Adrian’s chambers stank of war plans and regret. The scent of smoldering parchment clung to the air, mingling with the heady spice of ironwood tea. Evelina’s nails dug into his shoulder as she straddled him, her kisses tasting of desperation and old promises.

  “You’ll get us all killed,” she hissed between breaths.

  He flipped her onto the silk sheets, pinning her wrists. The candlelight cast flickering shadows over the jagged scars crisscrossing her ribs. “But what a way to go.”

  Their lovemaking was battle and benediction—Evelina’s strategic mind dissecting his every move, her fingers mapping out the weak points in his body like enemy territory. She bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. Adrian barely noticed. His focus was on the corruption winding up his ribs, a dark tendril born from the Spire’s influence. A sickness he refused to acknowledge.

  When they finished, she traced the black veins with the tip of her nail. “You’re worse than Liam,” she murmured. “At least his darkness is honest.”

  Catriona’s laugh cut through the tension like the slash of a well-honed dagger. “Stop scolding him, Evie. He’s pretty when he’s cornered.”

  She tossed a blade at Adrian’s feet—the same dagger that had nearly taken his eye during their first duel decades ago. He could still hear the clang of steel against marble, the sharp gasp when she had stopped just short of his throat.

  “Remember this?” she asked, arching a brow. “You let me win.”

  “You earned it.” He caught her waist, pulling her into a kiss that burned with memory. She had been his father’s assassin, sent to end him; now she was the mother of his third son.

  Seraphina’s cool fingers parted them. Her touch was always ice, a reminder of the price she had paid for magic. “The Exarch’s retinue includes three mind-readers. Your little tribunal farce won’t work.”

  Adrian’s grin turned feral. “Then we’ll improvise.”

  Rosalind pressed a vial to his lips—truth serum disguised as wine. “Drink. They’ll expect it.”

  He swallowed bitterness, his fingers tangling in her hair. “Ever the pragmatist.”

  “Ever your keeper.” Her kiss was poison and promise.

  The chamber doors burst open. Helena strode in, bloodied practice sword in hand, sweat gleaming on her brow. “Liam took down six guards today. The boy’s ready.”

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  Valeria adjusted her spectacles, equations scrolling across her eyes. Her irises gleamed with runes only she could decipher. “His mana resonance still fluctuates. One misstep—”

  “—and we burn the capital,” Isabella finished, twirling a fire crystal between her fingers. “I’ve rigged the eastern gates.”

  Adrian laughed, pulling them all into the bed—a tangle of scars and secrets. For a moment, the weight lifted. They were not conspirators, rebels, or fugitives. Just people bound by war and fate.

  Evelina’s whisper cut through the haze: “The Spire’s in his dreams now. Soon it’ll claim him.”

  Adrian stared at the ceiling, where Amara’s childish drawings overlapped battle maps. Tiny suns and stick-figure soldiers shared space with tactical formations. A future neither his daughter nor any of them were guaranteed.

  “Then we’ll claim it first.”

  The council chamber was too quiet, the air thick with the scent of incense and deception. Adrian’s boots echoed against polished stone as he entered, flanked by Seraphina and Rosalind. Evelina and Catriona moved like shadows behind him, their presence unseen but deadly.

  The Exarch’s envoy sat stiff-backed in ceremonial robes of deep violet. Their faces were masks of politeness, but Adrian knew better. These were not men to be reasoned with. They were vultures, waiting for the first sign of weakness.

  “Lord Adrian,” one of them greeted. “We appreciate your cooperation.”

  Adrian smirked. “That makes one of us.”

  Rosalind stepped forward, offering a tray of goblets. “Truthwine, as tradition dictates.”

  The envoy exchanged glances before taking their cups. Adrian lifted his own, the bitter taste burning down his throat. He felt the familiar pull of the serum settling in his blood, making falsehoods impossible. Good. He had no intention of lying.

  The first question was expected. “Do you conspire against the Exarch?”

  Adrian set his goblet down with deliberate ease. “Conspiracy implies secrecy.”

  A murmur rippled through the chamber. One of the mind-readers narrowed his gaze, his magic pressing against Adrian’s thoughts. The corruption coiled inside him, resisting the intrusion. A dangerous gamble, but Adrian had always played to win.

  “Do you seek the Spire’s power?” the envoy asked.

  Adrian’s fingers curled against the table’s edge. “I seek to end its hold over my people.”

  “By war?”

  He let the silence stretch. Then, finally: “By any means necessary.”

  A mind-reader gasped. The envoy’s expression darkened. But Adrian saw it—the flicker of doubt. Fear.

  They expected defiance. They were unprepared for truth.

  Seraphina moved then, her voice a whisper of frost. “The Exarch underestimates us.”

  “Gravely,” Catriona agreed, flipping a dagger between her fingers. “Shall we correct that?”

  Adrian exhaled, his gaze locked onto the envoy. “Tell your master: the storm is coming.”

  That night, the rain began. A steady drum against the fortress walls, heralding the war to come. Adrian stood at the balcony, the weight of the night pressing against his shoulders.

  Evelina joined him, silent for a long moment. Then, softly: “You can still walk away.”

  He chuckled, shaking his head. “You know I won’t.”

  Her fingers brushed against his, a rare moment of tenderness. “Then don’t die.”

  He turned to her, pressing a kiss against her temple. “I make no promises.”

  Thunder rolled across the sky. The calm before the storm never lasted long.