Chapter 38 #2
With a roar that shakes the very ground, I hurl my gathered shadows directly at the golden light.
The collision is catastrophic—darkness and light annihilating each other in an explosion that sends shock waves rippling across the valley.
Soldiers from both sides are thrown like rag dolls, armor crumpling under forces no mortal was meant to withstand.
In the moment of chaos that follows, Emir strikes.
I feel savage satisfaction as he and his elite guard crash into the heart of the Light Court's defenses, catching them completely unprepared. Banu moves like a vengeful spirit, her daggers finding throats and hearts with deadly aim.
The golden light falters, dims, and then extinguishes entirely.
"Now!" I command, pulling my shadows back into physical form and charging toward the breach Emir created.
The Light Court's defensive line collapses like a house of cards. Without their magical protection, they are simply men—frightened, exhausted men facing the full might of the Shadow Court.
I carve a path through their ranks, my shadow-blades singing with each life they claim. Blood sprays across my face, hot and metallic, feeding the darkness within me. Each death makes my shadows stronger, more eager, more ravenous.
Through the chaos, I spot one of the senior Light Court commanders—his white beard stained crimson with blood. He is surrounded by what remains of his personal guard, desperately trying to maintain a defensive formation.
Our eyes meet across the battlefield, and I see the moment he accepts defeat. With a gesture, he orders his remaining forces to fall back, abandoning the field.
"Oh no you don't," I snarl, shadows launching from my fingertips like spears.
They tear through two retreating soldiers before Emir appears at my side, bloodied but triumphant.
"My lord, we've secured their command position," he reports. "The mage casting that light spell is dead."
"And their commanders?" I demand, never taking my eyes off the retreating figures.
"Escaping with what's left of their personal guard." Emir points to where Light Court soldiers are forming a desperate rear-guard action. "They're buying time for retreat."
"Not for long." I start forward, but Emir catches my arm.
"My lord, our forces are exhausted. We've won the field. Pursuing them now would stretch our lines dangerously thin."
I know he's right, but the predator in me howls for completion. "We can't let them regroup."
"We won't," Zoran says, joining us with his bow still in hand. "But Emir's right. Our troops need rest, and we have wounded to tend to. Victory is ours—let their commanders live with their shame a little longer."
I reluctantly nod, feeling the battle-lust slowly receding. As it does, the toll of extended shadow-casting makes itself known—muscles screaming, vision blurring, exhaustion settling into my bones like lead weights.
"Sound the victory horns," I order. "Secure the field and gather our wounded."
As the horns blare across Kan Vadisi, I survey the carnage we've created. Thousands dead on both sides, the earth torn and scorched by magic, blood soaking the ground until it seems the valley has earned its name anew.
Elcin approaches, supporting a limping Banu whose left side is drenched in blood.
At her side walks Nesilhan, battle-worn and pale but standing tall.
Her left arm hangs in a makeshift sling, the healers' hasty work evident in the fresh bandaging visible beneath her torn sleeve.
She shouldn't be walking at all—not with a shattered shoulder—but stubbornness has always been her defining trait.
"You're supposed to be resting," I say by way of greeting.
"I got bored." She surveys the battlefield with grim satisfaction. "Besides, Banu's healing magic does wonders. I can at least stand and look appropriately victorious."
Her golden eyes take in the battlefield with a mixture of horror and grim satisfaction. Hours ago, her own father had nearly killed her before Zoran drove his blade through Taren's heart.
"Someone should check if that's actually Banu this time," I say, nodding toward the fairy. "The last shapeshifter was convincing until it tried to gut Nesilhan."
"It's me, you ass," Banu hisses, though a ghost of a smile touches her lips. "The blood is mostly someone else's."
"Mostly?" Emir is at her side instantly, concern etched across his features.
"Calm down, General," Banu rolls her eyes. "Just a flesh wound. Though your concern is touching."
Elcin snorts. "If by 'touching' you mean 'painfully obvious to everyone except you two,' then yes."
I wipe blood from my face, eyes meeting Nesilhan's across the short distance between us. She looks exhausted, drained from the battle and the trauma of watching her brother kill their father.
"You fought well today," I say quietly.
"So did you." She looks me over, one eyebrow arching. "Though you look like something that crawled out of Kara Cehennem."
"Funny. I was going for 'devastatingly handsome war hero.'"
"You missed." She closes the distance between us, reaching up to wipe a streak of blood from my cheek with her good hand. Her touch is gentle despite the carnage around us. "By a considerable margin."
"And yet you're still touching my face. Curious."
Zoran clears his throat pointedly. "Some of us are standing right here. Bleeding. In case anyone cares."
"No one does," Nesilhan and I say in unison.
"Charming. Truly." He sheathes his sword with more force than necessary. "I'll be with the healers. Trying not to vomit at your domestic bliss."
"Don't forget to have someone look at that shoulder," Nesilhan calls after him.
He waves a dismissive hand without turning back, and I watch him go—her brother, who killed their father to save her. There will be time later to deal with whatever that's done to him. For now, I have more immediate concerns.
"Come," I say, offering Nesilhan my arm. "Let's get you cleaned up before the victory celebrations. I refuse to toast our triumph while you're covered in your enemies' entrails."
"How romantic."
"I have my moments."
We make our way through the celebrating soldiers, accepting congratulations and avoiding the worst of the carnage. Victory tastes like ash and blood, but it's victory nonetheless.
The command tent looms ahead, its dark fabric a stark contrast to the bonfires being lit across the field.
"I need to debrief with the commanders," I tell Nesilhan, though what I really need is a moment to process the battle, the deaths, the cost of this win.
She nods, understanding. "I should check on the wounded anyway."
But before we can part ways, a familiar figure steps from the shadows.
"Cousin dearest." Yasar's voice makes me turn before I can enter the command tent. He stands at the entrance, still covered in ash and blood, those black eyes slowly fading back to violet. The demon-fire has retreated, but I can still see traces of it flickering beneath his skin.
"Leaving so soon?" I ask, my shadows coiling instinctively. "I seem to recall promising to kill you. Slowly. With significant creativity involved."
"You did." He doesn't flinch. "I'm not asking for forgiveness. I know what I did to her—the binding, the manipulation. I know what I am."
"And yet you're still breathing." I step closer, letting him feel the weight of my power. "Care to explain why I shouldn't rectify that right now? Battlefield chaos makes for excellent cover. 'Tragic accident with demon-fire,' I'll say. Very sad."
"Because you need me alive." His smile is bitter. "Erlik taught me things—about the demon realms, about his plans. Kill me now, and you lose that intelligence."
"I could torture it out of you."
"You could try." He meets my eyes without fear. "But we both know I learned pain tolerance in Kara Cehennem. You'd get nothing but screaming."
We stare at each other—two predators measuring, calculating.
"This isn't mercy," I say finally. "This is a strategic delay.
You helped win the battle. That buys you time to run, to hide, to figure out what the fuck you've become.
But cousin?" My shadows wrap around his throat—not squeezing, just resting there like a promise.
"The next time I see you, if you've done anything—ANYTHING—to hurt her again?
There won't be enough of you left to burn. "
"Understood." His voice doesn't waver even with darkness at his throat. "For what it's worth... I genuinely believed I was saving her. From you. From herself. I was wrong."
"Congratulations on your self-awareness. It won't save you." I release him. "Now get out of my sight before I change my mind about the whole 'strategic delay' thing."
He nods once, then vanishes into shadow without another word.
The command tent is quiet now. Outside, victory celebrations rage—songs, laughter, bonfires fed by Light Court banners. Inside, it's just Emir and me, a bottle of shadow wine that's already half-empty, and blood still drying on both our armor.
"Three expeditions," I say, refilling both our goblets. "To rescue a fairy."
Emir's jaw tightens. "Strategic reconnaissance."
"Strategic my ass. You were lovesick." I drink, savoring the burn. "It's almost endearing. In a pathetic, 'I've-forgotten-how-to-function-as-a-rational-being' sort of way."
"I was ensuring a valuable asset—"
"Was still alive so you could fuck her again." I lean back. "Let's not pretend this is complicated. You want her. She clearly wants you, given how much time she spends insulting you. The sexual tension is so thick I'm surprised you haven't just bent her over a war table and resolved it."
He drains his goblet. "You're insufferable."
"I'm your oldest friend. There's a difference." I pour more wine. "Besides, you drew steel on me when I threatened her. In all our years together—through wars, massacres, that incident with the brothel fire—you've never done that. Not once."
"She was innocent."
"So were half the people I've killed, and you've never stopped me before." I study him. "This isn't about innocence. This is about you being absolutely fucked over a four-foot fairy who calls you 'emotionally constipated' in front of the entire war council."
Despite himself, his mouth twitches. "She's not wrong."
"She's definitely not wrong." I grin. "So what's the plan? More brooding silence while hoping she figures it out? Because I've got to tell you, as someone who tried that approach—it doesn't work. You need actual words. Terrifying, I know."
"I don't know what to say to her." The admission comes rough, the wine finally loosening his usual iron control. "I'm a soldier. I kill things. She's... she's chaos and laughter and life, and I'm—"
"A brooding disaster who's forgotten how to be happy." I interrupt. "Until she showed up and reminded you. So stop being a coward and tell her."
"My wife died four hundred years ago." His voice goes quiet. "I'm not good at this anymore."
Ah. There it is. The real issue.
"Elara would kick your ass for using her as an excuse," I say bluntly. "She'd want you happy. Not spending eternity punishing yourself by being alone."
"You don't know that."
"I met her. Multiple times. She threatened to castrate me if I got you killed." I smile at the memory. "She was terrifying. I liked her immensely. And she would absolutely tell you to stop being a martyr and go fuck the fairy who makes you laugh."
He almost smiles. "That's not how Elara would phrase it."
"Fine. 'Make love to the fairy.'" I roll my eyes. "Better? More respectful? Less crude?"
"Marginally."
"So?" I press. "When are you going to stop pretending you're fine and actually do something about this?"
"I don't know." He stares into his goblet. "What if I fuck it up?"
"You will fuck it up. Repeatedly. That's how these things work." I lean forward. "I nearly destroyed my marriage seven times before we figured our shit out. You'll be fine."
"Your wife was sent to assassinate you."
"Exactly. And if I can make that work, you can definitely handle a fairy who already likes you." I raise my goblet. "To being complete disasters in love."
"To surviving despite ourselves," he counters.
We drink.
"When you finally tell her," I say after a moment, "try not to be your usual grim, death-and-duty self. Women generally prefer romance to tactical assessments of relationship viability."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Good. Because if you fuck this up through sheer emotional incompetence, I'm going to mock you mercilessly for the next two hundred years."
"Noted." He refills both our goblets again. The bottle's nearly empty now. "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely. You've spent eight hundred years being the responsible one while I cause chaos. It's nice seeing you be the disaster for once."
"May the gods preserve me from your idea of friendship."
"No they won't. You love me. Just like you love her." I grin. "Admit it. You're soft now. Domesticated. Next you'll be settling down, having children, hosting dinner parties—"
He gives me a look that could kill lesser men. "If you continue this line of thought, I will demonstrate exactly how 'domesticated' I am by throwing you through that tent wall."
"See? Still got some fire in you." I laugh. "Good. Banu would get bored with someone completely tame."
"This conversation is over."
"This conversation is just getting interesting." But I let it drop, seeing the exhaustion finally catching up to him. "Get some sleep, old friend. Tomorrow we start rebuilding."
He nods, rising with only slightly impaired dignity. At the entrance, he pauses.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For not letting me be alone with this."
"That's what I'm here for. Well, that and creative violence. But mostly the friendship thing."
He leaves, and I catch the direction he turns—toward the healers' pavilion. Toward where she is.
Some things don't need to be said aloud.