Chapter 8 #2
Jules exhales slowly.
“None of that,” she says. “I’m not sure if Alaric’s plan was ever going to work. I’m not sure if zareth bonds were the path to gaining the crown.”
“What do you mean?” I ask her.
“See, I’ve been researching in The Eyrie’s library—Phoebe and Delia, too—and we’ve yet to come across any proof in the old books. We’ve also tried reading oracle cards, and well, nothing. No answers.”
She offers a sad smile, and I frown.
“It’s like the crown is turned inward. Or sleeping,” Alaric adds.
“Or sulking,” Phoebe offers. “Maybe it’s pissed off there wasn’t a passing ceremony from one Prime to the next. Like it’s saying tough luck or something like that.”
Delia chews on a crust of bread, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “What if that’s the point?” she says. “Maybe the crown isn’t meant to pick one person again. Maybe that’s what broke the last one.”
We all look at her.
“What are you suggesting, Lady Delia?” I ask.
She shrugs, glancing at Thorne. “That hitching all of Nightfall’s power to one guy and hoping he never has a bad day is kind of a crap system. No offense to the Prime. Or any of you.”
“Some offense taken,” Alaric mutters.
“Love you,” Jules says, elbowing him lightly. “Also, she’s right.”
“Maybe the crown doesn’t know what to do you four and your bonded mates,” Phoebe says slowly. “Maybe it’s stuck waiting for one of you to shove it in the right direction.”
I file that away.
Later.
For now, the Marches press at the back of my skull, impatient.
We discuss the incursions. The reports from the borders. Idris’ fanatics turning villages, promising power if they join his “new order.”
Each account carves another furrow into the stone of my spine.
By the time we adjourn, the weight of it all threatens to crush the fragile new warmth in my chest.
I stand, pushing back from the table as servants move in with fresh trays. The others drift into low conversation—Alaric bending his head toward Jules, Thorne stealing bites from Delia’s plate, Kael and Phoebe arguing about some Tidal engineering project.
And then I feel her.
A shift in the air.
A familiar, grounding presence.
I turn.
Alina stands in the doorway, Brianne a respectful half-step behind her.
My breath catches.
She wears a gown the color of rich soil after rain—deep, almost black brown, with threads of green and gold woven through the fabric so that every movement sends little sparks of light down her body.
The neckline frames her collarbones and the spot where my mark rests, proud and dark against her skin.
The skirts fall in layered panels that swish around her knees, revealing flashes of strong, bare legs when she walks.
Her dark hair is braided back from her face, plaited with tiny white blossoms from the elder tree, the rest tumbling in waves down her back.
She looks like the Marches themselves made flesh.
“There you are,” I say, the word more exhale than sound.
Her gaze finds mine, and the nervous tightness in her shoulders eases.
“Hey,” she says, crossing the chamber on sure feet. “So, how’d the big meeting go?”
Behind her, Delia mouths oh my god she’s perfect, at Jules. Phoebe grins like she knows every thought in my head.
Alina reaches my side and I take her hand, lifting it to my lips.
“It went well. And you look radiant,” I murmur against her knuckles. “The Marches approve.”
“Good,” she says lightly. “Because I spent twenty minutes arguing with Brianne about whether I needed this many flowers in my hair and I’m not doing that again for nothing.”
Brianne coughs delicately.
“The blossoms suit you, Lady. As does the title.”
Alina squeezes my fingers, and though she smiles, I feel the flicker beneath the surface—the familiar outsider’s doubt.
“These are my brothers,” I say, drawing her a half-step forward. “And their viyellas. You know their names, but you should hear them from their own mouths.”
Alaric bows slightly, hand over his chest. “Alaric, Lord of Air. And this is my viyella, Jules.”
Jules waves. “Former Jersey girl, current library gremlin. Also, your future research buddy if you ever want it.”
“Ooh! I do,” Alina blurts, then covers her mouth, pink staining her cheeks.
I don’t even bother trying to stop my grin as I cup her neck possessively with one hand and kiss her temple.
Kael raises his eyebrows at the gesture, and I roll my eyes at him. Then, he gives a lazy half-salute.
“Kael, Lord of Water. This is Phoebe, my better half.”
Phoebe grins.
“Hey. I hear you like rocks. I like sinking ships in a controlled manner. We should hang.”
Alina nods enthusiastically. Then her attention moves to Thorne.
He inclines his head respectfully, eyes assessing but not unkind.
“Thorne, Lord of Fire. You have met my temper already, but this is my heart—Delia.”
Delia nudges him.
“Smooth. Hi. I also used to be normal and confused and under-caffeinated, so if you need someone to complain to, I am your girl.”
Color warms Alina’s cheeks.
“Thank you. I’m, um, Alina Fawcett,” she says. “Geologist. Occasional over-thinker. Very new to all this.” Her grip on my hand tightens briefly. “But I’m trying to catch up.”
“And you’re doing beautifully,” I say quietly, just for her.
She glances up at me, and something in her gaze says she hears the words beneath mine.
I will never be sure I deserve this woman.
But when she stands at my side as we leave the chamber—when the doors of The Barrow open and the scent of turned earth and new seed rushes in, and the gathered people of the Marches fall silent as they see us together—I know this much.
Today, I will stand before my lands as Lord of Earth.
Not alone.
Never again alone.
I’ll stand with my viyella at my side.
With my brothers and their bonds at our backs.
The Sowing Feast waits.
The blessing waits.
The war waits.
But for the first time since the Prime fell, I do not feel like a single wall between worlds and annihilation.
We started as four.
But with Alina’s hand in mine, the Marches under my feet, and the zareth burning sure and bright between us, I know we are more than that.
We are eight now.
And this is when I start to believe we might actually win.