Slade
Duskfall was not what I expected. Once known for its fine silks and bright colours, it now crouched under shadow—its glory smothered by the ghastly tower at the mountain’s base.
I rubbed my shoulder. The pain lingered—dull now, but constant.
Falling down that cliff had been brutal. Worse was knowing it had been my brother who caused it.
Phoenix hadn’t accepted it. I could see it in the way he stood now—coiled, haunted. I didn’t think he’d slept in days.
I missed my spitfire.
Ships crowded the harbour, sails lowered, the crest of Varrowmere snapping in the breeze like a warning. We’d docked in secret, our colours stripped on Syrena’s orders—a precaution to avoid Ashton’s wrath.
According to her, Ivan was expecting us.
She stood at the prow, her cloak snapping behind her, speaking in low tones with Jasper and Caelen. Her posture was rigid. Her eyes never stopped scanning the mist-shrouded dock, sharp and watchful. Like she expected the fog itself to strike.
I didn’t like this.
Not the silence.
Not the stillness in the air.
Not the way Syrena watched the dock like it might bite her.
“This city is crawling,” Phoenix muttered beside me, eyes sweeping the length of the port.
“We’ve seen worse,” I said.
“There are too many guards,” he replied, voice low. “They’ve cleared the courtyards. That means they’re expecting someone important—or dangerous. Most likely Ashton.”
“This is a diplomatic mission,” Jasper cut in, his tone clipped. “We’re here under the order of parlay. So—no fighting in the streets unless absolutely necessary.”
“And you expect Vael to honour that?” I asked.
“Not Vael—Ivan,” Syrena said, stepping closer. “He’ll meet with me,” she said. “He owes me that much.”
Her voice was controlled, but a flicker crossed her face—something restrained.
“Does he?” I asked.
She met my eyes, and the bitterness there was bone-deep. “Trust me. Ivan and I go back a long way,” she said.
There was a pause. Her voice was steady—but her eyes gave her away. Phoenix noticed too. He swallowed.
“Your Majesty—”
She spun on her heel and glared at him. “What, Phoenix?”
“I know this must be hard—”
She laughed—but it was cold, humourless. “Do you know what I hate more than anything, Phoenix? Useless apologies.”
He stepped back, jaw tight. Said nothing. Just sighed and looked at me.
I glanced at the queen. There was pain there—not the kind tied to Elira.
Older. Deeper. Something unspoken. She stepped away, refusing to engage with us further.
