Before I could say anything, a blur of copper and chaos launched itself at me from somewhere near Darian’s feet.

  “Isara!”

  Fionn collided with me, his small arms wrapping around my waist with enough force to nearly knock me over. I caught myself against the doorframe, one hand automatically going to steady the boy as he beamed up at me with that infectious grin that made my chest ache.

  “Hi Fionn,” I started, but he was already pulling away.

  “Gotta go find Eryx and Mireth.” He bounced on his toes with enthusiastic energy. “We’re gonna explore! Mama said there might be kittens in the barn but we have to ask first and⁠—”

  “Breathe, wildling,” Eilrys interrupted, but there was fondness in her voice. “Go find them. But if I hear about any fires, floods, or structural collapses, you’re all doing lessons with me for a week.”

  “No fires. Promise!” Fionn shot me one more brilliant smile before taking off down the corridor like his heels were on fire, his footsteps echoing long after he’d rounded the corner.

  “I’ll make sure they don’t burn the castle down,” Eilrys said, moving to follow him. Then she paused, glancing back at me with a smirk that was far too knowing. “Though you’ve already given it a solid attempt.”

  “I didn’t—” I started, but Eilrys was already heading toward the door.

  “Relax. Varyth will rebuild it quickly. Just... maybe work on that before you accidentally level the place.” She threw a wink over her shoulder. “In the meantime, perhaps you can make sure he doesn’t do anything to tear that wound open while I’m gone.”

  Darian groaned and threw his head back against the cushions. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  Eilrys and I exchanged a look.

  He absolutely did.

  Then Eilrys slipped out, closing the door behind her.

  The moment she was gone, Darian sighed dramatically, letting his head fall back again. “Great. Now I have two of you hovering.”

  “Try not to do anything stupid,” I snorted, moving to perch on the edge of the armchair across from him. “And maybe you won’t need it.”

  Darian let out a low, amused laugh. “I’m not sure I’m capable of doing anything smart.”

  He was watching me with the kind of lazy interest that suggested he was cataloguing every detail. The wrinkled sleep clothes, the tangled hair, the way I couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

  “So,” he drawled, one eyebrow arching in a way that was far too knowing. “Are you going to explain why you’re here looking like you wandered through a hurricane? In your sleep clothes, no less.”

  My flush deepened, burning up my neck and across my cheeks in a wave of mortification. “I—it’s not⁠—”

  “Wouldn’t have anything to do with you spending the night in our High Lord’s chambers, now would it?” The smirk that curved his mouth was absolutely wicked, all sharp edges and mischief.

  My stomach dropped. “How could you possibly know that?”

  Darian stretched, then immediately winced, one hand going to his bandaged ribs. But the self-satisfied smile didn’t fade. “I have eyes everywhere, darling.”

  “It’s not like that,” I said quickly, hating how defensive I sounded. “I just needed somewhere to sleep. That’s all.”

  Darian’s expression spoke volumes of doubt. “Yes. That’s why you’ve turned up to my chambers looking like—” He gestured vaguely at my general state of disaster. “This.”

  I looked away, my fingers twisting in the fabric of my rumpled shirt. The guilt was still there, gnawing at my ribs. “It doesn’t matter,” I said, forcing the words out past the tightness in my throat. “If I keep getting Varyth’s people injured, he’ll probably just ship me off to Nyxaria to avoid the stress.”

  “He would never.” Darian’s tone went serious so fast it was like watching storm clouds roll across clear sky. The playfulness vanished, replaced by something almost fierce. “Don’t even suggest it.”

  “Surely I’m not worth the trouble,” I said quietly, not looking at him. “I’m a liability. A danger to everyone around me.”

  “You’re not.” Darian shifted on the couch, grimacing slightly. “And even if you were—which you’re not—it wouldn’t stop us anyway. We have a long history with Nyxaria. Most of it unpleasant.”

  That made me look up. I’d read about some of it in the archives. The centuries-old tensions, the territorial disputes, the blood feuds that ran deep as bedrock. But reading about something in old tomes was different from hearing from someone who’d lived it.

  “Have you been involved?” I asked. “In that history?”

  Darian sighed. “Too much. Did you ever read about Raivelle Valley?”

  I frowned, the name stirring at the edges of my mind. It was familiar, but distant, a half-remembered dream. “I remember the name,” I admitted, “but I can’t recall the event.”

  “What about the Slaughter of Raivelle?”

  Recognition slammed into me. The Slaughter of Raivelle. A battle between Nyxaria and Luceren, mentioned in one of the history books I had read. A passing reference. A footnote.

  My fingers tightened around the arm of my chair. “That was a massacre against Luceren by Nyxaria,” I said. “But there weren’t many details. It was just… mentioned.”

  “Yeah,” Darian ran a hand through his blonde hair. “It’s only in a few books, so that doesn’t surprise me.”

  “You were there.”

  Darian’s lips formed a tight line. “Yeah, I was.”

  His gaze drifted toward the window, looking past me. “It was a few days after Eilrys and I had accepted our bond. I was still... adjusting to everything. The intensity of it. What it meant.”

  His fingers traced idle patterns against the cushion beside him, a restless energy I hadn’t seen in him before.

  “There was supposed to be a meeting between our court and theirs at Raivelle. Neutral ground. To discuss a possible truce.” His jaw tightened. “Varyth was meant to attend, but a matter came up at the last minute. He sent me in his place.”

  Ice slithered into my stomach.

  “It wasn’t a meeting,” Darian’s voice dropped lower. “It was an ambush.”

  “What happened?”

  Darian didn’t answer right away. He pushed off the couch instead, his steps deliberate as he crossed the room to one of the high shelves. His fingers closed around a small, dark box tucked behind a row of worn books. He pulled it down, turned it over once in his hands, and came back to where I sat.

  He held it out without a word. I took it, the wood cool beneath my fingers. The latch gave with a soft click, and inside.

  A silver orb, glimmering in the light.

  I looked up at him.

  “Ever used one before?” he asked grimly.

  I nodded. “Varyth showed me a battle. Said words wouldn’t be enough.”

  Darian let out a breath, more sigh than air. “That tracks. This one… it’s up to you if you want to see it. But fair warning, it’s not pretty.”

  I hesitated.

  Every instinct in me told me to put the box down. To walk away. That whatever was locked in this had carved its way into Darian and never left.

  But he was offering it to me. And if he trusted me with this, I didn’t want to look away.

  I reached for the orb. It pulsed faintly in my palm. I braced myself as best I could. The world tilted, and the room vanished.

  I was dropped into hell.

  The scent of burnt earth filled my nose, heavy and choking. The sky above was blackened with storm clouds, sizzling with energy that made my skin prickle.

  Darian stood in the centre of it. He looked the same, but his eyes were hard in a way I’d never seen before. His clenched jaw tight as he stood among his soldiers, Luceren fae, poised but uncertain. They hadn’t drawn their weapons yet. Hadn’t realised.

  Not until he stepped into view.

  The male on the opposite side of the field didn’t walk. He prowled. Confident. Lethal. His hair, dark as midnight, fell in wild waves around his face. His features were almost too beautiful to be real, until you looked closer and saw the cruelty etched into every line of him. His skin was burnished bronze, gleaming faintly beneath the stormy sky. Power rolled off him in waves. He was grinning.

  Lightning cracked across the sky.

  A dozen soldiers dropped instantly, bodies contorting, smoke rising from their armour as they hit the ground without ever lifting a blade. The rest of the Luceren forces shouted, panic igniting, weapons finally drawn. But it was too late.

  I could barely track the male’s movement. One second, he was across the field, the next he was in it. Lightning arced from his fingers, from the sky, from the blades that danced through the air. Death followed in his wake like a loyal hound.

  Warriors fought fiercely, desperately. But it wasn’t enough.

  Then it was just Darian and the male. They faced off in the carnage, blades clashing. But the male wasn’t rushed. He wasn’t panicked. He was playing. As though Darian was nothing more than entertainment.

  And then, gods.

  His sword drove straight through Darian’s chest.

  I screamed.

  And I felt it. The jagged, searing shock that tore through him as the blade sank deep. His body buckled, knees hitting the ground. Blood poured from his chest, fast, so fast, soaking into the earth in pulsing waves. His hands clawed at the wound as if he could hold the pieces of himself together if he just pressed hard enough. Each rasping breath was a struggle, a wet rattle that shuddered through the air and scraped down my spine.

  I could feel the pain as if it was my own. The world splintered open beneath my feet.

  The male was still grinning when wrenched the blade free and stepped back, casual as anything. As if it hadn’t meant a thing.

  Muscles spasmed. Fingers curled. Darian’s back arched with agony before he crumpled forward, strength abandoning him in an instant.

  And everything went dark.

  I jolted back into the chamber.

  My breath came ragged, chest rising and falling too fast. My hands trembled in my lap. Tears slid down my cheeks without my permission.

  Darian wasn’t looking. He stood by the window now, back half-turned, one hand braced on the stone ledge.

  Finally, he spoke, cautious, almost like he didn’t trust his own voice. “Forty-five soldiers were with me that day.”

  The weight of it sat in my throat, unmoving.

  He didn’t turn. “Good males. Friends. The kind you’d trust to have your back in battle. The kind who’d take a blade for you without hesitation.”

  He swallowed hard, as though the next words refused to be spoken.

  “I was the only survivor.”

  The silence that followed wasn’t simply quiet, it remembered.

  I didn’t know what to say. What could I say? That I was sorry? That I’d seen it, felt it, and that it had nearly shattered me even as a mere memory?

  Darian’s hand curled into a fist against the window ledge.

  “How did you survive?” I didn’t know if he wanted to say more, but asking seemed better than false comforts.

  “Luck.” A bitter smile twisted his lips. “And Eilrys.”

  Darian rolled his shoulders slowly. “I thought I was dead. Half-dead among my own warriors, bleeding out on the ground. I remember the smell of it. The blood and dirt, the bodies around me.”

  He moved back to the lounge, sitting back down to face me, though he held himself differently now.

  “But Eilrys,” he said, glancing at the door she’d walked out earlier. “She found me. Pulled me out. Dragged my sorry ass halfway across the valley and got me to a healer.”

  His hand moved absently to the centre of his chest, fingers splaying against his sternum. The motion drew my attention to the savage scar that carved apart his intricate tattoos.

  It was deep, jagged, a brutal contrast against the vines inked into his skin.

  Darian exhaled hard, a sound that was almost a laugh but lacked any real amusement. “That blow should’ve killed me.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile, but his eyes remained distant. “But the funny thing about mating bonds? They’re stubborn.”

  I couldn’t look away from the scar, from the way his fingers lingered against it.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s like... the bond itself fights for you. Keeps your heart beating when it should stop. Draws on your mate’s strength when yours fails.” His fingers traced absently along his chest where the sword had pierced him. “Eilrys wouldn’t let me go. And the bond... it listened to her.”

  He shook his head, a touch of wonder in his voice despite the darkness of the memory. “By the time she found me, I shouldn’t have had enough blood left in my body to keep breathing. But I did.”

  I absorbed his words, trying to wrap my mind around the connection he was describing—magic that defied death itself.

  “The mating bond… It’s really that powerful?”

  Darian looked at me, and for once, there was no trace of mischief on his face. “It’s the most powerful magic we have. More ancient than any court. More binding than any oath.”

  For a moment, we sat in silence.

  “What happened after?” I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to know.

  Darian’s gaze dimmed, the light retreating behind a wall of exhaustion and ice. “Varyth was... furious, which doesn’t begin to cover it. I’d never seen him like that before.” He paused, swallowing hard. “He wanted to attack immediately. March on Nyxaria and burn it to the ground.”

  “Why didn’t he?”

  “Because it would have been suicide.” Darian spoke the answer like he’d rehearsed it. “They were hoping for that reaction. Wanted us to charge in, blinded by rage, so they could finish what they started.”

  His mouth twisted into a grim smile. “Varyth may be many things, but he’s not stupid. He knew we’d be playing right into their hands.”

  “What did he do instead?”

  “He waited. Planned. Then, when they least expected it, he struck back.”

  “How?” I leaned forward, unable to help myself.

  Darian’s eyes glinted, dark and satisfied. “He infiltrated their court during their winter solstice celebration. Got past their wards, their guards. Everything.” He paused, as though savouring the memory. “And then he killed forty-five of their highest-ranking officials. One for each warrior Stormborn, who you saw in the memory, had slaughtered.”

  My breath caught. “Varyth did that himself?”

  Darian nodded. “Walked right into the heart of enemy territory and executed them at their own feast. Left their bodies on display with a single message burned into the wall. For Raivelle.”

  “Who was he… Stormborn?” I asked.

  “Nyxaria’s second in command. Merrick’s his real name, but I suspect any history you’ve read uses the prick’s war title.”

  He wasn’t wrong. I’d seen the title a few times, a warning in legends.

  “He wasn’t there that day,” Darian said, bitterness tinging his tone. “Shame, really. Varyth would have made his death particularly memorable.”

  I swallowed, trying to process the image Darian had painted of Varyth slipping into the heart of Nyxaria’s court, of him cutting through their ranks, those forty-five bodies left behind as a message.

  It wasn’t a story of honour. It wasn’t a tale of justice.

  It was vengeance.

  I thought of the man who had held me after the nightmare, who paid me the most unfortunate compliments of my life. I thought of his lips on the edge of a smirk, the heat in his eyes. And now, I saw him standing over a feast of corpses.

  I didn’t know which version scared me more.

  Darian studied me. “You’re thinking too hard.”

  I blinked, dragging myself out of my thoughts. “I’m just trying to picture it.”

  “What, Varyth going on a murderous rampage? Not hard to imagine, really. He’s always had a bit of a flair for the dramatic.”

  I snorted despite myself. “Dramatic?”

  Darian smirked at my expression. “I mean, personally, I would have gone even more ominous. Maybe a crown made of their teeth or something equally unsettling.”

  I groaned, shoving his shoulder. “Gods, Darian.”

  He let out a bark of laughter. “What? If we’re going full cold-blooded revenge, might as well commit to the aesthetic.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think anyone needs you in charge of vengeance planning.”

  “Probably not,” he admitted, “but it’d be memorable.”

  “And deeply disturbing.”

  “That’s the fun part.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. But even through the grin, the image stuck. Forty-five bodies in a banquet hall. A message carved in flame. And Varyth—calm, composed, watching it all burn.

  Darian’s expression shifted, a seriousness settling over his features despite the lingering amusement in his eyes. “My point is, Varyth has a whole list of reasons to fight back against Nyxaria. A very long, very bloody list that predates you by centuries.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but he kept going.

  “And Nyxaria wouldn’t be sitting sweetly by if you weren’t here. Our courts...” He paused, searching for the right words. “Peace between them is rare. Fragile. Yes, your presence has certainly increased their activity. But as you can see—” He gestured to the scar bisecting his chest. “Nyxarians have made a habit of stabbing me. So you’re not special. I’m frequently stabbed.”

  I stared at him. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “It’s supposed to make you stop blaming yourself.” His voice lost its teasing edge, becoming rougher, more honest. “You didn’t start any of this, Isara. You’re just... caught up in it now.”

  The words should have been comforting. Should have eased the weight pressing against my ribs. But they didn’t. Because even if I hadn’t started this war, my presence had escalated it. My magic, my children, my very existence here had turned a simmering conflict into something that could boil over at any moment.