Heavy. Suffocating.
“I don’t care if you like me.”
She allows a heartbeat.
“I care if you’re smart enough to stand on the right side of what comes next.”
Her gaze cuts through Lara, merciless.
“The best way to beat a monster is to become one.”
Her smile is sharp. Certain.
Lara does not move for a heartbeat.
Two.
Then a small smile tilts her mouth, and she nods in recognition. As if being a monster is more acceptable than being loyal.
“I promise nothing,” Lara says, tone clipped. “But I’ll listen.”
She does not walk away. And that is enough.
The space collectively exhales. Hands fall slack, faces soften.
Elyssara returns the nod to Lara, spins on her heel, and throws over her shoulder, “Take your places. The conclave against the north begins now.”
Witches. Melders. Royals. Earthbound. Rebels. Monsters. The realms have spent centuries tearing each other apart. Now they sit beneath the same sky.
Seren exhales for the first time in too long, cheeks puffing out with the force.
Holy fucking Stars—and the conclave hasn’t even started yet.
Seren follows the group toward the layered fur seats, but Ronyn waits for her. His shaggy chestnut hair falls over his brow. He huffs a quiet laugh, dragging a hand over his mouth.
“You know they all thought they were running this room, right?”
He glances toward Elyssara, then back to Seren.
“That’s the thing when you bring a bunch of powerful people together—they all think they should be the one leading,” Seren observes.
Ronyn scoffs sarcastically. “I’ve known her since she was fourteen.” He leans in conspiratorially. “That was never going to happen. Poor bastards never stood a chance.”
Seren glances toward Elyssara.
They still don’t.
She huffs a laugh.
It’s true—Elyssara has been an undeniable force since the moment she first saw her in the Flesh Circuit wagon. Unable to tolerate injustice. Fierce in the face of stacked odds. And undeniably hooked on making the powerful bow down.
“She’s going to need every ounce of power for this conclave,” Seren exhales. “This is not a room full of people who like to take orders—they give them.”
“If I was a betting man?—”
Seren cuts him off. “Ronyn, youarea betting man, you moron. You practically lived at the poker tables in Virellin.”
She snorts against her will, clapping her hands over her mouth like she can retroactively take it back. Ronyn grins like he’s won.
