Chapter 25 #2
The words unfurl in elegant, spare script, but there is nothing elegant about their content.
Thorne,
Jules is unwell. The healers at the Eyrie are… concerned. They request a second opinion.
Your viyella spoke of emergency response and maternal care. If she will come—if you will come—I would be in your debt.
The winds are restless. I do not like it.
– A.
My jaw grinds.
Alaric almost never asks for help. Not like this. Not bare and stripped of his usual arrogant polish.
Jules.
His viyella.
The one carrying the first Lord’s child Nightfall has seen in an age.
I do not waste another second on the ministers—they have their orders. They know what will happen if they fail.
“You will continue implementing the response units we discussed,” I say, rising from the throne in one fluid motion. “If any of you require clarification, go through Xavier to notify me. Understood?”
A chorus of “Yes, my Lord,” follows me as I stride from the hall, flames trailing in my wake like a cloak.
I do not slow.
My steps eat the distance between the throne room and our chambers. The closer I get, the more the bond hums—low and steady, like an ember-fed heartbeat calling me home.
I round the corner to our private hall—and stop dead.
She is just stepping out of our bedroom with Masha on her heels.
“My Lady, are you sure?”
“Yes, Masha, thank you,” she says, then stops and finds me with her piercing gaze.
My Shula.
She is dressed in one of the white tunics and leggings I had Masha and the seamstresses line her closet with. The fabric skims her curves, pure and bright against her bronze skin, catching the light like she’s carved from starlight and smoke.
Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, the sides pulled back and braided neatly.
Her lips are pink from where she’s bitten them.
There’s a faint, pink blush spreading across both cheeks.
She looks beautiful.
Utterly, painfully beautiful.
For a breath, the Lord of Fire is useless.
“Good morning,” she whispers when she sees me, shy and soft in a way that spears straight through my ribcage.
“Good morning,” I manage, my voice coming out rougher than I intend.
She smiles up at me, and the world steadies.
I hold up the missive. “Uh, I have news. From Alaric’s viyella.”
Concern flickers across her face immediately, all that sharp EMT focus snapping into place. She steps closer without realizing it, eyes going straight to the letter like she might read it through my hand.
“She is having some difficulty,” I say carefully. “Alaric requests that we come. That you see her. The healers at the Eyrie are uncertain.”
“With her pregnancy?” Delia asks at once, all business and warm, aching concern that makes my heart clench. “Is it the baby? Her blood pressure? Contractions? Headaches? How far along is she again?”
A corner of my mouth lifts despite the worry.
Of course she thinks like this.
Of course she goes straight to triage in her head.
“She is early yet, for such complications,” I say. “The letter does not say more. Only that the winds are restless and he does not like it.”
She exhales, shoulders squaring, decision already forming in her eyes.
“Okay,” she says, voice firm. “Let’s go.”
The words shouldn’t soothe me.
But they do.
Because there is no hesitation.
No bargaining. No complaint.
Nightfall needs her—and she answers.
I step closer, sliding a hand to the small of her back, pulling her gently into my side.
“Xavier will ready the portal to the Eyrie,” I murmur. “It will be different from the way we traveled to the Vein. Wind instead of flame. Do not let Alaric’s theatrics unsettle you.”
She snorts softly.
“Oh, so drama is his element.”
“His and the weather’s,” I agree dryly.
She reaches up then, fingers brushing my jaw, her gaze searching mine.
“Hey. Thorne?”
“Yes, Shula?” I breathe.
“Don’t worry. I trust you,” she says—and leans in to press a quick, soft kiss to the corner of my mouth.
It is not nearly enough.
It still undoes me.
For a heartbeat, I forget about crowns and mines and SoulTakers and restless winds.
There is only this woman.
This human.
Mine.
I bow my head—bow—to hide the rawness in my eyes, to the visible shock of a passing servant who nearly drops the linens in his arms.
“You trust easily, Shula.”
“I don’t. But I do trust you. Do you trust me?” she asks.
“Always,” I promise quietly, straightening. “Stay close to me when we cross. Alaric may be the Lord of Air, but you are the only breath I cannot lose.”
Her cheeks flush.
“You really have to say things like that right before we jump into a magical sky portal?”
“Yes,” I say simply, taking her hand in mine. “I do.”
Xavier appears at the end of the hall, already braced, the faint shimmer of wind-magic tugging at his hair.
“The portal is ready, my Lord. The Eyrie awaits,” he announces.
I squeeze Delia’s hand.
“Come, Shula,” I murmur, leading her toward the swirling, silver-lit archway forming in the air. “Let us go keep Alaric’s world from falling apart, and see what your Earth training can do for a child of Nightfall.”