Only whispered behind backs in closed rooms.
The word Resh swore he’d never hear hurled at her again.
The Warden had already said it to Auryn once in the Moores. Now he was shouting it. Screaming it. This was the same man that had grabbed her wrist, leaving a deep bruise. The one that had surrounded her with his fellow Wardens and threatened her. Now, he was sowing discord in a fortress already unraveling at the seams.
Around them, more Reskala bristled, hands on hilts, snarls rising. “Say it again,” one growled, shoulders bunching, runes lighting up on his collarbone, “and I’ll spill your guts on the stones.”
The Warden shoved back, desperation twisting his face. “You’d spill your own brothers’ blood for her? Forthat thing? Better we cast her out than all of us die for—”
Zarrek moved first.
He slammed into the Warden with a speed that belied his bulk, one gauntleted fist catching the man by the collar and driving him into the wall. The crack of stone echoed sharply, silencing the courtyard.
“You’ll watch your tongue,” Zarrek growled, voice low and lethal. His axe remained at his back, but the intent in his eyes was worse than steel. “You dare spit that filth here again, and I’ll cut it from your mouth myself.”
Kailorien’s glare seared through the silence. His runes itched hot, but he held them leashed. One step closer, his shadow spilling long across the stones, and the Warden finally dropped his eyes.
“Back to your post,” Zarrek snapped, releasing him with a shove that left the man gasping. “Or I’ll see if your glyphs shine as bright when they’re painted with your own blood.”
The Riftwarden scrambled away, shame and fear choking his retreat.
Around them, the Reskala hovered. One dared to speak.
“Commander, how is the Sokâr? Is she recovered?”
Zarrek folded his arms. “That’s none of your—“
“She is,” Kailorien cut in.
The Reskala’s faces lit up. “Commander, please tell Her Radiance she is welcome. Please tell her she is our light.”
Kailorien nodded.
Zarrek grimaced. “Get back to your stations. Move it.”
The warriors fell back into formation, eyes darting between Zarrek and their Resh’Agar. No one spoke, but the message was clear: the fortress wasn’t only at war with wings in the dark. Fear had already rotted some from within.
Kailorien’s jaw flexed as he turned back toward the courtyard gates. “When the horns sound,” he muttered, “men like that Warden will be the first to break.”
Zarrek smirked darkly. “The quicker he dies, the quicker his voice is silenced.”
Kailorien raised a brow. “He could run.”
“Let him,” Zarrek said. “My Reskala will flay the skin from his back the moment he turns it their way.”
They found Thessia in the courtyard, helm under her arm, the head of her war hammer planted against the stones as she oversaw the infantry’s drills. Her sharp gaze flicked to them as they approached.
“Another day of waiting,” she said. “I almost believe the bastards have lost their nerve.”
Zarrek snorted, shifting his axe on his back. “Or they’re fattening us on nerves before they strike.”
“It doesn’t matter. If they don’t come tonight, they’ll come tomorrow. The Cycle won’t spare us twice.”
Thessia looked up at the sky—black, smothering, endless. “Then maybe we should thank the dark for one more night.”
She hadn’t finished the words when the horns blared.
The sound was a blade through the marrow—low, bellowing, echoing from every direction at once. The fortress froze, breath caught in a thousand throats.
