Chapter 16
Alina
The Barrow
Seeing the four Lords of Nightfall and their mates gathered in The Barrow under the Glowworm Moon is like walking into a storybook.
Not the fluffy, pastel Disney kind I grew up on.
The old kind.
The ones with blood and teeth in the margins.
The kind that whisper, “Don’t do this, or the woods will eat you.”
The great hall of The Barrow is carved straight into the cliff face, ribs of stone arching overhead like the inside of some ancient beast.
Vines threaded with tiny bioluminescent beetles climb the pillars, casting soft green-gold light that competes with the gentle glow spilling in through the high slit windows from the moon outside.
The Glowworm Moon hangs low and heavy tonight, its pale surface veined with that strange, soft luminescence that makes all the roots in the Marches hum.
I can feel it beneath the soles of my feet—like the whole land is holding its breath.
I look across the room.
So much power in one place should be illegal—and yet, they’re not posturing or fighting each other like you’d expect from so much maleness in one place.
The Lords are huddled around a stone table—four of them, carved from different nightmares and somehow sharing the same war.
Alaric, Lord of Air, lounging like a Dragon who’s pretending not to be coiled and ready. Kael, all sea-storm and sharp edges, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the tabletop. Thorne, a big, broody wall of heat, flame-tattoos shifting beneath his skin even when he’s still.
And Dagan.
My viyen.
He sits at the head, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, dark wings tucked tight against his back.
His green-gold gaze is flinty, storm brewing just under his skin. He’s listening, but every time his eyes flick away from the table, they find me.
Every. Time.
My heart does a stupid flip.
I drag my gaze away from him and focus on the women.
My side of the room.
Jules is propped up on a nest of pillows in a wide stone chair softened with furs and blankets.
Her belly is round and firm beneath her soft dress, the swell of Nightfall’s first Lordling in an age.
Delia is perched on the armrest next to her, fingers warm and competent on Jules’s wrist, quietly taking her pulse like she’s still back in Jersey City, on shift in an ambulance instead of in a Demon castle in another realm.
Phoebe sits cross-legged on a low bench, a book spread open on her lap, pretending to read.
She’s not. Not really.
Her eyes keep flicking to Kael like a magnet.
And me?
I’m somewhere between all of them—awkward, buzzing, too full of feelings and not enough sleep.
The earth under The Barrow feels like it’s thrumming directly into my spine, and on top of that, the zareth bond hums quietly between my ribs, tying me to the very serious, very gorgeous Lord currently pretending I’m not distracting the shit out of him.
I’ve had enough.
“Excuse me, fellas?” I say, loud enough that it echoes off the stone. “How about you come over here and tell us exactly what’s going on?”
Four heads turn.
Four sets of ancient, dangerous eyes land on me.
“This is not talk for women—” Thorne starts, voice all gravel and fire.
Delia turns her head and pins him with a single look.
Sharp. Flat.
Don’t you dare.
His mouth snaps shut so fast I almost hear his teeth click.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Dagan’s dark brows lift just a fraction.
There’s a spark of pride in his gaze, like he’s pleased I spoke up.
Which, considering I just called out the four most powerful beings in this realm, is kinda nice.
Alaric pushes away from the table with a spread of his arms and a courtly bow.
“We have no secrets, Lady Alina—”
“Save it, Lord of Illusion,” Jules snorts, rolling her eyes. “You disappear for three hours to ‘check the winds’ and come back smelling like war and ash. You’re not that mysterious.”
Delia snickers.
Phoebe hides a grin behind her book.
Alaric clutches his chest as if mortally wounded.
“Betrayed by my viyella in my own brother’s hall.”
“Sit,” Jules orders, then pats the arm of her chair. “And talk. All of you. Now.”
Dagan rises smoothly.
His gaze finds mine as he crosses the hall, and the bond between us tightens with every step he takes in my direction.
That low power thrums in my bones again, answering him.
“These are dangerous times,” he says, voice carrying easily as he comes to stand beside my chair. His hand finds my shoulder, warm and grounding. “You are viyellas of Nightfall now. You deserve the truth.”
He looks at us—each of us. Jules, Phoebe, Delia, and finally me.
“Idris is attacking all four kingdoms at once,” he continues. “The Broken Plains. The Tidal Lands. The Eyrie. The outlying forges and Dreamwright sanctums. We believe it is a diversion tactic.”
My stomach drops.
“A diversion from what?” Phoebe asks quietly, closing her book.
“The Crown.” Kael’s mouth is a hard line. “He knows where it lies now.”
I glance instinctively toward the far end of the hall, where a massive stone door sits quiet and watchful.
Behind it, Dagan told me, the Prime’s crown now rests.
Hidden in the deep vaults of The Barrow, surrounded by wards earth-strong and root-deep.
“Can’t he just, I don’t know, teleport it out or something?” I ask, immediately regretting how dumb that sounds.
Alaric huffs a humorless laugh.
“If he could, he would have done it long ago. The Crown resists direct theft. It chooses its bearer—or refuses all.”
“So right now it’s refusing?” I press.
“Right now,” Dagan says, “it is waiting.”
“For what?” I whisper.
No one answers right away.
Delia breaks the silence first.
“Okay, so Idris is hitting all four fronts. Why here? Why now?”
Thorne’s jaw flexes.
“Because the forges burn hottest when the Glowworm Moon is high. The Dreamwrights work faster. The ore is more receptive. If he can disrupt production now, he can weaken Nightfall’s reach into other worlds when they most need dreams and hope.”
My mind races.
“So his strategy is basically to break the factory that makes hope, then sit back and watch everything crumble,” I say.
“That is the essence,” Kael agrees grimly.
“And if he gets the Crown?” Phoebe asks.
“Then the realm breaks,” Dagan answers without flinching. “Or bends. The Prime’s power was never meant for hands that would twist it. Idris believes he can force the Crown to submit. He is wrong, but he can cause great harm in trying.”
The room feels colder all of a sudden.
Jules rubs a hand over her belly, expression tight.
“And you were just… going to handle all this and not tell us?”
“Jules—” Alaric starts.
“No,” she snaps. “Don’t you ‘Jules’ me. I’m the one feeling every time you go into battle like my heart’s being squeezed in a fist. You think I don’t know when something’s wrong?”
Delia nods sharply.
“Same. The bond doesn’t care if you’re trying to be all stoic and macho. We feel it.”
I swallow.
Because I feel it too.
Even here, sitting safely in a stone fortress surrounded by vines that glow and roots that hum, I can feel the earth under my feet shifting, adjusting to pressures I can’t see.
I can feel Dagan’s tension like a frequency in my bones.
“We were trying to spare you worry,” Dagan says quietly.
“Yeah, that’s not how this works,” I say before I can stop myself. When he looks down at me, I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. “You literally dragged us all to Nightfall to help save your world.”
“Our world, apparently,” Jules adds, and she’s right.
“We’re not porcelain dolls,” Delia says.
“I came here to fight beside you, Dagan,” I announce, and feel his pride through our bond.
“Yes, well, speak for yourself,” Phoebe mutters. “I’m fully expecting Kael to try to put me in a bubble at some point.”
“It would be a very protective bubble,” Kael offers blandly.
She shoots him a look that says do it and die.
Dagan moves to my side, his fingers tighten on my shoulder.
“I understand you wish to fight beside me, Alina, and nothing you say could make me prouder—”
“I get it,” I cut in. “You’re the Lords of Nightfall. You all lead. You protect. It’s very noble and dramatic and manly. But I’m a scientist. Delia’s an EMT. Jules is a teacher and whatever the hell you call a queen who also carries a Dragon Lordling. Phoebe is—”
“An aquatic animal specialist with a black belt in research,” Phoebe supplies.
“Exactly. We’re not just decoration. So start talking to us like we’re part of this because, let’s face it, you four made us a part of this.”
Silence stretches.
Then, slowly, Thorne nods.
“She sounds like my Delia,” he murmurs to Dagan.
“Ha! Delia sounds like herself,” Delia says. “And Alina sounds like herself! We just happen to be right, though.”
Jules exhales. “Alaric, I know you want me and the baby safe. But you need to stop trying to sideline us and tell us the plan.”
Alaric drags a hand through his hair, silver eyes flashing.
“I’m so sorry, Jules. I didn’t mean to cut you out,” he begins, and moves to her side.
“The plan is to stop Idris from taking the Crown and shattering the forges. The SoulTakers are hitting in waves. We will divide forces as needed and—”
“No.”
The word is out of my mouth before I process it.
Four Demon Lords turn to stare at me again.
I push past the sudden spike of fear and barrel on.
“Dividing is what he wants. You said it yourself—it’s a diversion tactic. He spreads you thin, picks you off, and keeps pushing until something gives.”
“The realms must be defended,” Dagan says. “The Marches. The Plains. The Tides. The Eyrie.”
“And they will be,” I insist. “But maybe not by all of you at once. You’ve got soldiers. Legions. Miners who know the tunnels. Wards that scream the second someone sneezes wrong near the Vein. You four—and whatever the hell that Crown is waiting for—are the linchpin. If he takes one of you out?”
I shake my head.
“The system cracks.”
Phoebe leans forward, eyes sharp.
“She’s not wrong.”
“Neither is the danger,” Kael counters. “We cannot let Idris breach any of the kingdoms.”
“Then we find a way to keep you from being separated,” I say. “Or at least, not in the way he expects. He’s counting on you to react. To run to every fire he sets.”
I feel Dagan looking at me. Really looking.
“Then what do you propose, Oona?” he asks softly.
My pulse jumps at the nickname, but I don’t look away.
“Stop playing by his rules,” I say. “You’re the Lords of Nightfall. Start acting like a team instead of four separate emergency responses. Maybe the Crown isn’t silent because it’s broken. Maybe it’s waiting for you four to stop trying to be Prime alone.”
That lands like a thrown stone in a still pond.
The shockwaves ripple across their faces—doubt, annoyance, curiosity.
The roots beneath my feet vibrate faintly, like they’re listening, too.
“Well, great,” I mutter under my breath. “At least the castle is agreeing with me.”
“What was that?” Delia asks.
“Nothing,” I lie because I don’t want to explain that stone talks to me now.
Dagan’s hand slides from my shoulder to the back of my neck, his thumb stroking once, slow and grounding.
“We will consider your words,” he says, gaze moving from me to the others. “All of them. For now, we shore up defenses, call in what allies we can, and prepare for Idris’ next move.”
“And in the meantime,” Jules says, voice steady even as her hand rubs soothing circles over her belly, “we stay together. No secrets. No trying to carry this alone.”
She looks at Alaric.
He nods immediately.
Delia looks up at Thorne.
His jaw flexes. “You will know everything,” he rumbles. “Even when I do not want you to.”
Phoebe bumps her shoulder lightly against Kael’s. “You hear that, Mermaid Man? No more stealth brooding.”
“I do not brood,” he mutters. “I contemplate.”
“Sure,” she says dryly. “Contemplate out loud from now on.”
Dagan leans down, his lips brushing my temple.
The contact sends a shiver down my spine.
“No more solitude,” he murmurs, so low I think only I can hear. “Not for me. Not for you.”
Outside, the Glowworm Moon hangs heavy over The Barrow, making the roots glow brighter and the cliffs hum deeper.
Fairytales always have a warning.
This one feels like a biggie.
Like it’s saying, “Take care. Everything is about to burn. Stand where you choose to stand.”
I slide my fingers into Dagan’s, lacing them tight.
If the world is going to crack, I know exactly where I’m standing.