Page 146 of Aryn

“Oh, gods,” I groan, embarrassed but still riding the high. “Everyone here knows we just fucked. The guards at the castle are going to know we fucked. Hells, the fucking Vaelor will know if we run into her.”

Aryn chuckles softly and leans in to press a kiss to my cheek as we walk. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you back to our room so I can take care of you properly. I want to clean every drop of me off you, and maybe if you’re good, I’ll put more back inside.”

I shiver at the promise, squeezing his hand tighter as we make our way through the festival and toward the castle. My thighs are slick and my body is humming with aftershocks, but I’ve never felt better.

Aryn

Two days pass before we receive the Vaelor’s official summons. From the moment we walk into the war room, the tension is so thick I’m not even sure a blade could slice through. Ailynor sits with three of her generals, the head of her city watch—who also happens to be Rhael’s father—and two of her top strategists. A few other new faces are sprinkled in, with open notebooks and readied pencils.

Galdren and Rhael smile as we settle into our chairs, but it does little to ease my nerves. Cato sits beside me, our hands linked under the table, while Ronan, Cameron, Lillith, and Taryn find open spots.

Ailynor introduces everyone, then jumps straight into business. “We’ve already discussed this at length, but it needs repeating. Everyone here needs to be on the same page.”

We rehash the story, from Sovran’s transfer of power to Zadeus to the eventual invasion of the human world. The generals snarl at every mention of his name, but no one interrupts. They don’t need convincing on this part. It’s written into their own history books as fact.

The shift in mood happens when we reach the later parts of the story. Sovran’s fall from grace, the sealing of the veil, and the prophecy to reopen it. How the worlds grew so deeply connected that shutting the veil was like severing a limb, and both sides have been slowly bleeding out for the past century.

The murmurs start low, then rise into overlapping whispers and open bickering as the generals argue among themselves in rapid Elyrian. Only fragments cut through the noise—broken commentary of fool’s magic, low curses damning the Fates, and several rounds of ‘How can we even trust them?’

I clear my throat loudly and wait for it to get quiet. The mistrust in their eyes is obvious, but they settle after a hard look from the Vaelor.

“You were around when your people were fighting Zadeus’s reign?” I ask.

The Nu’vak general named Khagra responds with a vague wave of his hand. “We were.”

“What do you remember about those times?”

He grimaces and sits back, arms crossed and fingers tapping against his biceps. “The entire damn world was at odds. Half of them supported him—”

“Out of fear,” Rhael’s father, Hycis, interrupts.

“Some of them, maybe,” Khagra says, mouth twisting. “But others followed because that’s what people do. They latch on to the strongest to get power for themselves. The cities were divided. Villages were raided, people injured or killed left and right. The army dragged off the greatest minds for his secret projects.”

I nod. “Which we now know was about opening the divide between the worlds.” He tilts his head at me in reluctant agreement. “That same power has been shaping our world for the last century. They came in, overtook our cities, killed anyone who resisted, and pulled in those with enough power to give them what they needed. They brought soldiers and scientists and forced us to learn their technologies and weapons. You think our kind is dangerous with a spear? Place a gun in our hands and see what happens.”

Khagra and Hycis exchange a glance before Khagra’s eyes return to me. “We’ve seen these human weapons. They need bullets, do they not? It's a weakness.”

“On this side, perhaps,” Ronan counters, “but not in the human world. Factories churn them out by the thousands every day.”

Ailynor gnaws on her bottom lip. “You said there were six High Commanders. Did Zadeus have control of them?”

“We’re not entirely sure,” Ronan admits. “As powerful as he was, I doubt he could influence them as easily as others. They earned those positions because they were strong.”

“And because they allied with him from the beginning,” I add.

“Mmm, true,” Ailynor muses. “They wouldn’t have followed him between worlds otherwise. Do you know anything about who remains now that he’s dead?”

“We don’t,” Ronan says, sitting back and drumming his fingertips on the table. “Even with my rank, their identities were need-to-know only.”

Her grimace deepens. “You’re telling me you know nothing about the leadership you expect us to fight?”

Ronan’s shoulders stiffen, one brow arching. “You know how the chain of command works. You were a soldier yourself. Orders come down the line, and you don’t go around your superiors. The only High Commander I ever met was years ago… a Lu’Mite named Ursuz.” When Ailynor glances at Hycis, Ronan leans forward. “You know him?”

Hycis lets out a long sigh. “He was power-hungry even back then. He spoke out against Zadeus at first, but it doesn’t surprise me he was working with him.”

I bite at my lip, pulling up half-remembered whispers from within Ljómur. “There were rumors that some of the other High Commanders were fighting Zadeus.”

“Fighting how?” Hycis demands.