He returned to his post at the Commander’s tent with only the occasional sound of wind to keep him company. Let the Lioness misunderstand. Let the men think the Resh’Agar was claiming his Sokâr tonight.
None could know the truth. That he was sleeping for the first time in months. That, should anything go wrong, he could awaken unrecognizable and wipe the Kelvasari from existence with a single swing of his blade.
Zarrek clutched the dagger tighter in his hand—the Stillheart—the only chance to counter the madness.Ifhe was quick enough.
The hours passed withoutincident.
Around the camp, wards flickered, buzzing. Until one of them…shifted. Not violently. Not like when danger approached. But disturbed—like a ripple through mana itself. A tension, like the breath of the world catching in its throat.
Zarrek rose to his feet in an instant, drawing the dagger.
He approached the tent with care, parting the flap to peer inside.
And froze.
Resh lay on his cot, shirtless and dead asleep.
But his runes…
They were glowing. Bright. Angry.Red.
Like fresh hot blood.
Zarrek had seen this ominous light before. On the battlefield. When men screamed and cities burned.
And there, seated astride one of Resh’s legs, was Auryn.
Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, cascading like silver fire down her back and to the floor. Her nightgown had slipped off one shoulder—skin bleeding starlight, hands weaving, lips chanting. Threads of white laced through the feverish glow of the markings carved into the Resh’Agar’s skin.
Zarrek pushed into the tent in a single stride, heart slamming in his chest.
“Auryn—”
She turned to him and shook her head.
Her eyes shimmered with something too ancient to name even as her hands kept moving.
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t wake him.”
His voice came out sharper than intended. “What in the Void are you—”
“His runes,” she explained, fingertips hovering just above the delicate web of lines traced into his arm. “They hate stillness. They fight against the wards. But if I speak to them… sometimes they listen.”
Zarrek’s throat tightened.
Her hand drifted a fraction higher. Stopped at his nape.
“Except the one on his neck.”
A beat.
“That one fights more than the others. Its voice…hurts.”
Behind her, Zarrek moved.Sharply.
“What did you say?”
She looked up, startled. “The rune. Just beneath—”
