Chapter 29 #3
"Yes," I say, surprising all of us. "Both of you—go get those injuries properly tended by a healer. Get the blood cleaned off. Eat something. Sleep for at least four hours. Then you can return to duty."
Emir opens his mouth to protest.
"That's an order, General," I cut him off. "You're no use to me if you collapse from exhaustion in the middle of a war council. And take Banu with you. She needs rest too."
"I'm fine," Zoran starts.
"You're leaning to the left and your hands are shaking. If you collapse before tomorrow's council, I'll be forced to deliver the eulogy I spent two months not having to give. Don't make me waste good material."
For a moment, I think they might actually argue. Then Emir just nods, too exhausted to fight.
"Thank you, my lord," he says quietly.
Zoran's protest dies on his lips. He glances at Nesilhan, who gives him a look that clearly says don't you dare argue.
"Fine," he mutters. "But I need to tell you something first. Both of you." His gaze shifts between me and Nesilhan, and something in his expression makes my shadows coil tighter. "There are rumors. Intelligence I've gathered over the past few weeks. It can't wait."
"Then speak," I say. "Quickly."
Zoran's jaw tightens. "My father has someone new. A commander he's been keeping hidden until recently. The Light Court is calling them..." He swallows hard. "They're calling them the Twilight Heir."
The words land like stones dropped into still water. I feel Nesilhan go rigid beside me.
"That's impossible," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm the only—the prophecy spoke of one child—"
"The rumors say it's a man," Zoran continues, his expression troubled.
"A young man, around your age, who can wield both light and shadow magic.
Father's been parading him before the Light Court nobility, claiming he's the true fulfillment of the prophecy.
That you were..." He hesitates, glancing at his sister with obvious pain.
"That you were a mistake. A false dawn."
"A man," I repeat flatly. "Taren has produced a male heir who can supposedly wield twilight magic, and he expects anyone to believe this? Where has this miracle son been hiding for two decades?"
"Unknown. The intelligence is fragmented—most of it secondhand accounts from refugees and deserters.
But multiple sources confirm the same details.
Young. Powerful. Utterly loyal to my father.
" Zoran's grip on his cane tightens. "And apparently, he's been training for years specifically to counter Shadow Court magic.
Whatever he is, wherever he came from, Father's been planning this for a long time. "
"A male Twilight Heir. Convenient, isn't it? Taren finally gets the son he always wanted—one who won't question orders or develop inconvenient loyalties." Yasar says.
"You think it's a fabrication?" Elcin asks, her eyes narrowing.
"I think Taren has spent twenty years preparing for this war," Yasar replies carefully.
"And I think he's not above manufacturing prophecy fulfillment when the original doesn't suit his purposes.
" His violet gaze flickers to Nesilhan, something unreadable in his expression.
"The question is whether this heir is a lie, a weapon, or something worse. "
I watch Nesilhan's face as Yasar speaks. Something flickers in her expression—not just shock, but something deeper. Something that looks almost like recognition.
"Nes?" I ask quietly.
"It's nothing," she says quickly. Too quickly. "Just... trying to process. A rival Twilight Heir. It's a lot to take in."
She's lying. Or rather, she's not telling me something. Without our bond, I can't feel what she's hiding, but I've learned to read her well enough to know when she's keeping secrets.
I file it away for later. Right now, we have more pressing concerns.
"Zoran," I say, drawing his attention away from his sister, "everything you know about this supposed Twilight Heir—I want it documented. Every rumor, every sighting, every scrap of intelligence. Bring it to the war council tomorrow night."
He nods, though his eyes keep drifting back to Nesilhan with obvious concern. "I'll have a full report prepared."
"Good. Now go rest. That's an order—and unlike Emir, you don't have centuries of loyal service to fall back on if you argue with me."
Zoran manages a weak smile. "I wouldn't dream of it." He turns to Nesilhan, pulling her into one more brief embrace. "We'll talk more tomorrow. There's... there's a lot I need to tell you. About Father. About what I've learned while you were gone."
"Tomorrow," she agrees, though I catch the way her hands tremble as she releases him.
Emir turns to leave, pausing only to press one more lingering kiss to Banu's temple—a gesture so tender and possessive that it makes something in my chest twist with an emotion I refuse to examine too closely—before heading toward the door that used to lead to the healer's wing before half the palace collapsed.
Zoran follows, leaning on his cane, his steps careful and measured.
As they leave—Emir supporting Banu, Zoran limping alongside them—I watch how carefully Emir ensures she's steady on her feet, how Zoran's hand briefly touches his sister's shoulder in passing.
Decades of military discipline, and Emir's still putting someone else's welfare above his own comfort.
And Zoran—the soft scholar who used to flinch at violence—has become someone who fights beside my general and walks away upright.
War changes people. Sometimes for the worse. Occasionally, for the better.