Eliza studied the nervous guardsmen. Her hand brushed the counter-sigil ring where it hung beneath her cloak—a cold circle of iron, a reminder of Azfar’s warning that mercy could still be weapon. Then she touched the bond-mark beneath her skin, feeling Rakhal’s steadiness echo through it.
"Don’t fire," she called out firmly. "You cannot hold this street."
The officer laughed too loudly. "I can hold anything a sewer spits at me."
"Open the gatehouse," she replied.
She pushed back her hood and loosened her cloak. Her hair fell free, ash-streaked but unmistakable. People gasped in recognition. A surge of emotion threatened to overwhelmher—these were her people, suffering under occupation.Don’t tremble. Not now.She forced her voice to remain steady despite the tightness in her throat. She climbed the stairs unhurriedly.
A crossbow bolt struck near her foot.
"Hold!" the officer shouted to his man, fear evident in his voice.
Eliza reached the rampart and faced the crowd. "Look at me," she said. The street fell silent.
"If you hate me for leaving—" her voice caught, "—remember I didn’t. I was taken and I came back."
She continued, steadier now. "If you hate me for coming back, remember that hate burns food the same as love does."
A few people laughed softly.
"If you belong to Maidan, you belong to one another. Save your strength for those who claim your hands belong to them."
She turned to the officer. "Open the gatehouse."
The man swallowed hard. "Lady, if they hang me for this?—"
"They won’t," she promised. "Because you’ll be home with your family, where you belong."
His expression shifted. He hadn’t expected her to know about his personal life. He signaled, and the pikes lifted.
"Open," he ordered. The locks clanged; bars slid. The golden lion above the gate seemed powerless.
The crowd remained quiet—cheering would be dangerous—but their relief was palpable. Eliza descended slowly. A woman placed a piece of bread in her hand—a simple offering with profound meaning. Eliza lifted it for all to see.
"Feed them first," she said, returning it for the children waiting nearby.
Bells began to ring across the city—not warning bells, but the city's long-silenced chimes. People looked up with tears in their eyes as the familiar sound returned.
The bond-mark glowed faintly, carrying Rakhal’s answering presence across the distance—strong, determined, fighting his own battle. The connection between them had grown beyond strategy or alliance. It had become something that made her heart quicken whenever she felt him through their link.
Maera touched her elbow. "We need ten men to hold this post," she said. "Fifteen to make it secure."
"Five," Eliza decided. "The rest will spread word of our return." She examined the gatehouse ledger. "Tell the guilds we're coming by river."
She gazed at the contrast between the wealthy upper districts and the suffering below. Somewhere beyond those walls, Rakhal was keeping the Shadow at bay through their bond.
Their connection was more than strategy. It was what would help them reclaim the city.
She placed the bread on the gatehouse table for all to see and said quietly, "Let’s make them ring the bells for something that lasts."
Chapter
Sixty-Seven
Dawn found them with knives in their boots and frost in their breath. The cold lay on Maidan like a skin pulled tight. Rakhal stood on the middle span of the Lion Bridge, one hand on the broken parapet where old siege scars made the stone look like chewed bone. The river bullied its way between the arches below—too dark to be called water, too loud to be called silence. On the far side, the Lion’s Court unfurled in terraces of pale stone and enamel, an amphitheater where conquerors liked to rehearse being gods. The Ketheri had come to remember themselves.
Beyond the gatehouse, the walls of Istrial Keep shouldered up out of the city—the old orc fortress taken by men—its towers paling in the cold light like teeth behind the court’s fine smile.
