“I’m already engaged on a mission. I must respectfully decline, despite this show of allegiance,” he says, voice low and solemn.
And he’s right—this is a show of allegiance. Nymeris have never aligned themselves with anyone. They’ve used information as leverage and a means to avoid conflict, both political and violent. Peace is their way of life, and so is cunning. So Ilyra’s pledge of allegiance, no matter how vague, stuns Seren.
Kael grabs Teddy’s shoulder, other hand balled in a fist at his side. “Brother, we have no army. We have untrained rebels who need to stay and protect Kryntar, and the tribes who’ve already returned to Skaedor’s Crest with their heir’s belt. They want nothing to do with this war. This is Nymeris offering allegiance for the first time in centuries. We need this. You are the only one who can train them in this timeframe.”
Teddy shakes his head, torn.
“Teddy,” Seren murmurs, quietly but not softly. “I am not afraid. For once, I am choosing my own path.Myself. My own Great Calling. I am going regardless of your company.”
He looks ready to argue, to fight to stay by her side. Seren’s chest blooms with warmth, but she cuts him off before he can start. “You are more than a guardian for others, Teddy. You must find your own Great Calling, too.”
Teddy closes his eyes, accepting her words, but not liking them. As if letting her go is both freedom and a cage.
But he nods, ever the General.
“We begin at daybreak,” he says, voice clipped and emotionless. Like he’s choosing duty over holding onto something he doesn’t want to let go of, but doesn’t trust himself to hold onto.
Ilyra lets out the breath she’s been holding, and gives Teddy a stiff nod. But Seren sees the way her shoulders loosen, her face softens.Relief.
Seren gives a curt nod.
“It’s time to open the Gateways.”
Elyssara steps forward, hair pulled back in a perfect braid, weapons positioned perfectly at her waist, thighs, and ankles. “Then let the realms remember who we are.”
Seren steps into the center of the courtyard and lets the world fall quiet.
Lantern light flickers at the edges of her vision. The night air presses cool against her skin. She plants her boots on the slick stones and lowers her chin, grounding herself in breath and bone and blood.
“The objects,” Seren says, holding out her palms.
Ilyra withdraws a small blade from a thigh sheath beneath her skirts that trail in the rain-soaked stone. And somehow, Seren buzzes at the sight; a regal Queen unafraid to get her hands and skirts dirty. “A blade from the volcanic forges of Vyrhal,” Ilyra declares.
Elyssara steps forward. “An hourglass from the sands of Caeloria, courtesy of my Shades,” she offers.
Seren grips the objects, laying them on the ground before her.
“Stand back,” she booms, unsheathing a small blade from her hip.
She raises her hand, honeyed light spilling across her palm.
And slices through her flesh until deep mahogany blood splatters next to the blade and sand timer, leaching into the stone.
The blade for Vyrhal.
The sand for Caeloria.
Her blood for home.
Her hands draw wide, her eyes close in focus, and her face tilts skyward.
Golden threads of light draw from the trees, the ground, her friends, and she channels them into her hands.
She directs the threads toward the objects, gathering up the essence of them. The thread loops around them, like a golden lasso.
Seren’s eyes snap open, and pools of obsidian stare out at the world.
The others suck in sharp inhales, muttering curses under their breaths.
