hardens. “In order to read someone’s memories, their brain needs to still be functioning.”

“Right,” Vester murmurs. Then he stands and starts pacing, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“So. The scribe—who wants his granddaughter to keep her title and her benefits—takes the runes from the archive, forging Sloane’s signature. He delivers them to a nobleman.”

Vester keeps going, his tone sharper now.

“The runes are imbued by Leila, and one of them is placed in Zolya. After the attack, the investigation ends up in Levere’s hands—who then shows the rune to the exact same person whose name was forged by the scribe.”

He pauses briefly, eyes flicking toward Dain.

“Sloane realizes everything, and they go to confront the scribe. Then Levere disappears—and so does Sloane. She survives an assassination attempt… but Levere is found dead.”

He stops, and turns toward us. “Is there anything else?”

“He didn’t disappear,” I say. “Levere went back to Poromiel. He just didn’t tell anyone.”

Vester turns to me, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Then, someone showed up at his sister’s house with a copy of a search warrant—completely forged.” I keep going. “Because Dain doesn’t remember signing it, and the scribe who supposedly sealed the document was at that time in a vegetative state and his family can’t find his seal.”

Dain’s voice comes next, calm but edged. “Which suggests Levere had something else—something they either needed or didn’t want us to find.”

Vester looks at Dain “Our best lead right now is the crest on the ring.”

He moves back to the chair and sits, resting his forearms on his knees again. His voice evens out—not gentle, but focused.

“I’ve been thinking,” he continues. “Maybe the reason we haven’t traced the house it belongs to is because it’s not from Navarre.”

“Poromiel.” Dain whispers “The attacks have all taken place there.”

“Exactly.” Vester nods once.  “Before I ran into Eliana, I was actually on my way to tell you this. In fact, I got my hands on a few registry books from Poromiel—records of noble houses.”

Then he tilts his chin toward the stack of books he left by the entrance and exhales, shaking his head once. “Which, by the way, I’ve been carrying around all day like an idiot.”

I follow his gaze. The books are thick, heavy-looking—definitely nothing that could be considered casual reading material.

Vester turns to Dain. “If you can sketch the crest, it might help me track it faster,” he says.

Dain nods, already reaching for the notebook on the table—

But I cut in before he starts. “Aren’t you going to report us?”

Vester looks at me, straight in the eye. For a long instant, he doesn’t say anything.
Then he shakes his head once.

“No,” he says. “That would only slow things down. And we’re running out of time.”

He glances between us, his expression hardening. “They’ll probably try to strike again—before the wedding.”

****

It’s close to midnight.

Victor and I are sitting at the table, the sketch of the crest spread out between us.

The books he brought are open everywhere—heavy tomes with cracked spines and pages that smell like dust and ink. He flips through one; I flip through another.

Across from us, Dain sits with a stack of interrogation reports, his brow furrowed in a way that says he’s not going to stop until he finds something.

The room is quiet except for the sound of paper turning and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.

I trace the edge of the sketch with a finger, my eyes starting to blur from reading too long.

“We’re going to end up dreaming about this stupid crest,” I mutter.

Victor doesn’t even look up. “If we’re lucky.”

Dain murmurs without looking up, his eyes still on the reports.

“I don’t think I’m going to find anything,” he says. “In their statements, Leila’s squadmates mention several times that her power was… average. If they didn’t even know she could freeze the air around her, they probably didn’t know much about her at all—let alone who she was working with.” He exhales, the sound quiet but heavy.

Victor rubs his eyes and leans back in his chair. “It’s late,” he says, voice rough. “I think I should head out. I’ll take one of these books and keep looking at home.”

He stands, grabs the thickest volume from the table, then glances at the sketch of the crest still lying between us.

“I think I’ll leave that here,” he adds. “I’ve got the damn image burned into my brain already.”

A corner of my mouth lifts. “Good for you.”

He huffs something that might be a laugh, then tucks the book under his arm. After a brief nod to both of us, he heads for the door. Dain follows him out, silent as ever.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” I practically shout the instant he shuts the door and turns around.

Dain just stands there, looking thrown off.

“Honestly,” he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

That only frustrates me even more. “What would’ve happened if Vester had reported you?”

He doesn’t answer. He just walks toward the table, quiet, like he needs the space to breathe. Then he looks up, meets my eyes—and smiles, faintly.

“I told you, Sloane,” he says softly. “I can’t lose you.”

Something inside me twists. And I just stare at him, unable to form a single word.

What could I possibly say to that?

Gods, this man.

So I just exhale and mutter, “I think I’m done for tonight.”

I push the chair back and stand. The legs scrape lightly against the floor, too loud in the quiet room.

Dain looks up from where he’s gathering papers on the table—sleeves rolled up, hair slightly mussed.

“Yeah,” he says, voice calm. “I’ll just tidy this up and head to bed too.”

At the word bed, my heart stops for a second—then I realize he doesn’t mean the same bed. And somehow, that ends up feeling… disappointing.

And then, without thinking, without planning, I blurt, “You don’t need to sleep in the guest room…”

The words hang in the air, sharp and stupid. My brain scrambles to grab them back, but it’s too late.

He stills. Not a full freeze, but enough. The kind that says he heard me. His eyes lift to mine, quietly, like he’s weighing something. And of course, my stomach tightens like it’s trying to knot into a decorative bow.

“I mean—if you don’t like it or something.” I try to play it off with a shrug, pretending to be casual.

“Aren’t you going to make me promise to keep my hands to myself first?” A small smile tugs at his lips. His voice is teasing, and I can tell he’s just trying to ease the tension.

The problem is—it works on him, not on me. His words make my pulse jump somewhere near my throat.  

Dain’s looking at me, waiting for an answer with that uneven, dangerous smile of his.

I open my mouth, close it, open it again—like a malfunctioning door. His raises an eyebrow the moment he notices my hesitation, and now he’s coming closer.

I need to say something. Anything. Preferably something not idiotic. But apparently, my brain has chosen this exact moment to go on strike.

He stops in front of me. Close. So close I’m sure he can hear the tiny tremor in my breath. Then he hooks two fingers under my chin—gentle but firm—guiding my face toward his.

“Should I,” he murmurs, when our gazes meet, “help you decide?”

He leans in. Slowly. Carefully. like he’s still giving me time to change my mind. But he should know by now that I’m far past the point of thinking.

His breath ghosts against my lips—warm, and maddeningly close. We’re a whisper apart. Maybe less. My heartbeat’s doing a full military march, my lungs have forgotten their function, and my brain… well, she left the conversation a while ago.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks low, barely more than air.

Everything stills—time, sound, us.

Then my brain kicks in again and immediately decides to be unhelpful. It begins listing all the reasons why this is a bad idea.

Things like: Maybe it’s not the smartest thing to do. Maybe this will complicate things. Maybe we should analyze our feelings first and all that crap.

But the thing is, I really, really want to feel what it’s like to let him in.

So, as usual, I ignore the voice. And the doubt, and the thousand tiny reasons to stop—and answer him the only way I can.

I close the distance and kiss him.

I catch the faint curve of a smile before his lips parts. His tongue meets mine with a fierce, desperate pull, and the world narrows to the drag of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the spark of need running wild along my spine.

Dain finds my waist, fingers digging in as he pulls me closer. My hands slide up his chest, to his shoulders, aching to touch him. His lips move from my mouth to my jaw, down the side of my neck, leaving a trail of warmth and shivers in their wake. He presses closer when his mouth finds the hollow of my throat, and I bite back a moan when he sucks.

I feel his hands slip beneath the hem of my shirt, rough palms dragging heat across my stomach, making it tense with every touch. They climb high… higher, until they reach the edge of my bra. I draw in a sharp breath and can’t decide if my heart is pounding with nerves or begging for more.

But then—

Dain’s mouth leaves my skin, sudden and deliberate. He rests his forehead against mine, eyes closed. His breath falters, his hands still and warm against my skin.

“Tell me you’re not sure about this,” he says, voice low, like he’s forcing the words out one by one. “And I’ll stop.”

My mouth’s dry, my brain a fog I can’t think through. Words? Not happening.

So, my hands move instead—slipping to the first button of his shirt. His breath hitches; he opens his eyes but doesn’t move. He just looks at me.

My fingers tremble, playing with it like they can’t quite decide what they’re doing.

“I…” My voice falters, traitorous and small.

His hands stay where they are—still, patient, waiting.

It twists something inside me—how he’s holding himself back, how he’s not asking again, how he’s simply… letting me choose.

And that’s what undoes me.

I unbutton it, eyes locked on his. “I want you.”

And that’s it.

His mouth finds mine—harder this time, like he’s reclaiming something he thought he’d lost. The sound he makes is low and rough, almost a growl, and it vibrates through me, racing fire along my skin.

Dain pulls my shirt off in a rush, and before I can even breathe, his lips crashes back onto mine again—deep, hungry, and unrelenting. His hands finally stop pretending to be patient. They move to my back, unfastening my bra with practiced ease while I fumble with the buttons of his shirt.

A second later, fabric hits the floor, and from the waist up there’s nothing left between us but skin and heat—and the wild pulse of desire.

The kiss doesn’t stop. And when our bodies meet—hard muscle against sensitive breasts— a sound breaks from both of us, a gasp, a groan. I slide my hands over his shoulders, until my fingers curl behind his neck.

Suddenly, the ground isn’t where it should be. My legs hook around his waist on instinct as he lifts me.

I rake my fingers through his hair as our mouths crash, part, and meet again, needier each time.

Gods, the way he kisses—it could definitely become my new favorite addiction.

A sudden bump against the edge of the table makes me realize he’s started walking.

I pull back, half laughing against his mouth. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you to bed,” Dain says, breathless, eyes dark and focused.

“We’re going to fall,” I whisper, though I’m still smiling and clinging to him

He smirks “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

And before I can think of a comeback, his lips capture mine as he carries me up the stairs with ridiculous confidence.

We bump into something again—maybe the banister. Then a wall. Then the doorframe. I lose count. None of it matters. Honestly, I don’t know where the floor is anymore, or the ceiling, or which way is up. For some ridiculous reason, I trust him not to drop me, and that’s apparently enough for my brain to just… shut up and enjoy the kissing.

When my back hits something soft—finally, the bed—I have to admit, I’m impressed. Kissing and climbing stairs without falling? That’s skill. I’m honestly half tempted to applaud but then his body is on top of me, and well… priorities change.

His weight presses down and I can feel the heat of him everywhere—my breath stumbles, catching every time his body brushes mine. It’s ridiculous how easy it is for him to turn breathing into a challenge.

He lowers his mouth to my neck again, his hands roaming slowly over my body, sliding up my stomach, skimming my waist, tracing the delicate skin beside my breast, circling closer, closer—until he’s drawing gentle, invisible patterns around my nipples making them tight, sensitive, and aching. A sound slips out of me—soft, startled, nothing I meant to make.

I feel him smiling against my neck before the heat of his mouth moves lower, lower, following the rhythm of his hands. My skin tingles beneath his touch, sparks racing through me. My pulse is everywhere at once—throat, stomach, between my legs.

Then he cups my breast, his lips closing around my nipple. I suck in a sharp breath at the sudden mix of warmth and wetness.

His hands hold me still, fingers pressing in just above my hips—like he knows I’d come apart without the warning. And when his tongue moves, slow and maddening, my back arches, pleasure humming along every nerve, coiling low and deep until every inch of me feels alive.

Dain keeps going—licking, sucking, teasing— far too many good sensations are happening all at once, and I just can’t—

A helpless sound breaks from my throat before I can stop it.

He moves to my other breast, his tongue gliding over the tender peak before catching it gently between his teeth— firm, yet achingly tender. My head falls back, and the sound that escapes could as well be a plea. My body lifts to meet him again, offering more without a single word.

“Dain…” I gasp.

He lets out a low, amused sound before his mouth leaves my breasts and makes its way down my body—teeth grazing over my skin, kisses leaving a trail of heat across my navel.

Gods, I didn’t know I could get this wet this fast.

His fingers hook at the waistband of my pants. Somehow I manage to lift my head, and the sight of his face down there—focused, beautiful—makes my heart hammer.

His brown eyes lock on mine as his hands start to undress me.

Fuck, I’m really doing this, aren’t I? I’m really going to have sex with Dain Aetos.

When he’s done, silence stretches between us, the air thick with tension.

He stares down at my naked body, his gaze darkening—filled with need and almost worshipful.

My heart races even wilder in my chest, anticipation knotting tight in my stomach. Excitement, desire… and, fine, a little bit of nerves too—all fighting for space. And when he slowly spreads my legs open, I’m caught somewhere between holding my breath and forgetting how to breathe entirely.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks again in a whisper, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to my inner thigh.

Stop?

Do I want him to stop?

“Don’t,” I manage, though it doesn’t sound like a real answer. My voice catches halfway through, turning the word into more of a gasp as his lips keep moving, his beard grazing my soft skin, each kiss slower, closer—to where that deep ache waits, pulsing with need.

Then finally—finally—his mouth finds my center and—

Holy shit.

It’s the purest kind of pleasure; my eyes roll back, and I—

Oh, his tongue—

It’s… just… amazing. The slow, delicious licks, the way the tip circles my clit, how he sucks it between his lips—until my fists twist the sheets and I’m gasping for air.

His hand clamps around my waist, holding me in place while his mouth continues to work its magic—lips, tongue, and just enough teeth to make me shiver.

I tangle my fingers in his ridiculously soft hair, as if I could drag him even closer. He growls against me, that low sound vibrating right through me—and gods, it’s unfair how even that feels extremely good.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed this,” He breathes, then licks at my entrance—deep, unhurried, like he wants to taste every part of me. I gasp and my legs feel like jelly.

“Apparently,” I moan—without thinking. “so have I.”

“Is that so?” he murmurs, the edge of amusement curling around the hunger in his tone.

He looks up, and with his gaze locked on mine, he slides a finger into me. My head hits the pillow again, and I bite my lip—hard—just to keep his name from slipping out.

He moves it in slow teasing strokes. Pinpricks of pleasure spark beneath my skin, spreading like wildfire. Then he adds a second finger and sinks back down onto me.

Gods, I just—

He’s sucking and licking and—

Fuck, his fingers—

curling and stroking expertly over that spot, and that’s… I—fuck.

My breathing turns ragged, quick and uneven. My grip tightens in his hair. My hips rise on their own, chasing every touch and a deep, guttural sound breaks from him.

Nothing—nothing has ever felt this good, this right. I just… I’m—

It starts low—a slow, wicked pull that winds tighter and tighter until I’m moaning, gasping, whimpering.

“Dain… I’m—” I pant, the tension in my core building impossibly higher, unbearably higher.

“Not yet,” he whispers. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

It’s the low rasp of his voice—that hint of command—that undoes me completely.

It detonates, an explosion of pleasure flooding through every inch of me—arching my back, clenching deep inside, tearing his name from my lips in a sound that hovers between a moan and a scream.

He doesn’t stop until the last wave breaks, until I’m trembling and breathless, until I’m limp against the sheets— half lost in bliss and disbelief.

“So… fucking… good.”

Shit. Did I just say that out loud?

Judging by the look on his face—yeah, I did.

Dain’s mouth curves into a slow, knowing smile.

“Glad to hear it,” he murmurs.

His lips brush gently against my inner thigh while his thumb traces lazy circles over my hip.

“But I guess I’ll have to aim for great now.”

He pushes up from the bed and stands at its edge, fingers on his belt, moving slowly enough to make a point.

And that look—gods, that look—like he’s already decided I’m not leaving this bed anytime soon.

He lowers the zipper of his pants, and a few seconds later, Dain stands there—completely naked and unfairly gorgeous.

He’s absolutely fucking incredible. All hard lines, taut muscle, and gods, that cock—it’s just… perfect.

He climbs back onto the bed, his body slides over mine, warm and solid, while his mouth makes its way up my body—every kiss stealing another breath, every touch winding me tighter.

“You still want this?” Dain’s teeth graze my shoulder, his hand wandering—up my hip, along my ribs, then back down in a slow, teasing path.

“I—I really do,” I gasp when he bites softly at the curve of my neck. “Do you?”

He laughs against my skin, low and rough. “You’re really asking me that?”

Then his mouth moves to my ear. “Haven’t you noticed how hard I am?” His voice slides over me like a touch, and I can’t stop the shiver that follows.

He leans in and kisses me again—deep, consuming, like he’s been starving for it.

My fingers curl in his hair, my mind blank—until  a thought hits hard, slicing through the haze.

“Wait,” I whisper, breathless. “I haven’t… I haven’t taken the suppressants.”

“I have,” he says quietly. “Don’t worry.”

He reaches down and position the crown of his cock at my entrance. My heart pounding so fast I swear he could feel it.

Dain brushes his lips across mine as he slowly drives his hips forward. Then he stills, kissing me softly, giving me time to take him in as my body tightens around him.

When he pushes deeper, a sharp gasp slips out of me.

He starts moving with agonizing control—pulling back, then sliding in again, each time a little deeper, each time stretching me more, each time sending waves of pleasure up my spine.  And when he finally presses all the way in, he growls against my mouth, and I swear the sound alone could undo me.

Okay—it’s official. I’m officially having sex with Dain Aetos.

He moves again—harder this time—and gods, my eyes roll back, the delicious friction pulling a loud moan from my throat.

It takes only seconds for slow and careful to turn fast and devastating—in the best possible way.

And oh, the way he moves—

His hips rock back and forth, rough and hard, sending fire curling low in my belly, hot and relentless.

My breath comes in gasps when his mouth finds my breast again, his tongue and teeth working in time with every thrust. Then he moves up—neck, shoulder—each bite sharper than the last, until I’m moaning his name without meaning to.

My legs wrap around his hips, nails dragging down his back because gods, I need, I need—

“Fuck, I love you,” he groans, the words rough and low against my neck.

His hand slides to the small of my back, lifting me into him, each thrust rougher, faster. I shut my eyes and bite my lip hard, because if I don’t, I think I might start screaming.

And then, everything narrows down to Dain. The intoxicating scent of his skin fills my head until it’s the only thing I can breathe. The warmth of his body presses into mine, every muscle and heartbeat syncing with my own. Those sounds he makes—the low, rough growls right against my ear. And the tension building inside me as he sinks into me again, and again, and again—

And…it feels, it’s—

Gods, it’s pure, raw pleasure.

Better than the smell of coffee in the morning. Better than sunsets at Tyrrendor. Better than winning a match on the sparing mat or the first flight on dragonback, when the wind tears the air right out of your lungs and all you can do is laugh because you’re alive. Better than feeling power rush through your veins for the—

 “Suza,” Dain rasps, voice low and strained. “Look at me.”

My eyes snap open, and I find those mesmerizing sandy brown eyes staring back at me—burning and full of love.

The world blurs around him; there’s only his face, his breath mingling, his body moving with mine.

“This,” he says, breathless. “This is us.”

And then he takes my mouth again—his tongue rough, desperate, matching his thrusts. And gods, there’s something in that kiss that burns straight through me.

It’s not just pleasure now; it feels like love without words.

Something inside me sparks to life, bright and wild, as if my body remembers what my mind forgot. Shivers ripple through me, my gasps mixing with his low groans—until I’m breaking, arching into him, clenching around him as pleasure rips through every nerve I have left.

A second later, a heavy growl leaves Dain’s chest as he finally lets go.

Then there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing—shaky, uneven, real.

We lie there, naked, his weight still over me, his head buried against my chest, his skin warm and slick against mine.

And it feels—

it’s—it’s almost like happiness.

Which is mildly concerning.

Dain moves first. He rests his forehead against mine, his breath still rough, tracing the back of his fingers gently along my jaw, down my neck.

“You’re still trembling,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” I whisper, a lazy smile tugging at my lips, “I’d say you hit your mark.”

He laughs softly and presses a kiss to my temple. “Gods, Sloane…”

And I don’t know what I expect him to say next, but whatever it is, it doesn’t come. He just breathes me in, like that’s enough for him.

****

I wake up to sunlight stabbing me straight in the face. My body hurts. Everywhere. Which would be concerning—except I know exactly why.

I had sex.

With Dain Aetos.

Multiple times.

The bed beside me is empty, but warm. Then I hear it—the faint sound of running water from the bathroom.

He’s showering. Even after an entire night of... that, Dain still manages to function like a perfectly civilized human being.

Meanwhile, I can’t even locate my sanity—or my underwear.

I’m still trying to process everything when I hear the front door creaking open.

Mrs. Litman. It’s a little too early for her to—

Shit.

My eyes fly open the second I remember where my underwear is.

I’m out of bed in an instant, ignoring every protest from my body, and grab the first things I can find.

Then I bolt.

Down the hall, hair a mess, shirt buttoned wrong, silently praying Mrs. Litman has developed temporary blindness overnight.

I reach the bottom of the stairs just in time to see her at the table, rearranging the stack of books we left there last night.

“Morning, dear!” she calls, all sunshine and decency.

“Morning!” I squeak, ducking down to scoop up Dain’s shirt, my blouse, and—yes there it is—my bra from the floor.

When I straighten, she’s watching me with that knowing little smirk.

“Busy night?” she asks, one eyebrow raised.

Oh Gods, my face immediately turns red.

“Coffee!” I blurt out, making absolutely no sense. “I was just… getting coffee.”

“Oh. Well. You certainly look like you could use some.”

I make a break for the kitchen, but her voice stops me at the doorway.

“Sloane?”

Oh gods. Just kill me now.

I turn slowly.

Mrs. Litman is holding up the drawing Dain made last night.

“What should I do with this sketch of the Elsum Bank crest? Keep it, or toss it?”