Chapter 15
Dagan
The Barrow
The reports start before dawn.
I do not sleep much anymore, but on this morning what rest I manage is shattered by the first tremor of warning humming through the roots.
My eyes snap open.
For half a breath, I simply listen.
The Barrow’s stone ribs creak softly around me, settling against the cliff-face. The roots threaded through its walls murmur, a thousand tiny voices passing messages along the ley.
Far below, the Marches breathe—the slow, steady exhale of soil and seed.
And under it all, like grit grinding between teeth, is something else.
SoulTaker rot.
I am out of bed before the next pulse.
Alina makes a soft sound and reaches for me instinctively, fingers brushing the space where I was.
For a moment all I want is to go back.
To lie down, let her curl against my chest, and pretend we are just a man and a woman in a fortress that will never crack.
But that is not who I am.
And Nightfall does not allow such luxuries.
“Sleep, Oona,” I murmur, brushing a kiss across her temple.
She sighs and burrows deeper into the pillows, the bond between us quiet and warm for now.
I drag on trousers and a tunic, shove my feet into boots, and step out onto the balcony that overlooks the Marches.
Dawn here is not like dawn on Earth. The sky is still mostly dark, the Glowworm Moon low and smoldering, but the land glows from within.
The terraces shimmer with faint green light as roots wake and stretch. Mists rise from the ravines, catching on the stone bridges like torn veils.
It should be peaceful.
It is not.
A raven waits on the railing, feathers slick and shadow-dark, eyes bright and too knowing.
Varen’s familiar.
It hops once as I approach, then opens its beak.
“Lord of Earth,” it croaks, but the voice that issues forth is not its own. It is Varen’s, threaded through the root path. “Strike at the Broken Plains. Miners fleeing. Flame on flame. SoulTakers in numbers we have not seen.”
My spine stiffens. “What of Ashfell?”
“Smoke. Signals. Thorne fights.”
Of course he does.
“Any word from the Plains’ Dreamwright sanctums?” I demand.
The raven’s head twitches. “Two stand. One dimmed. The third—” A pause, and grief bleeds through the link. “The third is dark.”
I swear under my breath.
Dreamwright sanctums do not go dark easily.
For one to fail this abruptly means sabotage, slaughter, or both.
I send Varen steadying earth through the roots—a promise that I have heard and will answer—then release the connection.
The raven shakes itself, suddenly just a bird again, and takes off into the morning air.
Behind me, the stone on the wall stirs.
A mirror extrudes from the rock itself, its frame a ring of carved sigils: wind, wave, flame, and root.
At its center, the surface shimmers, then resolves into Alaric’s face.
He looks as he often does these days—half furious, half exhausted. His silver eyes burn bright even through the link.
“The Eyrie reports SoulTaker movement along its borders,” he says without preamble.
“Fuck,” I mutter,
“Castletide has taken two raids to its outlying forges. Kael has them contained for now, but the tides are fouled for leagues. They’re not probing anymore, Dagan. They’re pushing.”
“The Broken Plains are under direct assault,” I answer grimly. “Varen says Thorne is holding, but one of the Plains sanctums is dark. Idris is moving his pieces.”
Alaric’s jaw clenches. “The Ember Vein?”
“Ward intact.” For now.
“Dagan?” another voice cuts in as the mirror’s view widens.
Kael steps into frame beside Alaric, sea-salt and storm-dark, eyes wary.
“We’ve also had whispers of attempts near the crown’s last reported location. Idris doesn’t know Thorne moved it from Ashfell. Not yet, anyway.”
“Yes.” I feel the weight of that choice settle heavily on my shoulders. “Well, it’s only a matter of time before he learns the Prime’s crown is here at The Barrow.”
“Hidden?”
“Buried deep. Wrapped in wards older than all of us.”
Alaric exhales sharply. “Then The Barrow will be next.”
He is not wrong.
The Rooted Marches are the marrow of Nightfall’s body.
The Barrow is its spine.
And now it houses the crown Idris covets like a rabid beast.
For the first time since bringing Alina here, doubt claws at me hard enough to sting.
I look out over the terraces again—at the people already up and moving in the half-light, loading seed and tools, preparing for another day of work.
They trust the land.
They trust me.
And inside, in my bed where I left her, lies the woman whose presence quiets quakes and steadies fault lines.
I have brought her into the very heart of the coming storm.
“What is it?” Kael asks, watching my face. “You have that look like rocks grinding together.”
“I am considering,” I say slowly, “whether I have made a mistake bringing a human woman here.”
A beat of silence.
“You mean bringing your viyella here,” Alaric corrects sharply. “We are past pretending these women are incidental to this fight, Dagan. The Fates—Nightfall—chose them for a reason.”
“Nightfall has a shit sense of timing,” Kael mutters.
“But Alaric is right. Without Jules, the Eyrie would have collapsed the last time Idris came sniffing. Without Phoebe, Castletide’s wards would still be cracked.
And Thorne…” he huffs, something like a reluctant grin flickering.
“Well, you’ve seen what Delia does for him. ”
Yes.
I have.
I have seen Alaric’s Dragon bow to Jules. Watched her ride him like a pet pony.
I’ve seen the way Phoebe calms the storms of Kael’s ocean. How she’s tamed the wildest of sea creatures with a whisper.
And I have seen Thorne, the Two-Face, kneel in the dirt with his head pressed to his mate’s stomach like a penitent. Seen the way Delia’s presence tempers his fire instead of feeding it.
I swallow.
“The crown is here,” I say, bringing my thoughts back to the matter at hand. “The Barrow is surrounded by my legions, but Idris is cunning. He will not come at the front gates with swords raised. He will seep in through cracks and rot.”
“Then we close the cracks,” Alaric says. “Together.”
“We cannot scatter our strength any longer,” Kael adds. “He is hitting all our territories at once. It’s meant to stretch us thin. We must choose a stand.”
“As much as it pains my ego,” Alaric says dryly, “the crown’s location makes that choice for us.”
His gaze locks with mine through the mirror. “We come to you.”
I incline my head.
“The Barrow will hold,” I say. “My walls are deep and my roots are long. But if we are to keep the crown out of Idris’ hands and the Marches from fracturing, we must concentrate our power. All of it.”
A third face joins the mirror then—Thorne, soot-streaked and wild-eyed, a smear of blood along his jaw.
Smoke curls in the air behind him. I can hear the distant clash of steel and roar of fire.
“The Broken Plains stand,” he grates, “for now. I will drive these carrion off my lands and then I will come.”
“Bring Delia,” I say, another plan forming. “Bring them all. All of your viyellas here, under the protection of stone and earth.”
Thorne bares his teeth. “I would not leave Delia behind if you paid me in crowns.”
“You are right. Jules is close to term. She would feel better with Delia and the other females around,” Alaric agrees.
“Phoebe too.” Kael nods.
Thorne ignores them. “What of your viyella, Earth Lord? Is she in agreement?”
I glance back toward the dark archway that leads into The Barrow’s inner halls.
I can feel Alina through our zareth bond—awake now, curious, her presence a steady weight against the simmer of the land’s unrest.
“Yes,” I say.
“And are you certain The Barrow is safe?” he persists.
“I am. And I intend to keep it so.”
There is only one way I can think to do that.
“I repeat what I said after Sowing Night,” I continue, squaring my shoulders.
“The Barrow is yours as much as mine. With Jules so close to her delivery, with our enemies moving on all fronts, I would see you bring your viyellas here. They will be safer behind my walls than scattered across the realm, and we will be within reach.”
Kael’s expression softens, thinking of Phoebe. Alaric’s jaw ticks at the mention of his pregnant mate. Thorne’s eyes burn hotter.
“You are certain?” Alaric asks. “If Idris knows where the crown is—”
“Then it is better we are there to greet him,” I cut in. “Together. I have no intention of letting the Dark Sage walk my lands unchallenged.”
For a heartbeat, none of us speak.
Four Lords.
Four realms.
Four bonds that have changed the shape of Nightfall.
And beneath us, the realm itself trembles.
“Very well,” Alaric says at last, his voice steel. “We bring them.”
“We’ll leave at dusk,” Kael adds. “Castletide can spare us that long. The tides will carry us faster then.”
Thorne just nods, once. “I must drive them back for now. I will join you as soon as the Plains are secured.”
The mirror’s surface ripples as they each withdraw, one by one, their images dissolving into shifting reflections of stone and sky.
I stand alone on the balcony again, the morning finally breaking—sunlight bleeding into the edges of the moon, shadows thinning across the terraces.
Below, the Marches murmur their unrest.
Inside, in the fortress that has never questioned me, the crown of the fallen Prime sits buried in my deepest vault, wrapped in layer upon layer of spell and root.
And somewhere between those two weights—the sorrow of the land and the burden of legacy—is her.
My Oona.
I lay my palm flat against the railing, feeling The Barrow’s pulse answer mine.
“Send word,” I tell the stone, the roots, the network that runs through every field and village I own. “Prepare the halls. Ready the wards. Nightfall’s Lords and their viyellas come to ground here.”
The earth hums acknowledgment.
For the first time in a very long time, I am not sure if that comforts me.
Bringing Alina to Nightfall was already a risk.
Inviting all of them here—with the crown, with Idris’ eyes fixed on us—is madness.
But standing alone has never been enough.
Not for us.
Not for Nightfall.
I turn away from the balcony and head back inside, toward the chambers where my mate waits.
If the SoulTakers think they can take my world, my crown, or my viyella from me, they will learn the truth that is carved into the bones of this realm.
The earth does not yield.
Not while I still stand.