16. Chapter 16
AMARIA
The war council convened at midday.
A massive stone table dominated the chamber, carved with maps of the lowlands—mountains and rivers and borders etched into the rock itself. Markers dotted its surface. Troop positions. The spreading grey of the void, tracked in real time by scout reports.
I took a position near the eastern wall. Eryndor stood at the western end.
The full length of the table between us. It wasn't enough.
The Marks had woken the moment we entered the same room.
Stronger than yesterday. Stronger than the day before.
A low burn throbbing in my sternum, growing louder with each passing hour we spent in this place.
I pressed my palm flat against the table and focused on the cold stone beneath my fingers.
Warriors filed in. Councilors. The trainer from this morning. Dreadscale took his place at the head of the table, Pyrrath's shadow visible through the high windows.
The room tightened around us. Bodies filled the space between me and Eryndor, severing the clean line our Marks kept trying to carve across the table. A warrior stepped into my view of him. Another leaned over the map. And slowly, blessedly, the burn beneath my skin eased.
I exhaled slowly. This was manageable. As long as there were people between us—barriers of flesh and bone and distraction—the Marks stayed quiet. A dull ache instead of a scream.
Thyra, leader of the war council, called the meeting to order. Warriors shuffled into their final positions. Someone pulled out a chair, scraping it across the stone.
The warrior blocking my view stepped aside to let someone pass.
Creating a clear line of sight between Eryndor and I. Nothing between us.
Eryndor's eyes met mine across the table.
The Marks ignited.
Harsh. Immediate. A hook behind my sternum yanking forward. My hand shot out and gripped the table's edge, knuckles going white. The stone bit into my palm.
Stay. Stay where you are.
Eryndor had gone rigid. His hand twitched at his side—reaching toward me without permission—and he caught it, shoved it behind his back. His jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping.
Ten feet between us. A massive stone table. A room full of warriors.
It didn't matter. The bond only knew the space was clear.
Someone coughed. I realized I'd stopped breathing and forced air into my lungs. Covered it with a cough of my own.
The Dragonborn who'd moved sat down, partially blocking the gap again.
The pull dimmed. Slightly. Enough to think.
I kept my grip on the table anyway.
The meeting began.
"The King travels to Greymarch in three days." Thyra traced a route across the stone map. "His entourage will be minimal. Forty soldiers. A handful of mages."
"And his personal guard?" Dreadscale asked.
"Unknown. Our spies couldn't get close enough to confirm numbers."
I reached for the cup of water someone had placed near my elbow. Across the table, Eryndor reached for his at the same moment. Same angle. Same grip.
We both froze.
Set the cups down.
Maxx leaned toward Serenya. "That's deeply unsettling, by the way. The puppet thing they're doing."
I shot him a look. He raised his hands in surrender.
"The route passes through the Thornwood Valley." A warrior I didn't recognize tapped the map. "Narrow. Defensible. Good ground for an ambush."
"The King will expect an ambush there," Eryndor said. "It's too obvious. He'll have scouts sweeping the ridgelines before his carriage even enters the valley."
Every head turned toward him.
"And we're supposed to trust the word of a male who shared a bed with the dragon-killer?"
The warrior who spoke was young. Angry. One of the ones who'd spat at Eryndor's feet when we first arrived.
The burn in my chest spiked with Fury.
"He knows the Crown's tactics better than anyone here," I said. "That's why his intel matters."
"His intel." The warrior laughed. "You mean the information freely offered by a fae who served the enemy for years? Who aided the princess while she—"
"He was a prisoner." My voice came out harder than I intended. "Not a collaborator."
"So he claims."
Something flashed at the edge of my vision. A cup on the table—trembling, just slightly, against the wood.
"So I confirm." I stepped forward.
"I've seen what they did to him. I've seen the scars. Have you?"
The warrior's eyes went hard. He didn't answer.
"Then shut up and listen to the male who actually knows what we're walking into."
My fangs were razor sharp and fully elongated, pressing into my lower lip.
The entire room shook with my words. Warriors grabbed their cups as tankards slid across the table. A chair tumbled backward on its own.
All eyes turned toward me, a mix of surprise and wariness rippling down the table, but the elder at the far end didn't flinch.
She sat motionless, grey-streaked braids coiled like rope, her eyes narrowing as she connected the trembling cup to me. She didn't look fearful or wary. She looked like she had been waiting for this.
Eryndor's eyes found mine across the table. Gratitude flickered there—maybe. Or warning. I couldn't tell anymore. The heat from our Marks was making everything blurry.
I shifted my weight. He shifted his.
Stop it. Stop mirroring. Stop—
"The northern pass," Eryndor said, turning back to the map. "Here. The King won't expect an attack there because it requires aerial support to execute. He doesn't know we have dragons willing to fly against him."
Thyra studied the location. "It's risky. If the dragons are spotted before we're in position—"
"Then we lose the element of surprise. But if we succeed, we catch him in open ground with nowhere to run."
The discussion continued. Positions debated. Routes analyzed. The burn in my chest settled into a constant ache—not fierce enough to disable me, but impossible to ignore.
I pressed my hand to my sternum without thinking.
"Are you injured?" Thyra's eyes had found me.
"No." I dropped my hand. "Just tired."
Across the room, a tendon jumped in Eryndor’s neck. He felt it too. Of course he did.
"The priestess has insights on the Veil's behavior." Dreadscale's voice cut through my spiral. "Serenya. What can you tell us about the rupture sites?"
Serenya straightened. She'd been quiet through the meeting, the worn Codex open before her, her fingers marking a passage she hadn't stopped reading.
"I've found references to similar collapses in Second Age texts.
" Her voice was steady, but I could see her knuckles whitening on the journal's spine.
"I've been tracking the patterns, cross-referencing the old accounts with current rupture behavior.
When a Veil rupture reaches critical mass, it creates a kind of...
gravity. Pulling magic toward it. If the King is harvesting that energy, he'd need to be physically present during the peak consumption period. "
"And when is that?" Thyra asked.
"Based on the patterns I've tracked, the Greymarch rupture should reach peak in—"
"Stick to your scrolls, priestess." A warrior on my left, arms crossed, mouth twisted. "War is not for memory-keepers."
"Enough." I slammed my fists on the table and a fissure split the stone table from end to end. Cups toppled. Maps slid and a sword rattled in its sheath.
The warrior turned. Broad as a door and twice as obstructive.
"Did you just interrupt her?" I growled.
Everything was building, the pull to Eryndor was taking over, the snide comments, disrespecting my family.
My nerves were frayed and the Fury was coiling at the base of my spine, spreading through my limbs like venom.
My fangs were on full display. My hair floated around my face as if I were underwater.
The Dragonborn nearest me took a step back. His tankard rose an inch off the table and hung there, suspended, trembling.
I didn't care. Let them see. Let them all see.
"I was simply pointing out—"
"You were simply being a fool." I stepped forward.
One pace. Two. Close enough to see the uncertainty in his eyes.
"That priestess has walked through more horrors in the last year than you've seen in your entire life.
She's the reason we have any understanding of what the Veil is doing—knowledge your swords can't give you.
And a Mist-Walker showed her respect. Keep up. "
The room had gone silent. Good.
"You want to win this war?" I gestured at Serenya without looking away from him. "Then you listen when she speaks. You write down what she says. And you thank her for giving you the only advantage that matters—information."
I leaned closer. Dropped my voice to a dangerous whisper.
"If you ever dismiss her again—if you ever make her feel like her knowledge is worth less than your blade—I will personally ensure you learn exactly how much damage a memory-keeper can do when she's got a warrior who loves her standing three feet away."
I smiled, all fangs.
"Are we clear?"
The heat in the room was suffocating. Stone groaned—the table bowing under invisible weight. A warrior's cup shattered. Another's blade sang a single clear note in its sheath, vibrating with sympathetic resonance.
The elder had risen from her seat. Her eyes were fixed on me with hunger.
What are you? her expression asked.
I didn't have an answer.
But the warrior in front of me didn't care what I was. He only cared what I could do.
He dropped his gaze.
"Clear."
"Good."
I stepped back—and the room exhaled.
The floating tankard dropped. The groaning table settled. My hair fell limp against my shoulders. The thick, stretched feeling in the air snapped back to normal like a released bowstring.
Warriors were staring at me. At the cracked table. At each other.
I ignored them and turned to Serenya. I nodded at her. Go on.
She opened the Codex again. When she spoke, her voice was iron.
"As I was saying. The Greymarch rupture should reach peak in approximately three weeks."
The meeting continued.
I returned to my position against the wall. The burn in my chest had faded to something almost manageable.
Across the room, Eryndor watched me with an inscrutable expression.
I looked away before the Marks could decide to interpret it.