“Ilyria came to your border,” he says as he steps closer to Sylvin, his voice flat and void of emotion. The kind of calm that precedes catastrophe. “She brought the terms in a proposal we negotiated already.”
The tension coils tightly.
“But your generals denied her.”
Sylvin takes a step forward until they’re nearly nose to nose. It’s the first glimpse of faltering behind that elegant mask inWren’s presence.
She takes a step back from them, closer to myself and Torryn.
Is she…afraid of them?
That doesn’t sit right within me, but why else would she back away from them?
“I told them to sign the proposal,” Sylvin says, voice clipped. “I cannot lie.”
Wren stiffens in front of me, and instantly I’m at her side.
I glance down in time to watch the color drain from her face. Her usual poise cracks, her shoulders curling inward. Both hands clutch the edges of her cloak, as if the world beneath her has begun to tilt and she needs a steadying anchor.
Shadows curl behind Azyric. “You are a master of bending the truth,” he snarls at the fae king. “All this proves is that the alliance is a lie. Why pretend our factions can ever unite under one cause?”
Wren flinches. It’s subtle. Barely a twitch, but I see it as clearly as the pulses thrumming in everyone’s bodies.
Her head bows and her lashes flutter–once, twice. It’s like watching her fall away from this moment, as if she’s somewhere else entirely for a breath.
The argument unraveling in front of us becomes meaningless to me as I focus on her entirely.
Gently, I place my hands on her shoulders and draw her further from the conflict.Torryn’s gaze clashes with mine and he gives a single jerk of his head toward the building.
“Take her in there. I’ll make sure these two don’t kill each other.”
Normally I’d retort that I don’t need his permission or orders, but as her shoulders begin to tremble under my touch, I bite the urge back. The last thing she needs is more divisiveness.
I guide her into the structure with careful hands, her cloak brushing my knuckles as we move. The moment we cross the threshold, the air shifts. It’s quieter here, muted as if even the stones and vines recognize that she needs silence more than sound.
I settle her gently into the nearest moss-carved seat, then lower myself to my knees in front of her. Not to bow or beg, but to offer steadiness. To soften my presence and be small, where so many others loom.
It reminds me of last night, but this time I don’t touch her.
Not yet.
“Wren,” I murmur, my voice low and quiet, meant only for her. “Look at me.”
Her eyes lift slowly, golds, greens, and amber all swirling together suddenly stare back at me. Glassy, but not lost.
“Are you alright?”
She nods, but it’s too quick to be honest.
Her fingers are knotted in her lap,knuckles pale and rigid. Her posture is composed, but beneath it, there’s a nervous edge lining her. It’s a quiet tension only someone watching too closely would notice.
“Just tired,” she says off-handedly.
It’s a good lie. Soft and short, but a lie, nonetheless.
I study her a moment longer before tilting my head, voice softer now. “What rattled you, darling?”
She turns her head away after a momentary pause. The move is gentle, like she’s shutting the door with both hands, quietly telling me this is a boundary not to be crossed.
