Chapter 28
Delia
From The Eyrie to The Ember Vein
The sitting room Alaric gave us doesn’t look like a war is boiling at the edges of the world.
It looks cozy.
The servants have long since cleared away dinner—a hearty roast with vegetable sides I can’t name, but it was delicious and satisfying.
The dark wood table near the fire still carries a faint ghost of roasted meat and spiced wine, but now it’s buried under something far better.
Books.
Stacks and stacks of them.
Leather, vellum, strange metals, covers in colors that don’t exist on Earth.
When Jules first showed me the library—this impossible, spiraling palace of shelves—it nearly broke my brain. Then she waved a hand, muttered something, and the words blurred, reshaped, and snapped into focus.
“It’s an Eyrie charm Alaric taught me,” she’d said, grinning. “Makes the books readable to whoever’s touching them, as long as Alaric anchors it.”
I’m still not over it.
Now the three of us are sunk into overstuffed chairs, each with our own teetering pile.
A fire purrs in the hearth, casting silver-gold light along the stone walls. Soft rugs muffle our footsteps.
Outside, Nightfall’s wind howls around the towers, but in here it’s all crackling fire and whispered pages.
Phoebe sits cross-legged, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, hair twisted up in a messy knot that says “accidental heroine of epic fantasy.”
Jules has a blanket over her belly, one hand absently rubbing small circles where their baby kicks.
Me? I’ve got ink on my fingers and a knot in my stomach.
“Okay,” I mutter, flipping a page, “this one says the SoulTakers were once ordinary Demons. Some were even guardians of some kind? That doesn’t match anything Thorne told me.”
“It’s an older text,” Jules says, peering over at me with those pale gray eyes. “Before they turned. Before Idris twisted them.”
“Yeah, that creep has a real talent for that,” I grumble.
We fall into quiet again, the comfortable kind. Just three Jersey girls, apparently, combing through magical grimoires in a Demon castle in another realm.
Totally normal.
After a while, my eyes start to blur. Words swim. The fire’s warmth makes everything hazy at the edges.
That’s when I feel it.
The shift.
It starts as a tiny tug under my breastbone—like someone hooked a hot wire into my heart and gave it a careful pull. My breath stutters.
Then it sharpens.
Pain cuts through me, bright and sudden.
Not physical—not exactly.
More like fear given form.
Pressure. Heat.
“Ah—” The sound rips out of me before I can stop it.
“Delia?” Phoebe looks up immediately, book forgotten. “You okay?”
I open my mouth to say yes.
I don’t get the word out.
The tug yanks hard this time, and I double over, the book sliding from my lap.
“Delia!” Jules’s voice goes thin and high, full of alarm. She reaches across, grabbing my hand with one of hers and fumbling for Phoebe’s with the other. “What—are they okay?”
Their fingers lock around mine.
Warm, grounding.
I squeeze back, hard.
“I—I don’t know,” I choke out. “Something’s wrong. I feel it.”
Because it isn’t just pain.
It’s Thorne.
Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing—my bond is screaming.
His fear. His rage. His stubborn, relentless will.
It’s all bleeding through the zareth like someone opened a floodgate.
My chest tightens, and my eyes blur.
“I can barely breathe,” Phoebe whispers, pressing her free hand to her ribs. “Kael’s power is… surging. He’s trying to keep something back—”
“Alaric’s gone very quiet,” Jules murmurs, her eyes distant, thumb rubbing small circles against my knuckles now. “Focused. That’s not always a good thing.”
Fear crashes over us in a shared wave.
I can’t just sit here.
But Jules is pregnant. And Phoebe—Kael’s viyella—is pale, jaw tight, fighting whatever storm is rolling through her bond.
Thorne told me before he left.
He brought it with him.
The crown.
“The Prime’s crown is here, right?” My voice comes out too loud, too sharp. “In the Eyrie?”
Jules nods, swallowing. “Alaric wanted to try something while all four of them were here. It’s safe though, right? Under his wards while they’re all away at the Vein.”
“It’s both Idris wants,” Phoebe inserts. “Kael always says he’ll come for both—the forges and the crown.”
“That’s what he really wants though, right?” I ask, fighting to keep my breathing even. “The crown?”
Phoebe nods, eyes shadowed.
“He thinks he can wield the Prime’s power if he has it. But it doesn’t work that way. The crown is sentient. It chooses. It protects itself. Alaric says forcing it only ends in madness or death.”
“Great,” I rasp. “So we’ve basically hung a ‘free insanity’ sign in the middle of a war.”
Before either of them can answer, the world tilts.
Power hits me like a physical blow.
A tidal wave of heat and agony tears through my bond. I slam to my knees, hands flying to my chest as if I can hold myself together by force.
“Delia!” Phoebe cries, sliding down beside me.
“Goddess,” Jules gasps. “What is it? Talk to us.”
“It’s—” I can’t get enough air. My heart is galloping. My skin feels too tight. “Thorne. He’s—he’s hurt. Oh my God, he’s hurt—”
Tears burn my eyes.
I see flashes that aren’t mine.
Fire. Stone. A clash of power so intense it cracks the darkness itself.
The smell of scorched air and blackened magic.
And under it all, through it all—his voice, hoarse and furious and unyielding.
Mine.
My throat closes.
“I have to go to him,” I grit out, forcing myself upright, legs shaking.
“You can’t,” Jules says instantly, pushing to her feet with a wince. “It’s too dangerous. If Idris is making his move—”
“I don’t care,” I snap, and the words are raw, wet, ugly. “I can’t just sit here while he—while they—”
Another surge hits, softer this time, but no less urgent. Not pain. Not exactly.
A cry.
A prayer maybe?
“Please,” I whisper, looking between them. “I have to go to him. Will you help me?”
Phoebe and Jules exchange a look. A whole silent conversation passes between them—fear, understanding, something like grim acceptance.
Then Jules nods once. Decisive.
“Yes,” she says. “You can use the portal.”
Phoebe licks her lips, shifting closer, gripping my arm as if anchoring herself.
“It’ll take you back to Ashfell’s anchor-stone. To Thorne’s keep. From there…” Her voice falters, but she squares her shoulders. “From there, you’ll feel him. Your bond will guide you and you should be able to access his powers.”
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
“Are you sure?” I ask, even though I know my decision was made the moment the first spike of pain hit.
“No,” Jules says honestly. “But if Alaric were bleeding out half a world away and I could reach him?” Her eyes flash. “There’s not a force in the multiverse that could stop me.”
Phoebe squeezes my hand again. “We’ll hold things here. Try to anchor our viyens from this side of the bond.”
Jules steps in, cupping my cheeks, pulling my gaze to hers. Her eyes are fierce and kind and just a little terrified.
“Go to him, Delia,” she says. “But please—please be safe. Come back. The three of us? We’re going to need each other before this is over.”
Emotion swells so thick in my chest I can barely nod.
But I do.
“I’ll come back,” I whisper. “With him. With all of them.”
Phoebe straightens, smoothing her hair back with shaking hands.
“The portal room is down the corridor, east tower. You remember where you came in? Right,” Jules mutters, glancing toward the ceiling like she’s communicating with her castle—maybe she is.
“Coming to Nightfall changes things—changes us—but I can’t imagine anything better,” she whispers.
“I believe you,” I reply.
Of course I do. Because nothing in my life is normal anymore.
I swipe at my eyes, square my shoulders, and take one last look at the two women who understand this madness better than anyone else ever could.
Three Jersey girls.
Three realms.
Three Demon Lords.
“I’ll bring him home,” I say it one more time, and maybe I’m even starting to believe it.
Then I turn and run, heart and bond blazing, toward whatever waits for me on the other side of the portal.
Hold on, Thorne. I’m coming.