Page 149 of Aryn

“Yeah, maybe,” Ronan agrees tersely, “but she could just as easily argue that we could take refuge in her city and stay safe while the rest burns.”

I shake my head. “Something tells me she’s not the type to leave others behind to suffer. That’s how she came to power in the first place, right? Fighting for the little guys?”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“We just have to get her there,” I say. “The rest… we’ll figure it out when we’re standing in the middle of it.”

Aryn makes a strained noise beside me. “Saving the future without a real plan. Winging it with the fate of two worlds on the line.”

I grin and bump his shoulder. “It’s what we did when we came here. None of this was planned.”

His eyes soften as they drop to where my mark sits under my skin, but Cameron speaks up, his expression more serious than usual. “She’s a warrior,” he says. “Once she sees what’s at stake with her own eyes, she’ll commit. She fucking has to.”

He doesn’t say the rest out loud.

She has to… because we need her to.

Because she’s the only fighting chance we have at saving our worlds.

My hand squeezes Aryn’s.

Of saving this.

The morning we leave is chaotic, with guards preparing their sylvaren and castle hands stocking the wagons. As we lead Nymir out for her tack, I notice two figures wrapped around each other in the shadowed corner of the stable.

Brihn and Galdren step out a few minutes later, lips kiss-swollen and clothes hastily straightened. As Galdren walks away, Brihn's face stays stoic like his father, but the mask slips. He thinks no one else is paying attention, and there’s no hiding the longing in his eyes.

Another stubborn Dreven, putting duty before his own heart.

We set off shortly after daybreak, riding through a side gate to keep from attracting attention. Our group is double what it was on the trip here. Brihn and his guards ride with us, but once we reach the mountain fork, they’ll split off and head home. It’ll leave only us and the Vaelor’s crew to make the final push to the rift.

It’s real—I know it is—but it still doesn’t quite feel that way. Too much hope is a dangerous thing, so I keep my focus on what’s right in front of me.

Ailynor leads beside her general, regal somehow even when riding, with her guards forming a loose protective ring. Rhael rides near the middle, eyes wide as the capital gates close behind us. The rest of us settle into our usual spots, and Aryn and I share Nymir again. Brihn stays close, though he’s quieter than usual.

We make solid progress over the next couple of days. A snowstorm rolls in on the second night, and by the time we reach the fork leading toward Maelithryne, several fresh inches cover the ground.

The mood grows heavier as we stop. From here, Brihn and his warriors will return home, and Aryn will be separated from his family once more.

Everyone dismounts for a break while the group prepares for goodbye. Brihn moves through the circle, offering hugs, handshakes, and backslaps, but when he reaches Aryn, his forced smile falters.

“Come here,” Aryn rasps, dragging his son into a fierce embrace. The pain in his face nearly splits me in half, and I watch helplessly as my mate grips Brihn tightly, their foreheads pressed together. Aryn’s words become too quiet for me to catch, but I don’t have to hear them to know they’re filled with raw pain and infinite love. Brihn’s shoulders shake once as he clings to his father like this might be the last time.

When they finally separate, Brihn’s eyes are wet. He turns to me and pulls me into a hug that surprises me with its strength, then draws a shaky breath against my shoulder.

“Take care of him,” he says quietly, voice thick. “His heart has been broken too many times already. Guard it above all else. Please. He deserves this happiness.”

My throat tightens as I hug him back just as hard. “I will, I promise. I love him. I’m not going anywhere.”

Brihn pulls back, eyes glistening as he looks between us. He reaches into his coat pocket, and Aryn’s breath catches when he opens his palm. Two signet rings rest there—nearly identical to the one Aryn once wore around his neck, except these are polished and new instead of worn by time.

“The old ways say a family only has one head,” Brihn says as he presses one ring into Aryn’s hand, “but I disagree. I’ve carried that title for years, and I wear it with pride. But I won’t take it from you. Not after everything you’ve done.”

Aryn laughs weakly, turning the ring in the light to study the carvings. “We can share it, son.”

“I’ll protect our people here, and you do it there,” Brihn says. “Just promise me something.”

“Anything.”