Ironsap.
Not a tool.
Not a resource.
A method.
Rubi lifts her chin, already moving past the realization and into what comes next.
Because if Ilyra is not simply allowing this—if she is facilitating it—then whatever game they think they’re playing is far larger than any of them understand.
And somewhere beyond the safety of these walls, her friends are already inside it.
“I need to see Dravara’s trade logs, Elandor. I need you to get them,” Rubi says, her eyes never leaving his.
Elandor’s mouth opens and closes, words failing to arrive.
“Ironsap doesn’t move without clearance,” Rubi says, the pieces locking into place. “Not in those quantities. Not without someone signing it through every gate it passes.”
Elandor nods, slowly catching up.
“I need to see if it’s getting into Dravara legally—because if it’s not…” she pauses. And then she says the one thing she’s been dreading, “It means Thalmyr isn’t poisoning the water—Ilyra is.”
Elandor’s eyes still, mouth agape, as if suddenly realizing that the man who prides himself on knowledge, has been basing it on incorrect intelligence. Like his world is tilting. Like truth and lies fold in on each other.
He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the shock. “I— I don’t have Dravara’s trade logs.”
Perhaps it is the first time he hasn’t known the answer, but Elandor looks despondent.
The sickle blade is palmed and pointed before she even consciously decides. She holds it between them. “Well, you have Shades and an advanced messaging network all throughout the Known Realms, Elandor—get it and give it to me.”
Elandor doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Only offers one curt nod in response.
“I need to find my brother. Because if what I think is correct, he’s training an army of the fucking enemy.”
Rubi spins on her heel, slamming the door behind her, leaving Elandor to get her what she needs.
Her hands shake. Bile rises in her throat. But her boots thud with certainty across Elarion Castle to find her brother. Because right now, she’s beginning to think Dravara is the victim.
And Ilyra didn’t just allow it—she facilitated it.
Dread pools in her stomach.
She’s been taking their orders. Trusting their word. Building something under their rule without ever questioning who it truly served.
The guillotine drops…
Rubi and Teddy are living with the fucking enemy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Blood may shape the path we tread
Choice decides the road ahead
Light spillsthrough the window in a blinding shaft, forcing Elyssara’s eyes to groan open. Her head pounds, heartbeat thumping through her mind like a war drum. A whimper croaks from her throat involuntarily.
She feels like she’s been trampled by a herd of horses—bones bruised, skin lacerated, nails bloody. Sweat drenches her skin like she’s fighting a fever. Or perhaps it’s just the oppressive heat of Azhareth.
