Chapter 27
Thorne
The Eyrie, Nightfall
It feels different here than Ashfell.
Less embers, more wind.
Less bone and basalt, more carved stone and open balconies where the sky itself intrudes.
But the tension is the same.
We stand in Alaric’s throne room—if it can be called that.
The great chamber is all jagged arches and soaring windows, the ever-present wind threading through like a living thing.
His hearth is narrower than mine, burning in a tall, elegant column at the center of the room instead of a wide, sprawling hearth.
Air Lord aesthetics.
Useless when it comes to my temper.
Alaric is pacing, wings a restless shimmer beneath his skin, magic hovering around him in shreds of half-formed illusion.
Kael leans against a carved pillar, arms crossed, ocean-dark eyes narrowed.
Dagan stands near the window, shoulders bunched, the stone beneath his boots vibrating in time with his mood.
I’ve brought the Prime’s crown with me, and it now rests on a pedestal between us, wrapped in layer upon layer of my fire wards and Kael’s, Dagan’s, and Alaric’s spells.
To anyone else, it looks like a simple, inert circlet.
I know better.
“You know what I think?” Alaric says at last, halting mid-stride.
“Three of the four of us have found true viyellas, formed true zareth bonds. Kael’s tides have steadied.
My illusions answer me without bleeding me dry.
Your fire—” He gestures at me, eyes glinting.
“—is more volatile and powerful than I’ve ever seen it. And still, the crown remains silent.”
“It will choose in its time,” Kael says evenly.
“It has had time,” Alaric snaps. “The multiverse is fraying, SoulTaker attacks escalate in every realm, and the Fates are playing dice in the dark. Perhaps one of us should attempt to force it to choose. Just touch it. Call it. See who it answers.”
My fire snarls inside me.
“No,” I say, the word edged in flame. “You know that is a bad idea.”
Alaric’s jaw clenches. “I know what the old texts say. But desperate times—”
“Desperate times do not make ancient magic less lethal,” I cut in. “The crown does not suffer coercion. If it is forced, it does not ‘consider.’ It destroys.”
Kael nods, pushing off the pillar.
“Thorne is right. My ancestors tried to wrest its choice, once. It rejected them. The ocean still remembers their screams.”
Alaric exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair.
“I am merely… frustrated. Every path I thought I understood keeps burning away beneath me.”
“Welcome to my world,” I mutter.
The stone beneath us gives a subtle shudder.
I glance at Dagan.
He hasn’t spoken, but he might as well be shouting. The earth around him is a low, constant rumble, like an avalanche waiting for an excuse.
“What is it, man?” I demand. “You’re rumbling about like a mountain ready to slide. Speak before you crack the Eyrie in half.”
Dagan’s granite-colored eyes flick to mine, then away. His hands flex at his sides.
“It is nothing,” he begins.
“Bullshit,” Alaric says.
Kael snorts in agreement. “Your silence is louder than a quake, brother. Out with it.”
Dagan’s jaw works.
“You three have found your mates,” he says at last. “True viyellas with whom your zareth burns bright. And yet the crown is silent. And I—” He breaks off, stone humming under his boots. “I have gone to the Earth realm six times. Six. To no avail.”
I blink.
“Six?” Kael asks, brows lifting. “Where?”
“The southern continents,” Dagan says. “Dry lands with red dust and bright sunshine. Then lands in the far east—cities with neon lights and skies that taste like metal.” His mouth twists. “I walked among their people. I listened. I watched. Nothing.”
Kael’s lips curve, slow and wicked. “Well, there’s your mistake.”
We all look at him.
“Oh?” I arch a brow.
“You have to go to the place we found our mates. Jersey,” Kael says, straight-faced.
For a moment, silence.
Then, despite myself, I huff a laugh. Alaric’s mouth quirks. Even I can admit the pattern is suspicious.
Dagan, however, freezes as if struck.
“New Jersey?” he repeats, stunned. “You are telling me the secret to finding my viyella and maybe winning the crown of Nightfall is a specific mortal province called New Jersey?”
“Hey, I’m just saying,” Kael replies, shrugging. “All three of our viyellas. Same realm, same region. Perhaps the Fates like sass and bad infrastructure.”
Alaric’s grin is sharp. “And an alarming tolerance for chaos.”
I smirk, picturing Delia’s fire-bright eyes as she scolded me for nearly incinerating my brothers.
“They do burn hot, those Jersey girls.”
Dagan looks between us, stunned and faintly offended.
“You’re all laughing. But perhaps I truly have been searching in the wrong places.”
“Or perhaps,” I say, sobering, “you are simply early. We didn’t find them until the threads were ready. The Fates rarely move in straight lines.”
Dagan huffs, but some of the pressure in the stone eases.
“Regardless, your mate or lack thereof is not the issue demanding our attention,” I continue. “We have Idris to contend with.”
Alaric’s humor fades. “Yes. Idris.”
The name tastes like soot.
“The Dark Sage,” Kael says quietly. “How many did he take this time?”
Dagan’s fingers curl into fists. The ground shudders again, a low, angry quake that rattles the spear racks along the wall.
“More converts to Idris’s tainted mission have been discovered in one of my villages,” he grinds out. “He swept through with his dark promises and took nigh on two dozen able-bodied men and women.”
My fire flares, sharp and vicious. “Two dozen?”
“At least,” Dagan says. “Those we can confirm. He dresses it as salvation. ‘Join me, and I will free you from endless toil. From the forges. From the Lords who demand your labor and give you nightmares in return.’”
Alaric’s eyes narrow. “He always was a master with words.”
“I do not understand how a man can fall so far. How once upon a time,” I snarl, “he was a monk of the Silver Flame. Once, he swore to protect this realm. To hold it sacred. Now he feeds on the very despair he stokes.”
Kael’s hands tighten at his sides. “We cut him down before. We can do it again.”
“Not while he hides behind the dead and those too desperate to see their own chains,” I say. “He is clever. He sends his SoulTakers to raid where we are weakest. He makes us look like tyrants while he gathers an army of the disillusioned.”
My gaze drops to the shrouded crown.
“The longer it sits without a Prime, the more his influence spreads,” Alaric admits. “And the Fates do nothing. They watch. They weigh.”
“They are waiting for the weave to align,” Kael murmurs. “For the right pattern to emerge.”
“Or they are laughing while the world burns,” I growl.
We fall into a simmering silence.
Then Dagan exhales slowly, the tremors underfoot easing.
“We can’t force the crown,” he says. “We all know it. Very well. We focus on what we can do.”
“The Ember Vein first,” I say. “It is the lifeblood. If Idris finds a way to penetrate the wards there, we lose everything. Dreams. Hope. The very reason Nightfall exists.”
Alaric nods. “We can’t do more at this time, Thorne. We already reinforced the wards together. Before I leave Jules to head back there, I must know what our plans are should the Vein fall under attack.”
“Our plans? To crush Idris and his army!” I growl.
“Yes, but we can’t do that unless we can find him. And for now, the Vein is as secure as we can make it,” Kael adds.
“I have stayed all night below,” Dagan adds. “I have felt none of the SoulTakers’ presence or progress or evidence of them advancing through the ground—not yet. But their last attempt reached too near.”
“I will not leave my lands unprotected,” I growl.
“Of course not,” Alaric says. “We go together. We bind our magic to the wards in all four elements—Air, Water, Earth, Fire. If Idris or his pets so much as breathe too close, we will know.”
He glances toward the great balcony where, beyond, the Broken Plains lie distant but constant.
“And then?” Kael asks quietly.
“And then,” I say, eyes flicking once more to the hidden crown, “we keep fighting. We keep guarding the forges. We keep our mates alive. Until the crown speaks or the Fates choke on their own silence.”
Alaric snorts, but there is no real humor in it. “Spoken like a man in love.”
I bare my teeth. “Spoken like a Lord of Fire.”
He smirks. “Same thing these days, apparently.”
Before I can answer, the stone at Dagan’s feet stills entirely.
“The Vein,” he says. “It calls. There is a tremor in the wards.”
Alaric’s head snaps up. Kael’s eyes flash tide-dark.
“Then we don’t waste another breath,” I say. “We go. Now.”
Because whatever the crown is waiting for, whatever pattern the Fates are weaving—I know this much.
If Idris reaches The Ember Vein before we do, nothing Delia and I have just begun to build will matter.
No dreams. No hope. No Nightfall.
But I will not let that happen.
Then, the sound hits like a blade to the spine.
Not a siren. Not a horn.
It’s the wards.
A high, keening vibration that isn't sound so much as pressure — slamming into the marrow of my bones, rattling the Great Flame in its hearth, making every torch in the Eyrie gutter blue for a heartbeat.
Alaric is the first to snarl. “The wards.”
Kael’s head snaps toward the nearest window, eyes going flat and lethal. “The Vein.”
Dagan’s hands curl into fists; the stone under our feet lurches like it wants to break loose. “Idris.”
“We move,” I bark.
We don’t argue. We don’t waste breath on plans. We know what this means.
The protections we laid over The Ember Vein are being tested.
Breached.
Someone — something — has touched what should be untouchable.
“We must tell our viyellas,” Kael says, already turning.
“Go,” Alaric growls, wings shimmering just beneath his skin. “Get them to safety. Then we fly.”
I’m already moving.
The corridors blur, stone and shadow streaking past as I unleash just enough power to scorch the air in my wake.