Elyssara pulls back, already on alert—she doesn’t trust anyone who’s lived within Thalmyr’s Barrier, regardless of the blood that runs through their veins.
A woman of honed muscle and emotionless expression stands behind Revryn. Caramel-golden hair cut bluntly at her chin. Her body is rigid and assessing—the frame of someone who’s learned to fight beyond their magical affinities. The frame of someone trained to assess threats and eliminate them.
Ronyn clears his throat. “Oh yeah. Forgot to tell you that Revryn’s daughter has a weird parental love thing going on with Thalmyr,” he whispers, but the whole cavern hears.
The woman does not smile at Revryn’s introduction or Ronyn’s poor attempt at a joke. Does not lean into her father’s pride and affection. She stiffens. Like the words snag in her chest. Like the title of daughter is a costume that doesn’t fit.
Revryn’s face falls as he notices the same thing—the rejection of who she is to him.
Elyssara lifts her chin, the mask of cool calculation slipping back into place.
“Elyssara,” the woman says like the words taste sour on the way out.
Elyssara does not move. Does not speak. She waits, allowing the woman to introduce herself.
The woman takes a step closer, and notably further away from Revryn. He winces at the gesture.
“Commander Calira Haradin. The Crown’s Blade. Venomshade for Dravara’s Starborn Army,” she introduces, her voice monotone and predictable, like she’s repeated the line hundreds of times and is proud of it.
“My daughter, El. This is my Callie,” Revryn breathes, stepping in line with her, his hand reaching out to touch her. Calira pulls away at the gesture, a snarl lifting her lips.
This is Callie.The light of Revryn’s life. The little girl he’s waited for two decades to see again. The one he sends letters to each week. But this woman is no daughter of Revryn’s—she is a daughter of the system. Swaddled in superiority, comforted by brutality. Elyssara can see it written in every rigid muscle in her body, the set jaw of her face, the snarl on her lips.
But it’s not just what she can see—it’s what she knows. This woman was raised by the people who drove her own mother to send herself back to the Stars. This woman was raised by people who watch thousands starve from behind an impenetrable barrier and do not repent. This woman is a product of the system that sanctions deaths for little more than a stolen piece of fruit.
This woman is no Haradin.She’s a Lurian.
Elyssara offers no warmth. “And what couldyoupossibly bring to this alliance?” The words come out cruel and unkind—exactly how she intends them.
Calira doesn’t react. Elyssara notes the discipline. The stillness. The way Calira watches everything.
“I am not here for the alliance. I am here because we have mutual goals and I wish to achieve mine,” Calira says, voice measured and cool.
A pained groan slips past Revryn’s lips as if watching the woman he callsdaughterlike this physically hurts him.
But trust must be earned, never given blindly just because of association. “You’ll have a chance to prove your right to be here during the conclave. Find a seat,Commander Haradin.”
She spins on her heel, gesturing to Seren and Ronyn to resume their places.
Elyssara waits for everyone to take their seats. She remains standing, fingers interlaced behind her back in cool authority.
A distant, thundering echo gathers in her mind. In her chest. No—deeper.In her soul. She stills for a moment, listening. Feeling. Sensing. The echo gets louder, closer, like it’s gathering toward her. And that’s when she realizes—it is a herd of Taaruvi mares. More than that: it is her Great Calling.
Something settles in her body—the restless and confused part within her that still holds the belief that she is wrong. The Stars chose wrong. These people before her? They chose wrong.
The thundering intensifies, a herd of horses occupying her every thought, every space inside her body. And she lets the certainty of it sink into her marrow.
She is exactly where she is meant to be.
She casts her eye across the gathered people. She sees warriors, fighters, rebels, even enemies. Those who have not bent a knee to oppressive systems, and those who live inside them. Those who have not accepted orders from dictators, and those who are beholden to them. Those who have pushed back on moral injustice, and those who have doled it out. Leadership, Elyssara realizes, is not the privilege of choosing only the righteous.
That unsettles her. Because one leak to the wrong person, and everything they’re fighting for will hang for it. Because these people despise each other—drenched in history, hurt, andhatred. Byproducts of the systems they were raised in, perhaps, but real all the same.
This is the moment.Win the room—or lose the war before it begins.
So Elyssara steadies herself, forces confidence into her voice, waits for the thundering hooves to recede, and begins.
“Welcome to the conclave for factions against the north,” her voice is authority incarnate, and spines straighten at the command there. She strides forward, steady steps falling rhythmically as she prowls the circular seating.
