Chapter 36
Chapter
Thirty-Six
The familiar scent of herbs and woodsmoke welcomed them as they reformed in their attic room at Talonhold House. Ash exhaled, exhaustion weighing her down.
From the common room below, Attor’s low rumble and Varkyn’s commanding tone blended with unfamiliar voices.
“I feel your exhaustion, my mate,” Race said, setting the backpack on the bench. “Rest, while I meet with the Resistance.”
She snorted. “We’ve come this far. I’m not sitting out any meeting when it comes to bringing that blackguard down.”
His eyes softened with tender indulgence. “I’ve created a monster,” he teased, lips twitching. He tipped her chin and kissed her. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” She straightened her rose-pink jumper over her jeans, blowing a wavy strand of hair from her face. Then stilled. “Oh, boy.” Her face heated. “Everyone will know what we’ve been up to… You know, with us missing for three days and all.”
“They already knew.” His voice held a note of smug satisfaction, his palm settling on her lower back, warm and possessive.
Ash rolled her eyes. “Subtle as a brick through a window, aren’t you, my love?”
He laughed and gave her bum a quick squeeze. As he shut their door behind them, his expression shifted back to cool, the warrior returning.
In the common room, the fire threw restless shadows over the maps and weapons scattered across the table. Wind rattled the shutters, dragging a low howl through the old beams.
A dozen resistance fighters filled the room, their faces drawn and grim. Attor looked up first, the relief in his weathered features fleeting but unmistakable. The shifters bowed to Race, who inclined his head in return.
“Welcome back.” Attor’s gaze swept over them. “Everything…settled?”
Race nodded once. Ash bit her lip, fighting the heat climbing into her cheeks.
Skaldr threw them a brief, unreadable glance before returning to the maps on the table. Koal, ever the friendly one, gave her a quick smile.
And Rhaedra, who stood near the hearth, her copper hair glinting in the firelight like minted coins, offered a respectful nod. No trace now of her earlier spark of interest in Race.
“How are the children?” Ash asked, glancing between the shifters she knew.
“The young are safe,” Varkyn said, all clipped efficiency. “But Malcarion’s forces are in motion. After the fall of the Soul Forge, they’re sweeping the mountains—wrong region, thanks to your storm.”
Relief loosened her chest. Ash nodded and stepped away, sinking into the armchair by the hearth. The flames licked higher, their heat a thin shield against the chill creeping through the room.
Then the door swung open, and the air shifted. An enormous man entered, his weather-worn cloak damp with rain, old battle scars crossing his jaw. The conversation paused—respect, relief, renewed purpose rippling through the fighters as if a missing piece had fallen into place.
“Wing Commander Braxion,” Attor told Race.
“I remember,” Race said.
The man inclined his head. “Your Highness.”
“It’s just Race for now, Braxion,” he said, moving to the table, his fingers tracing a section on it.
“The best plan is to move now,” Attor said, and Race looked up. “They’re scattered, confused, still reeling from the fall of the forge.”
“Aye.” Varkyn braced both fists on the wooden surface. “The skies are ours, but Malcarion’s wyrms still scour the mountains. He intends to strike first.”
“Then we strike faster,” Braxion said, his voice clipped. “Every hour we wait, he regathers strength.”
Ash listened quietly as the men spoke, her worry piling high. The newcomers all held hope in their eyes as they watched Race, but her stomach heaved.
As for her mate? He just stood there, looking like he would allow no other outcome but success.
Attor tapped a point on the map. “His forces will be drawn toward the passes here, searching for the attackers who they think fled into the western valleys.” He flicked Ash a quick look of acknowledgment. “Thanks to your storm, there’s nothing to find.”
“It will take careful coordination,” Braxion murmured. “Wings in the sky, claws on the ground. If he senses an attack, he will retreat, and we could lose him.”
Race nodded slowly.
“You getting into the palace is the problem, sire,” Varkyn told Race. “We have tried and lost too many. He’s turned the place into a fortress—warded gates, guard patrols, siege weapons on the walls.”
“The main gate is suicide,” Attor agreed. “There is the old service aqueduct under the east curtain, but the descent’s brutal. The tunnels are choke points—if they catch us there, that’s it.”
Ash, perched on the edge of her chair, couldn’t help a flat laugh. “Lovely. So, the choices are death by front gate or death by tunnel.”
“Or,” Race said, sweeping his gaze across the room, “we draw their attention away from the palace and split the attack. Two flanks—one strikes from the air while the other hits the gates hard and fast. Attor, Skaldr, Koal, and Rhaedra are with me. I’ll dematerialize us to the entrance so we avoid the descent.
We take the aqueduct and push through the lower halls. Malcarion is mine.”
“The lower halls lead straight past the royal wing,” Skaldr cut in then, his voice tight. “My sister’s still there.”
Ash eyed him quietly. Yeah, Skaldr would probably know the layout of the palace like the back of his hand. After all, he’d once been Race’s closest friend.
Race gave Skaldr a single, curt nod. Clearly, the old feud still wasn’t settled between them.
Bregga skirted the shifters, carrying a pewter cup. He handed it to her. “A strengthening brew, and te warm ye.”
Her face burned, but Ash accepted gratefully. Heck, she definitely needed this brew, with war approaching. “Thank you.”
He nodded and slipped away. Ash sipped the warm ale spiced with a dash of something sharp and mossy.
Race was speaking, and her attention returned to him. “Malcarion will throw everything at us once we’re inside. The only way to win is to hit harder and give him no time to breathe. Skaldr, you get Vaesarra out as quick as you can.”
Skaldr nodded.
Race frowned at the map again. “How long until everyone can get into position?”
“We’ll be there by the early hours of morn,” Braxion said.
“Aye,” Varkyn echoed.
“What exactly do you want me to do while you’re storming the castle?” Ash asked, gripping her mug. Might as well get that out there.
Race looked up. Normally, he would order her to stay put, but Ash lifted one brow, and he merely said, “You’re with me.”
She blew out a relieved breath and sipped more of her tea.
“We will need a signal once every team is in place,” Attor said. “So, the timing doesn’t falter.”
Ash leaned forward, anticipation nipping at her like teeth. “I can draw the clouds, pull the winds if needed—even a storm over Caelvyrn. Lightning will be your mark to move.”
Race’s gaze cut to her, hard and unyielding. “Nothing too heavy. I won’t have you weakening in the middle of this.”
“No gale-force winds,” Braxion said. “It will hinder my squadron.”
“Got it.” Ash nodded.
Race’s cold gaze swept the room. “One way or another, we will end Malcarion’s reign of depravity.”
Steel rasped as every Resistance fighter drew their dagger and pressed the blades to their hearts.
Ash stilled, the hairs on her arms rising. This wasn’t strategy any longer—this was ritual. Ancient. A blood oath, centuries of weight compressed into one single moment.
“As it will be,” Varkyn intoned.
Their voices echoed as one, like a single strike of iron, “As it will be!”
“By crown and by flame, I stand.” Attor’s vow cut through the quiet, deadly and unwavering. He was no longer the easygoing shifter Ash knew. This was the warrior who’d kept faith through ages of darkness. “Any who falter, I’ll cut down myself.”
The air itself seemed to vibrate with power. And through their bond, she sensed Race’s dragon stir in recognition of the old words. Only then did Ash understand the enormity of what this was.
These were the last guardians of something sacred, fighting to right the wrong.
Daggers sheathed with practiced grace, the fighters moved around the table, maps rolled and packed away, Varkyn’s orders carried down the line.
Watching the dozen shifters who would lead the teams, Ash realized she was witnessing the fragile seed of a reborn kingdom—one blade oath at a time.
With Bregga’s medicinal tea easing her exhaustion, she kept calm, even as wariness prickled at her.
Her gaze locked on Race as he spoke to Braxion.
She didn’t want him hurt. Heck, she didn’t want any of them hurt.
But Lemuria had suffered too long under this bloody tyrant’s rule. It was time to act.
The once-busy common room had fallen quiet again after the shifters left. Only the crackling fire broke the silence now and then.
Race stood by the window, looking out at the dim street. Two of Malcarion’s guards passed by, gesturing animatedly, and his mouth tightened, every muscle coiled as vengeance burned.
Through the window’s reflection, he watched Attor roll up the maps.
“Last night, Malcarion held another of his compulsory gatherings,” Attor said then, his tone grim. “Demanded the people swear loyalty again—likely because he heard the rumors that a pureblood was spotted.”
Race turned, his jaw clenching.
Attor shook his head, slid the maps into tubes, and capped them. “One civilian—gods, the fool had courage—asked how many more children they were going to lose to the mines. Malcarion smiled, called him up to the dais, and executed him.”
Steel-gray scales popped along Attor’s jaw and neck, revealing his barely restrained fury. He looked up. “The worst part of all this,” he bit out, “is the sheer godsdamn silence. The acceptance of it.”
“When you live in fear for millennia,” Race said quietly, “you learn to trade anything for the illusion of safety. We couldn’t save that male, but come tomorrow, we will save thousands.”
“Aye.” Attor’s gaze hardened. “Until morn, then, sire.” He gave a bow and strode out.
One way or the other, he would end this.
Every child the bastard stole. Every scream he wrung from their throats. Every scar he carved into these people—
It ends with me.
He slipped his fisted hands into his pockets and stared outside again.
“You’re brooding so hard, you’re going to burn a hole straight through the buildings,” Ash said, her voice soft enough to pull him back from the edge.
He drew in a deep breath, forcing the fury down until he could trust himself to turn.
She sat curled in the armchair, firelight wreathing her in gold, like the living heart of a flame. Her hair was tangled, her face wan with exhaustion, and yet…she insisted on waiting with him. His chest tightened.
“Not brooding,” he corrected. “Calculating.”
“Uh-huh.” She set her mug aside and crossed to him, slipping her arms around his waist. “Well, by my calculation, tomorrow’s problem can wait.” She hugged him. “For what’s left of tonight, you’re mine.”
He held her close, the tension bleeding from his frame. “Always yours, heart-fire.”
Race scooped her into his arms and carried her toward the stairs. He needed the warmth she offered to thaw the ice that had settled deep in his soul after what he’d heard.
Yes, one way or another… This will end.