“I—yes,” I heard myself say before my brain could catch up. “Yes, I’d like that.”

  Lincatheron’s smile was small but genuine. “Good. I’ll let you know the details.”

  And then he was gone, leaving me alone with Fenric and his cryptic brother.

  Fenric ran both hands through his hair, trying to smooth away the evidence of what had just happened. His breathing was uneven, colour high in his cheeks, but he was fighting to pull that perfect diplomatic mask back into place.

  “Right,” he said, rougher than usual. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Right. We were—we had a meeting. About Nyxaria.”

  Cindrissian settled into a chair with fluid grace, eyes glittering. “How romantic. Nothing says passionate encounter quite like discussing the politics of my former court.”

  “Driss.” Fenric’s voice carried a warning, but there was no real heat behind it. Just exhaustion and the lingering tremor of someone trying to rebuild their composure from the ground up.

  “What? I’m being helpful.” Cindrissian’s smile was all sharp edges. “You wanted my insights into Nyxarian culture. Well, here’s your first lesson, Isara. In my homeland, we don’t blush quite so prettily when caught in compromising positions.”

  Fenric’s face went even redder, and I watched him struggle between mortification and the need to focus on why we were here. The diplomat in him was clawing its way back to the surface, but the man who’d just been kissed senseless was still too close to the skin.

  “The meeting,” he said firmly, more to himself than to us. “We need to prepare you for the delegation from Nyxaria. That’s what matters right now.”

  I settled into one of the chairs, the velvet cushions softer than they appeared. Cindrissian moved to the side-table, poured three glasses of amber liquid, pressing one into my hands, then Fenric’s and took the seat opposite.

  “So,” I said, leaning forward, my palms flat against my knees. “What should I expect when we meet Nyxaria’s court? I know almost nothing about them beyond their reputation for cruelty.”

  The brothers exchanged a glance, brief but loaded with meaning.

  “Expect lies,” Cindrissian said, his tone dropping to a dangerous timbre. “Everything they say, every gesture, every supposed peace offering—it’s all calculated. They’re masters of manipulation.”

  “And Ashterion?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “What’s he like?”

  Something dark flickered across Cindrissian’s face, a shadow I couldn’t quite name. His crimson eyes turned distant, unfocused, as if seeing something far beyond the walls of this room.

  “The Shadow Lord,” he said, the title rolling off his tongue. “Is unlike any fae you’ve encountered.”

  “He’ll walk into that meeting and memorise every detail about you,” Fenric added, his steel-blue eyes boring into mine. “Your expressions, your movements, even how you breathe. He studies people like weapons to be broken down.”

  A chill skittered down my spine. “For what purpose?”

  “Control.” Cindrissian’s features hardened. “He’s a predator. The entire conversation will be a game to him. He’ll guide it where he wants, let you think you’re making progress, all while searching for the smallest crack in your armour.”

  I shifted in my seat, trying to ignore the unease settling in my stomach. “So he’s manipulative. I’ve dealt with that before.”

  Cindrissian’s laugh was cold and hollow. “Ashterion doesn’t manipulate, he dismantles. He’ll find what you value most and use it against you.”

  I took a slow sip of the amber liquid, letting it burn down my throat while I processed that. “And what exactly does he value most?”

  “Power,” Fenric said immediately. “Control over others. The ability to shape outcomes to his will.”

  “And pain,” Cindrissian added quietly. “He finds genuine pleasure in causing it. Not just physical—emotional, psychological. He likes to watch people break.”

  The room fell silent except for the crackle of the fire in the hearth. I stared into the flames, trying to picture myself sitting across from someone like that. Someone who would look at me and see nothing but vulnerabilities to exploit.

  “But that’s not what makes him truly dangerous,” Cindrissian continued. “What makes him dangerous is that he’s brilliant. Centuries of experience, tactical genius, and the kind of strategic mind that can see twelve moves ahead while you’re still figuring out the game being played.”

  Fenric leaned forward, his expression grim. “He’s not just cruel for the sake of it, that’s what makes him dangerous. Every action serves a purpose. Every word is chosen for maximum impact. If he compliments you, it’s because he wants something. If he threatens you, it’s because he’s already three steps ahead. Centuries of experience have honed him into something approaching perfection in his chosen field.”

  “Which is?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

  “Breaking people.” Cindrissian’s voice was matter-of-fact, clinical. “He can read a person’s deepest fears within minutes of meeting them. He’ll identify your pressure points, your weaknesses, the things you’d die to protect. And then he’ll use that knowledge like a scalpel.”

  Fenric nodded grimly. “He’s also politically astute. Every move he makes serves multiple purposes. If he’s calling for this meeting, it’s not because he wants peace. It’s because he’s calculated that this particular strategic approach will serve his goals better than continued direct conflict.”

  I set down my glass, the amber liquid suddenly tasting like ash. “So what you’re telling me is that I’m walking into a room with someone who’s spent centuries perfecting the art of psychological warfare, and my job is to... what? Not get completely destroyed?”

  “Your job,” Fenric said gently, “is to be exactly what Varyth said you are—unpredictable. Ashterion thrives on reading people, on knowing exactly how they’ll react. But you’re human-born, dragon-bonded, carrying power no one fully understands. You’re a variable he can’t account for.”

  “That’s assuming I don’t spontaneously combust from terror the moment I see him.”

  Cindrissian’s lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile I’d seen from him all evening. “That would certainly be unpredictable.”

  “Not helpful,” I muttered.

  I picked up my glass again, swirling the amber liquid as I tried to process everything they’d told me. A political genius who dismantled people for sport. A predator who could read my deepest fears within minutes.

  “What was it like?” The question slipped out before I could stop it, quieter than I’d intended. “Being part of his court?”

  The silence that followed was deafening.

  Cindrissian went completely still, his glass frozen halfway to his lips. Those crimson eyes turned flat, the same lethal emptiness I’d seen that night in his chambers when I’d mentioned rain and Ryn. Every line of his body went rigid, defensive walls slamming into place so fast I could practically hear them lock.

  Fenric’s head snapped toward his brother, face twisting with something that looked like panic.

  “Driss,” he said, a warning threaded through the name.

  But Cindrissian didn’t seem to hear him. His fingers had gone white around his glass, knuckles standing out in harsh relief against pale skin.

  “Forget I asked,” I said quickly, recognising the danger signs. The same lethal stillness that had preceded his transformation into the Master of Interrogations when I’d pushed too far before.

  But something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, that I was backing down instead of pressing forward like most people would. The rigid tension in his shoulders eased fractionally.

  “It’s fine,” he said, though his voice was carefully controlled. “Just not something I discuss.”

  Fenric was watching his brother with a focused attention that spoke of years of practice reading Cindrissian’s moods.

  “I understand,” I said, then hesitated. “But you mentioned before that you were sent there when you were thirteen.”

  Cindrissian’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t shut down completely this time.

  “You don’t have to talk about it,” I continued carefully, keeping my tone gentle. “But... how long were you there? How long before you came back?”

  The question hung in the air between us like a blade balanced on its edge. Fenric’s breathing had gone shallow, his attention darting between his brother and me.

  Cindrissian was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, finally, so low I had to strain to hear it. “Eight-hundred and sixty-seven years, four months, sixteen days.”

  Gods. He knew exactly how long he’d been trapped there, down to the day.

  Fenric made a sound, pain and fury wrapped together. His hands clenched into fists on his knees.

  I stared at Cindrissian. Eight hundred and sixty-seven years. He’d been counting. Every single day.

  “How did you survive it?” The words escaped before I could stop them.

  For a moment, the Master of Interrogations fell away entirely. What looked back at me was raw and bleeding and so young it made my throat tight.

  “You learn to become what they need you to be,” he said quietly. “You learn to bury everything that matters so deep they can’t find it. And you count the days until you’re strong enough to leave.”

  “Or until someone comes for you,” Fenric added, the words jagged with old pain.

  Something passed between the brothers, a look weighted with history I couldn’t begin to understand. Gratitude and guilt and love all tangled together into something too complex for words.

  “You came for him,” I said, understanding flooding through me.

  Fenric nodded, his steel-blue eyes distant with memory. “When Driss finally managed to get word to me—gods, it took him centuries to find a secure way to communicate. I was positioned high enough in Varyth’s inner circle to actually do something about it.” His voice went rough. “He’d found someone. Eilrys. And he knew if they stayed, Ashterion would eventually use her against him. Or worse.”

  Cindrissian’s jaw tightened at the mention of her name, but he didn’t interrupt.

  “The extraction took months of planning,” Fenric continued, his hands clenching and unclenching on his knees. “We couldn’t just walk in and demand their release. Ashterion would have killed them both out of spite. So we had to make it look like an escape, like Driss had overpowered his guards and fled with Eilrys in the chaos of a border skirmish we orchestrated.”

  I tried to picture it, Cindrissian trapped for centuries in a court of evil, finding someone to love in that darkness, then planning an escape that could have gotten them both killed if discovered.

  I looked up at them. Fenric with his forced composure, Cindrissian with his unreadable stillness, and I realised something I hadn’t before.

  This court wasn’t built on strength alone. It was built on endurance. On the broken pieces of boys who had every reason to become monsters and chose, every day, not to.

  Cindrissian’s jaw worked, Fenric’s hands trembled slightly as he reached for his glass, the crushing weight of their shared history pressing down on the room in a way that made breathing difficult.

  I needed to shift this. Pull them back from whatever precipice they were teetering on.

  “Are there other courts involved in this?” I asked, letting my voice carry just enough curiosity to sound natural. “In whatever game Ashterion’s playing with this meeting?”

  Both brothers blinked, the question clearly catching them off guard. The dangerous tension in the room shifted, refocusing on something concrete and tactical rather than the bleeding wounds of memory.

  Fenric cleared his throat, grateful for the redirect. “No. Luceren and Nyxaria’s history runs too deep. The others might have interest in the power you hold, but they aren’t foolish enough to insert themselves into conflict between Varyth and Ashterion.”

  I frowned, trying to summon the list I’d been given during my early briefings in the court. “I’m trying to remember the names of the other courts, but…”

  Cindrissian’s answer slid in, as precise as ever. “Aerith, Heliora, Orelith, Vintera, Sylvan, and Emberon.”

  “And Pelagicias,” Fenric added quietly.

  Something shifted in Cindrissian. A twitch. A flinch. He didn’t speak, didn’t meet anyone’s gaze, but his jaw flexed as he gave a single nod.

  “Right.” I swallowed. “But for now, it’s just us and Nyxaria?”

  Fenric let out a long breath, rolling his neck as he leaned back in his chair. “For now. But war has a way of bleeding across lines, no matter how careful the courts pretend to be.” He tapped a finger against the map. “That’s precisely why we need this meeting to go well.” His finger traced the borders between courts. “If other courts start to see weakness in Luceren they might decide to use our distraction with Nyxaria as an opportunity to strike.”

  “Or,” Cindrissian added, carrying that razor-sharp precision that meant he’d already calculated the worst-case scenarios. “They might decide to ally with Ashterion. Nothing would please him more than having legitimate backing for whatever he’s actually planning.”

  The thought sent ice down my spine. “So no pressure.”

  “None at all,” Fenric said dryly, but his attempt at levity fell flat. The weight of what we were discussing, what I’d volunteered myself for, hung heavy in the air between us.

  I set down my glass and leaned back in my chair, trying to process everything they’d told me. A meeting with a master manipulator who’d spent centuries perfecting psychological warfare. Political implications that could destabilise multiple courts. And me, sitting in the middle of it all like some kind of unpredictable weapon no one fully understood how to use.

  “We should probably stop here.” Fenric’s voice was hoarse, scraping against the air like gravel. He ran both hands through his hair—already destroyed from Lincatheron’s fingers earlier—and let out a breath that sounded like surrender. “We all need sleep.”

  Cindrissian remained seated, staring into his empty glass like it held answers he couldn’t quite reach. He didn’t look up when I moved toward the door, but his voice stopped me halfway there.

  “Thank you.” Barely above a whisper. “For not—” He cut himself off, fingers flexing. “For backing off when you needed to.”

  I glanced back at him. At the rigid line of his shoulders, the careful way he held himself like he was made of fractured glass and one wrong move would shatter him completely.

  “We’ve all got shit we don’t talk about,” I said quietly. “I’m not going to push you to bleed yours out for my curiosity.”

  “Get some rest, Isara.” His crimson eyes found mine, and something ancient looked back. “You’re going to need it.”

  35

  The silver kiss of moon-forged steel against my thighs was almost as perfect as the anticipation crackling through my blood. Two curved blades, sharp enough to carve through shadow and bone, strapped to my legs like promises of violence waiting to be kept. Kaelen dozed in the grass nearby, his massive green form sprawled in a patch of sunlight like the world’s most dangerous cat.

  “Ready for battle, wildfire?” His voice drifted through my mind, lazy with amusement.

  “Always,” I murmured back, adjusting the leather straps that held my daggers secure. The war camp visit with Lincatheron had been postponed twice, first for weather, then for what he had vaguely called “strategic considerations.” But today, finally, we were going.

  A whistle echoed from above.

  I tilted my head back and nearly choked on my own spit.

  Lincatheron circled overhead on the back of a dragon that looked like it had been carved from twilight itself. Dark violet scales caught the morning light, throwing back flashes of deep purple and midnight blue. The dragon’s wings were massive, each beat sending ripples through the air that I could feel in my bones. And astride that magnificent beast, Lincatheron looked like something out of legend. Every inch the warrior commander, dark hair whipping in the wind, that familiar intensity written across his features even from this distance.

  “Now that,” Kaelen rumbled, one amber eye cracking open. “Is a proper entrance.”

  Lincatheron raised one hand, a gesture that was part invitation, part command.

  “Your chariot awaits, wildfire,” Kaelen purred, rolling to his feet in one fluid motion that defied his massive size. The sunlight caught the emerald depths of his scales as he stretched, wings unfurling like banners of war.

  I didn’t need to be asked twice. My hands found their familiar holds along his neck as I swung up, settling into the saddle in a position that had become as natural as breathing. The leather of my riding gear creaked, daggers shifting against my thighs as Kaelen coiled beneath me like a loaded spring.

  Kaelen launched us skyward with a thrust of wings that stole the breath from my lungs. The ground fell away in a rush of green and gold, and then we were soaring. Wind whipped through my hair, the intoxicating freedom of flight sung through my veins.

  For long minutes, we flew in companionable silence. Lincatheron’s dragon moved like poetry beside us, those twilight wings cutting through air. I caught glimpses of him in my peripheral vision, the way he sat his mount like he’d been born to it, completely at ease in his element of war and sky.

  Then his dragon pulled closer.

  “I have something to admit,” he called across the wind between us.

  I grinned, letting the wild joy of flight bleed into my answer. “If you’re planning to murder me to keep me quiet about you and Fenric, you probably shouldn’t warn me first.”

  Lincatheron’s laugh was carried away by the wind, but I caught his snort of amusement. “Not yet,” he shot back, “I’ll wait ‘til we’re over the ocean. Far easier to dispose of your body.”

  I snorted. “Then what?” I called, adjusting my grip as Kaelen shifted beneath me.