POV: Mara
He finds me on the rampart. Moonlight lays cold fingers on the stone; the river throws back our breath, silver and restless. The air smells like rain that hasn’t decided if it wants to fall.
“You shouldn’t be up,” I say without turning.
“You shouldn’t be alone,” he answers, moving to my side. His steps scrape the stone—careful, limping, stubborn. He’s white around the mouth, sweat clinging to his hairline, bandage peeking under his shirt like a warning label. Anger and relief tangle in my chest until I can’t separate them.
“I’m not alone,” I say. “The moon is nosy.”
He huffs—half laugh, half pain. “You’re bleeding worry.”
“You’re leaking fever.”
We stand shoulder to shoulder, both pretending that makes us safe. The river snarls at the bridge pilings. The wind shreds the clouds into thin ghosts.
“Jax says you interrogated a Drift,” Cael says.
“I stood in a room with a man who wants to turn me into a flag,” I correct. “He called me Moon’s Anchor like a prayer. I wanted to break his teeth.”
“I should have been there,” he says.
“I don’t need a guard for my ears!” I snap. “I need truth!”
He swallows hard. The bond twitches between us like it’s listening.
“You’re White-Gold lineage,” he says, voice rough. “The Vein said it. The prophecy points to you. I didn’t tell you because I thought telling would paint a target bigger than the one you already wear. I already told you everything I know. What more truth do you want?”
“I was already a target,” I whisper. “You just left me to guess how to dodge.”
“I wanted to buy time,” he says. “To build walls.”
“Walls without doors are cages,” I say. “You keep choosing that shape.”
“And you keep walking into storms without a cloak.”
“I am the storm!” I say, and the words scare me as soon as they leave my mouth. They feel too big, too old, too honest.
He turns toward me like the sentence pulled his spine. The bond hums bright and painful, a string pulled taut.
“I’m afraid,” he says. Not an excuse. Not a shield. Just truth. It hits harder than any shout.
“I know,” I whisper. “Me too.”
Rain starts—soft at first, a polite tap, then mean, slashing sideways. We stop talking. We breathe. He sways; I catch his elbow. I sway; he hooks his fingers into my belt like he’s afraid the wind might steal me. The world narrows to damp stone, warm skin, the sound of water finding edges.
Our foreheads touch. Not a kiss. A truce. His breath shakes. Mine matches. The line between us hums low, like it’s tired of fighting and just wants us to live long enough to understand each other.
His wolf, Rhun, presses through the bond—a rough, warm weight of recognition. Aster answers, softer, a cool palm resting on mine.
“I hate this,” I whisper. “War. Prophecy. Being important in ways I never asked for.”
“I hate it too,” Cael murmurs. “I hate that every answer we uncover makes ten more enemies.”
“We’ll survive it,” I say. I don’t know if it’s true. I want it to be.
He exhales like he wants to believe me.
“I need you to stop hiding things,” I say. “Even if the truth is ugly.”
“I need you to stop walking into danger because it scares me more than dying,” he replies.
“That’s not fair.”
“It isn’t,” he agrees. “But it’s honest.”
His fever is still there, hiding in the corners of his voice. I reach up without thinking and brush my thumb under his jaw. He closes his eyes, just for a heartbeat.
Then—
Horns rip the night open.
Sharp. Urgent. Too many at once.
We jerk apart as if struck. Jax’s shout rides the wind from the lower span:
“South! Lines! Kade’s army incoming!”
The river changes its voice—from restless to murderous. Lights flare along the lower walkways. Boots thunder on stone. Bells—tied down earlier—begin to shake against their restraints like they want to warn the whole world.
Cael’s eyes flash. Fever and command war in his face, but command wins.
“To positions,” he says, voice clipped.
“I go with Hearthworks,” I answer, already tying my hair back, already moving.
“Stay under stone,” he says.
“Bite me,” I say, and run.
He catches my wrist for a breath—one heartbeat, one tether tug of panic and hope—then lets go, because war doesn’t wait for lovers or almost-lovers or people stitched together with half-bonds.
I sprint down the stairs, water slapping the stone, the city roaring awake like a beast who’s had enough.
Behind me, through the bond, I feel him step into the storm. I feel Rhun rise. I feel a promise—unspoken, unwise, unstoppable—
Not without you. And I run faster.