Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
AUREN
The war room fills within the hour.
Drayke takes his place at the head of the table, Selene at his right hand.
Her fingers are interlaced with his on the table’s surface—a casual intimacy that still surprises me after all these months.
The king who was so convinced he’d destroy anything he touched, now holding his mate’s hand in a strategy meeting.
I understand now, in a way I didn’t before. The pull toward another person. The way their presence rewrites everything you thought you knew about yourself.
Rurik sprawls in his chair with deliberate disregard for posture, but his golden eyes are sharp.
Aisling sits beside him, her red hair a bright spot against the room’s dark stone, her healer’s hands folded neatly in her lap.
She’s already calculating casualties, I can tell.
Running numbers she hopes she won’t need.
Zyphon materializes from the shadows near the door—one moment empty space, the next a dragon with violet-dark eyes.
Nasyra appears a heartbeat later, her mismatched gaze finding his across the room.
They don’t touch. They don’t need to. The space between them vibrates with an understanding that goes beyond physical contact.
And Tamsin. Tamsin takes the seat beside mine, close enough that her thigh presses against my leg beneath the table.
Close enough that I can feel the steady pulse of her fire, banked but present, ready to ignite at a moment’s notice.
Close enough that her scent—something floral from her bath, underlaid with smoke and magic—fills my awareness until concentration becomes a battle.
I don’t move away. Don’t try to create professional distance. Let the others see. Let them draw their own conclusions.
“We all know why we’re here.” Drayke’s voice cuts through the quiet murmurs. “The assault on Ulrik’s stronghold. Auren has been working on approach strategies. I want to hear them.”
I stand, moving to the maps I’ve pinned to the wall. The largest shows the eastern mountains in detail—every peak, every valley, every path that might lead to Ulrik’s fortress. Part of me resents leaving her side, even for the few feet between us. An irrational response. A human response.
Perhaps she’s making me more human. Or perhaps she’s simply revealing what was there all along, buried beneath centuries of ice.
“The Shadow Clan stronghold is here.” I tap the black mark at the center.
“A full day’s flight from our position. The terrain alone will cost us—mountains designed to disorient, valleys that trap sound and light, forests that have absorbed so much shadow magic, they’re effectively hostile territory. ”
“We knew it wouldn’t be easy,” Rurik says. “Get to the interesting part.”
“The interesting part is that ‘not easy’ may be an understatement.” I trace the route I’ve marked in red. “This is the most viable approach. Through the northern valley, around Spine Ridge, approaching from the southeast where the wards are oldest and potentially weakest.”
“Oldest doesn’t mean weakest.” Zyphon’s voice rasps from the shadows. “Ulrik layers his wards. The oldest are the foundation—the newer protections are built on top of them. Break the old ones, and everything above collapses. He knows this. He maintains them accordingly.”
“You’ve been inside.” I turn to face him. “What can you tell us about the defenses?”
Zyphon steps forward, into the light—or what passes for light, given how his cursed scales seem to drink it in. “I was inside once. Three centuries ago, when I went to kill him.” His mouth twists. “We know how that ended.”
“But you got in.”
“Through shadow. I materialized in his throne room before the wards could register me as a threat.” His violet gaze flickers to Nasyra, something complicated passing between them. “The curse was his response. His way of ensuring I couldn’t do it again.”
“So shadow travel is out.”
“For me, yes. The curse ties me to his magic. The moment I try to shadow-walk into his territory, he’ll feel it.
” Zyphon’s hands clench at his sides. “But the stronghold itself—the layout hasn’t changed.
Entry halls designed to intimidate, ceilings that disappear into darkness, floors polished to mirror-brightness.
Shadow constructs patrol constantly. The temperature drops with every step inward. ”
“The throne room?” Drayke leans forward. “That’s where we’ll find him?”
“If he chooses to meet us there. It’s designed for intimidation—massive, dark, the ceiling lost in shadow so complete, it might not exist. His throne is carved from black stone.” Zyphon’s voice goes flat. “It suggests screaming faces if you look too long.”
“Charming décor.” Rurik’s tone is dry. “So we fight through hostile terrain, breach centuries of wards, navigate shadow-construct patrols, and confront a king in a throne room designed to terrify. Anything else?”
“The curse chamber.” Zyphon’s voice drops. “Where he created what’s killing me. He keeps it maintained—uses it as a workshop for adjustments. If we’re going to destroy him, we should destroy that too.”
The room is silent for a moment. I watch my brother’s face—the careful blankness that hides pain so old, it’s become part of him. Three centuries of slow consumption.
“We’ll destroy it,” I say quietly. “The curse chamber. The throne room. Everything that gave him power.”
Zyphon’s gaze meets mine. Something passes between us—acknowledgment, gratitude, the silent understanding of brothers who’ve learned to communicate without words.
“The wards are the real problem.” I turn back to the maps, pushing emotion aside for strategy. “Eight centuries of accumulated protection, designed to withstand any force imaginable. We can’t breach them with conventional assault.”
“Which is why we use unconventional methods.” Tamsin rises from her seat, moving to stand beside me at the maps. The warmth of her presence is distracting in ways I can’t afford—and ways I don’t want to resist. “The Crown.”
“The Crown is dangerous.” Selene’s voice is careful, diplomatic. “We discussed this. The power it provides—”
“Is exactly what we need.” Tamsin’s chin lifts. “I’ve thought about this. The Crown amplifies existing abilities. My fire, my witch magic—all of it magnified beyond anything Ulrik has planned for.”
“I’ve read the journals.” Aisling’s Irish accent sharpens with concern. “Fire-Bringers who tried to channel too much power—they burned out. Consumed from within by magic they couldn’t contain.”
“Those Fire-Bringers didn’t have witch blood.” Tamsin’s voice stays steady. “My witch magic provides control. It’s why my bloodline was chosen to guard the Crown in the first place. No other combination can.”
“You’re asking us to bet everything on a theory.” Nasyra speaks for the first time, her mismatched eyes intent on Tamsin’s face. “On the idea that your bloodline’s purpose will be enough to save you from being consumed.”
“I’m asking you to bet everything on me.
” Tamsin holds Nasyra’s gaze without flinching.
“I know that’s a lot. I know you have every reason to be skeptical—I showed up at your gate with nothing but a Relic and a prayer.
But I’ve earned my place here. I’ve fought beside you.
Bled for you.” Her voice drops. “I killed my own sister to protect what we’re building. ”
The silence that follows is heavy.
I watch her stand before my brothers, before the Fire-Bringers, defending her right to risk her life for all of us. Pride swells in my chest—an unfamiliar sensation, pride in someone else. In her strength. Her conviction. The way she refuses to bend no matter how much pressure she faces.
This woman. This impossible, magnificent woman.
“She’s right.” The words come out before I can stop them.
Every head turns toward me—Drayke’s assessing, Rurik’s surprised, Zyphon’s knowing.
“The Crown is our best option. Perhaps our only option. Ulrik’s defenses were designed to withstand anything.
Tamsin wielding amplified power is the unconventional variable he never planned for. ”
“You’re the strategist.” Drayke’s voice is neutral. “Is this your recommendation?”
I want to say no. Want to find another way, any other way, that doesn’t involve risking the woman who has become—
I stop the thought before it can complete. Focus on the facts. The probabilities. The cold equations that have guided my decisions for centuries.
But the equations don’t account for her. Don’t have variables for the way she makes me feel. For the hollow ache in my chest when I imagine a world without her in it.
“Yes.” The word costs me more than anyone in this room will ever know. “This is my recommendation.”
Tamsin’s hand finds mine beneath the table. Squeezes once. I squeeze back, holding on as if her touch is the only thing keeping me grounded.
It might be.
“Then we plan for it.” Drayke’s voice carries command. “Tamsin, it’s time for you to show us in the morning. If you can control it, we move forward. If not, we find another way.”
“I can control it,” Tamsin says, her voice steady as stone.