POV: Cael
War announces itself with the wrong kind of footsteps—too many, too quick, too hungry for something that isn’t theirs. Dawn hits like a hammer, and the south span begins to move, not like stone or rope, but like a living thing being poked with sticks. The river wind tastes metallic. My skin crawls with the rhythm of it.
“Positions,” I bark, and the yard answers in a single breath. Shields snap into place. Hooks drop. Sandbags thud against stone. Lorre’s squad takes the low rail, helmets tilted to hear the water better than the wind. Jax runs the high line, scanning angles like he’s counting songs in his head. His steps never falter.
Drift swarms come in sloppy—too loud, too many, not brave enough to make it count. We repel the first wave with ease. Boots slam. Poles crack. I take a jaw with my elbow and shove another man back into the river before he can spit whatever curse he had ready. They retreat, suck water, try again. They’re testing our reaction time, our patience, our numbers. They’re not here to win. They’re here to measure.
“Two minor cuts,” Lorre reports. “One sprain.”
“Minimal,” I say. “Exactly what they wanted.”
Jax flexes his hand, wiping blood from his knuckle. “Not the main.”
“Probe,” I agree. “Tell the Regent we held with half strength. And make sure Seris hears that lie.”
He grins—sharp, tired, pleased. “Already wrote it. Added extra flourishes.”
“Good,” I say. “She likes flourishes.”
The second wave never comes. That tells me more than a dozen rafts would have. They saw what they needed. They went home to sharpen a different blade.
By afternoon, the Council has a new toy to argue over: Seris’s fresh petition, copied in black and red ink bold enough to bleed through the parchment if you press too hard.
“Surrender her,” it says in fifty polite sentences, “and save your bridges.”
I don’t sit for this one. Sitting feels like forfeiting ground. I stand by the eastern column, arms crossed, shoulders loose, voice even. Even is better than loud. Loud is what Seris wants.
“Crownward does not barter its people,” I say.
A lord I barely tolerate clears his throat. He has the kind of beard that makes him think his opinions are older and wiser than they are. “We’re speaking of one woman versus an army.”
“We’re speaking,” I counter, “of law versus a habit. And we’ve had enough of men who collect women like taxes.”
The murmurs split the chamber. Some pleased. Some offended. One tries not to smile. One fails.
Seris’s envoy tilts her head in amusement, her hair pinned with pearls that look like little teeth. “So noble,” she says. “So… local.”
“We live here,” I say. “We have to be.”
Her eyes narrow. The Regent—my mother—doesn’t move, but her gaze sharpens like a drawn bow. She wants me to push harder. So I do.
“If we hand her over,” I continue, “we invite a line. Who’s next? Which baker? Which child? Which mistake?”
Silence hits the chamber like cold water. The word child always does that. Men who imagine themselves reasonable crumble when reminded they were small once.
The motion to surrender doesn’t die with a crash; it dies with a whimper. Not killed—stalled. It will crawl back dressed in new language. It always does.
By evening, I walk the inner halls to outrun the ache in my chest that isn’t from a blade. Yesterday Mara was in my arms, trembling with grief. Today I have to be a wall again. I hate walls. I’ve broken enough of them to know they can’t hold the right things.
Rhun prowls in my ribs—snarling, pacing, wanting. “Find her. Keep her. Carry her away.”
“No cages,” I mutter.
“You lie,” he growls.
I don’t answer him. He’s right. I don’t know what freedom looks like when keeping someone safe feels like holding a scream in my hand.
A courier catches me on the stairs, breathless, face pale. Red seal. Moonfell crest. The letter is addressed in a neat, precise hand:
To Mara Ilyas of White-Gold.
White-Gold.
White-Gold.
Rhun slams into my ribs like a storm breaking through bone. “Mine. Hide it.”
“I know,” I whisper. My hand trembles before I force it steady. The seal burns against my palm like a brand. This is not a letter. It’s a declaration. A marker. A chain disguised as ink.
I pocket the writ before the courier can blink. “You gave no copies?” I ask.
He shakes his head violently. “No, my lord.”
“Good,” I say, already moving. “Jax.”
He appears like he always does when the air goes wrong—quiet, sudden, inevitable. “What now?”
I hold up the letter. He swears softly, a word he saves for bad omens. “That’s fast.”
“Too fast,” I say. “They want her rattled.”
He nods once. “Or they want us rattled.”
Both. Always both.
“Lock it,” I say. “Moon Silence drawer. Only Regent key and ours.”
“You sure?” he asks. He knows what my version of sure looks like. A man walking a blade. A man choosing between truths he hates and lies he hates more.
“No,” I say. “Do it anyway.”
He takes the letter. My hand tightens before I force myself to let go. It feels like ripping cloth. It feels like betrayal. It feels like survival.
As he walks away, Rhun snarls in my chest, furious, longing, protective.
“You hide her,” he says. “But you don’t hide your heart.”
I close my eyes. “I know.”
And war, patient and hungry, breathes against the city walls.