He nodded. “Not like the Moores. This time, we fight together.”
“Don’t stray too far,” she said, opening her eyes. “I still don’t know my way around these halls.”
“Call for me, and I will come.”
“Then don’t be late,” she teased.
“Have you ever seen me late to anything?”
She hummed. “You could have broken me from that ice earlier…given me more time with you.”
He squeezed her hand, and she gasped, glancing at his chest.
“You see?” he said. “You’ve thrown off the steady beat.”
She blushed. “I won’t apologize.”
“Then don’t. Just rest. And when you need me, I will find you.”
“Promise?”
“Always.”
Sighing, she drifted to sleep again, trusting him.
Time passed. Just minutes, but it felt like hours. Still crouched beside her, Kailorien watched the gentle rise and fall of Auryn’s chest, her hand clasped in his, the markings on his knuckles and fingers humming.
He didn’t want to let go.
But war did not wait for sentiment.
With a final kiss to her wrist, he untangled their hands and rose. One last glance before he crossed to the far side of the room. His palm hovered over the space above the bed, fingers parting in a silent command.
A faint shimmer rippled into being—delicate, nearly invisible in the low light. A veil of golden energy arched like a dome from floor to ceiling, centered over the place where she slept. A shield anchored to him. To his mana. His will.
A selfish, overprotective measure.
She was already in the safest part of Stonewake. But he had seen too many protections fail. Too many clever enemies slip through cracks no one had noticed.
With the spell sealed, he turned, his silhouette illuminated in the ward’s faint glow.
The door opened with a low creak. Cold air kissed his face.
Zarrek was waiting, armed to the teeth not just with his battleaxe but with daggers and a spare blade. He wore his full Reskala armor—gold, black, crimson plates woven together, shining with runic light. Though days ago, he’d spat on the crest that marked him as Kailorien’s Second, today he showed up in that capacity.
He leaned against the stone just beside the entrance, arms crossed, a dark brow raised in silent judgment—or possibly amusement. It was always hard to tell with him.
“You know,” Zarrek drawled, straightening, “most men just shut the door and hope for the best.”
Kailorien stepped into the hall, pausing only to secure the door behind him with a quiet click.
“I’m not most men.”
Zarrek snorted, falling in beside him, rolling his shoulders, and cracking his neck.
“No. You’re worse.”
Boots struck stone in a steady rhythm as Kailorien and Zarrek paced the battlements. The sconces along the wall barely pushed against the void. Beyond their reach, the world was nothing but ink. No mountain peaks. No horizon. Not even the faint shimmer of Polis-light to orient them. Just the fortress, lit like an island in a black sea.
