“This isn’t some court in Maradryn,” she said, her tone edged with warning. “It’s a company. Every voice has been asked, and every voice will be heard. Riftwarden—when the Sokâr speaks, you’ll remember your place and hold your tongue until she’s done.”
The crowd hushed, eyes swinging toward her.
The Warden’s jaw tightened, but he bowed his head, silence biting where arrogance had been.
Auryn’s chest tightened. She hadn’t expected Kailorien toask. She hadn’t expected Thessia todefend. Two pillars—one commander, one lioness—holding space for her voice. And when her eyes lifted again, Thessia’s gaze waited. Not soft. Not mocking. Curious. Sharp.Seeing.
After the gathering, the Riftwardens found her sitting before a low-burning fire. Three of them—cloaks dripping, eyes bright as knives.
“Why do they call you Sokâr?” one asked, his tone deceptively mild. “Because you worked witchcraft to stop the river?”
Auryn stilled, outwardly calm though her pulse ticked sharp in her throat. This was the first time their words carried true hostility, the first time their curiosity had teeth.
“I did not stop the river,” she said evenly. “I reminded it of its own quiet.”
“Reminded?” The second snorted, holding his crimson satchel close. “With what sigil? What rune? Where is your conduit?”
Auryn’s head tilted, silver hair catching the firelight. “Conduit?” she echoed. “Do you cast through your rods?”
That earned a sneer. “We have rods, stones, Runesgrams etched into flesh. Power earned by trial. What areyou, girl? Where is your proof?”
Her gaze held steady. “Magic is not privilege. It is breath. Do you put a stone in your mouth so you may breathe?”
Their cloaks shifted as they stepped nearer, and tension cracked like frost in the night air.
“Enough.”
Zarrek’s voice cut like an axe through wood. He emerged from the shadow between tents, gold eyes searing. His presence bent the circle at once, the Riftwardens faltering as he strode forward, scarred hand already close to the haft of his weapon.
“She walks where I walk,” he said, low and lethal. “Which means your words fall on my ears. Careful which ones you choose next.”
The Wardens muttered, their boldness shriveling. Auryn only smoothed her sleeve where their breath had brushed too close. They dispersed at last, muttering into their collars.
Zarrek stood a moment longer, gold eyes fixed on their retreat, his hand still near the haft of his weapon. Then he turned to her.
“You court danger,” he said, voice low and hard. “The Wardens aren’t jesting. Best you keep your head down.”
Auryn tilted her chin, unflinching. “And do what? Hide?”
“Stay in your tent,” he growled. “Let Resh deal with them. You’d be safer.”
She studied him, a faint crease between her brows. “If I stay in the tent, how am I different from a map folded in a satchel? That is not who I am.”
Something flickered in his expression—frustration, perhaps, or the ghost of reluctant admiration. His jaw clenched. “Then be ready for what comes,” he muttered, turning away into the dark.
That night, Auryn sat by the fire at the heart of camp to keep warm, not quite ready to go back to Kailorien’s tent. The threat of Zarrek’s words hung in the air, and she wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders.
The howl came first.
Too close. Too sharp. The kind of sound that crawled under the skin and set the marrow on edge.
It sounded human.
“Please doooooon’t!”
“Bring the Annnnchor!”
Auryn froze, breath caught in her throat. She looked out into the darkness, her shoulders stiff.
