Chapter 66 Arms of Tomorrow #2
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she whispered.
He leaned in slowly this time, giving her every chance to stop him. But she didn’t. Her hands slid up his chest, her fingers threading behind his neck as she pulled him down into a kiss that shook him to the bone.
There was no hesitation. No game. Just truth and flame and the soft tremble of need.
Clothing fell away in pieces, each layer shedding something they hadn’t spoken aloud. Fear. Grief. Guilt. Devotion.
When she lay back on the bed, pearl skin glowing in the cracks of light, her hands reached for him.
He kissed her slowly.
Every stroke of his mouth over her skin was worship, not conquest. She gasped when he trailed his lips along her collarbone, when his hands skimmed her thighs, his thumb tracing reverent circles, a silent vow. She arched beneath him, lips parting to call his name.
“Maris,” he breathed. “You are . . . everything.”
She blinked up at him, voice unsteady. “Then show me. While we still have time.”
He'd planned nothing less.
They moved together like two halves of a blade finally finding their edge. Her sighs became his tether, her gasps his grounding. It was not rushed, nor frantic, but built like a storm, a slow, rising tide of emotion and heat that crested only when they both shattered beneath it.
Afterward, she curled into his chest. Her breath warm against his throat.
He tucked a hand over the curve of her back, fingers brushing the bare skin.
“Do you regret it?” he asked quietly.
“No,” she whispered, voice heavy with sleep. “I only regret not doing it sooner.”
Her voice, quieter still whispered, “Whatever happens tomorrow, you’ll carry a piece of me. Always.”
His eyes burned.
He kissed her temple tucking her tighter against him, and whispered, “Then I’ll protect that piece with everything I have.”
They laid wrapped in borrowed peace before the gods came knocking.
This was the final council before the war. The last time they’d speak of strategy before blades were drawn.
Maris stood at the head of the war table, her face illuminated by flickering torchlight. Her braids were half-loosed, her armor undone at the collar a silver chain peaked, as if she hadn’t had time or didn’t care, to compose herself fully.
He felt the shift in the room.
Felt Kael watching.
He hadn’t said a word. But the way the Night King’s silver gaze clung to Maris’s every movement was unmistakable.
The others trickled in. Thauren, Zairon, Riven, Corin, Serenya, Valea, Draeven, a half-dozen high-ranking fae and vampire generals, and a smattering of mortal commanders from their southern reaches.
Tension snapped like kindling in the hearth.
Zairon unrolled the updated map, the new markers inked hastily in red.
“Two more attacks in the last twelve hours,” he said grimly. “One at the southern edge of Calanthe's borderlands, the other on the cliffs of northern Nythra. Coordinated. Strategic. They weren’t random surges.”
“They’re moving in formations, pushing us from both sides” Riven added, arms folded across his chest. “Not rabid. Not wild. Trained.”
Maris’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the murmuring. “She has generals.” She guessed
The words silenced the room.
Kael didn’t look at her.
Alarik didn’t look away.
“We don’t know what they are,” Thauren said. “But they’re intelligent and drawing blood than I care to spare.”
“They’re not revealing themselves yet,” Serenya added. “They’re holding back. Waiting.”
“For the main event,” Alarik murmured.
Maris braced her hands on the table’s edge. “We’ll face them in the morning.”
No one spoke for a long moment.
Kael shifted in his seat. “If Eiren has placed her pieces, then we place ours.”
No inflection. No question. Just command.
A different time, a different night, he'd challenge Alarik for what had passed with Maris. Might’ve raged. Demanded answers. But not now. Not with war at the gates. There was no room for jealousy.
Only survival.
He met Alarik’s eyes across the table.
A breathless beat passed.
Then he nodded.
For now, they stood on the same side.
Zairon moved into action, pointing to marked points on the map. “The enemy will strike here, here, and here, we’ll bottleneck them with the Nythran guard, while Virellian archers line the ridge above. Calanthe’s flamecasters will hold the lower trenches.”
“And the sword, Veil Breaker?” asked one of the fae captains.
Maris stepped forward, voice clear. “It’s ready.”
“Can it kill her?” someone whispered.
“It can bind her power long enough for me to finish what I was made for.”
Silence fell again. Heavier this time.
It wasn’t just a battle anymore.
It was reckoning.
Thauren spoke last. “Formations must be final by midnight. Every commander briefed. Every soldier armed and blooded. We’ve prepared for this moment across lifetimes. We meet her in the morning.”
Kael rose.
Alarik followed.
But Maris remained, her hand on the sword at her hip, her eyes unfocused, like she already stood on the battlefield, watching it unfold.
She was many things now.
A weapon. A goddess.
And somehow, still, utterly mortal.