The chatter fills every space, every corner, leaving nothing untouched.

People bustle around everywhere. It's a nuisance. Dinner time in Eryndrael has always been a nuisance.

The hall is alive with motion—servants balancing trays, nobles leaning too close over long tables, children darting underfoot. Every candle burns too bright, every voice is too loud. My temples throb with it.

They laugh. They gossip. They live like nothing has changed. Like the world hasn't shifted on its axis. Like gods haven't walked free again.

I can't swallow. The plate before me might as well be carved stone: roasted venison, pears dripping with honey, warm bread steaming in the chill of the hall. My fingers twitch but I don't lift a bite.

They do not see you, the goddess' voice coils in my skull, dark and silken. Not as you are. They see a girl. A ghost returned. A thing they don't know how to name.

I don't bother responding back.

Someone coughs. I look up. It's that boy again. The beautiful one.

" Can I join you?" He asks, softly.

" Do what you want. I don't care."

He laughs, sliding into the seat across from me. Too comfortable, too unbothered, like he doesn't notice the way everyone else keeps their distance.

"Most people run the other way when you answer like that," he says, plucking a grape from the platter between us. I watch as he pops into his mouth.

"I'd prefer if you did too," I mutter, tracing the rim of my goblet.

But he doesn't. He just leans back, studying me like I'm something worth the trouble. His eyes catch the candlelight—amber, almost molten.

He stares too long, the goddess snarls. Shall I take his eyes?

Why don't you try shutting up instead?

The boy smiles, and I wonder if he somehow heard her. "You don't eat much," he says.

"You talk too much."

That earns another laugh. Gods, even his laugh is too warm. It doesn't belong in this cold hall, not against the hum of nobles whispering my name like a curse.

"You've been gone a long time," he says after a beat, quieter now. "But you don't seem... lost."

My jaw works, but nothing comes out. Not lost. Not found. Just caught between two lives, stitched together by someone else's power.

"Careful," I say finally, pushing the plate away. "You don't know me."

His smile tilts, infuriating and soft all at once. "Then maybe you should let me."

I nearly choke. Let him? As if knowing me is some kind of mercy I can grant.

Slit his throat. See if he smiles then.

My fingers curl tight around the goblet. I don't drink. I don't trust myself not to crush it.

"I don't let anyone get close to me." Not after him. "And certainly not some asshole like you."

He scoffs, drinking his wine, his eyes never leaving me once. " Just 'cause Korrin's an asshole doesn't make me one."

" You're an asshole by association."

He leans back in his chair, elbows resting on the table, and lets out a slow laugh. "Fair enough," he says. "Guilty by association. I'll wear it."

"Why are you even here?" I ask instead, voice quieter. "Why sit with someone who doesn't want you around?"

His amber eyes glint with something I can't name. Something like... amusement? Or patience? "Maybe I think you need it. Company. Someone who doesn't go around shitting on you every chance they get."

I snort. "I don't need anyone."

"Maybe not," he admits, leaning closer. "But maybe you like having someone watch your back. Even when you don't admit it."

I bite my lip, almost startled by the truth in his words. Almost.

" I'm Auren." He says. " Auren Zale."

I don't bother introducing myself. I'm not exactly a secret around here. I glance up, taking in the familiar faces of people that made Eryndrael my home. My eyes move until they land on Korrin leaning against the far end of the hall, eyes locked on us with that trademark scowl, arms crossed. He's pissed. Not even trying to hide it.

I tilt my head slightly toward Auren. "See that?" I murmur. "That's your reputation in action."

Auren glances, smirks, and doesn't bother looking away from me. "He's mad at me for sitting here?"

I shrug. "Mad at you. Mad at me. Mad at everyone who isn't kissing his ass."

He chuckles, soft, low. "Goes with the job, apparently."

I can't help rolling my eyes, though a part of me still feels the old pull of recognition —the memory of him sneering, his wasted attempts at trying to take my position from me. He succeeded but that's not the point. I'm not his no matter where his position lies. I'm... me.

I glance at Auren and instantly his face comes back to me. That gorgeous, deadly face. Hair darker than any black. Eyes greener than any emerald. And that tattoo. The one of the snake that curls around his neck. I can feel my fingers on his skin, tracing those scars he never told me the stories of.

I can feel his hands on my body. I can feel him rocking my entire world, touching me in places that no one should be touching.

I remember him.

All of him.

" You can stay." I say, shoving a cherry into my mouth. " For now."

He grins like he's been waiting for me to say that. He opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by the hall doors slamming open.

Callan steps in, cloak brushing the floor, hair damp and plastered to his forehead. His eyes are wild, scanning the room until they land on me. He doesn't look panicked. But I know for sure that something's up.

Auren must catch it too. " You should go." He says.

I push back from the table, not looking at Auren once as I weave my way through the crowd towards Callan. His Sentinels are behind him, looking clearly shaken. He nods his head as I approach him, and turns, expecting me to follow.

I do follow.

I fall in step behind Callan as he threads us through the hall, the servants parting like water. The scent of roasted meat and candle wax fades behind us, replaced by cold stone and the faint tang of iron. He leads me into his office, maps sprawled everywhere.

" He's begun to attack."

I don't ask who he is. It's my fault all this destruction is happening.

" What has he hit?"

" A bunch of small villages near Ironspire. His most recent hit was Stonehollow. Rumours have it that there's a survivor."

" Survivor?" I lift my eyebrow.

" A young girl. The Trackers picked up her power. She's of lesser magic, but they picked up her trace and..."

He looks away. "And?"

" We also picked up King Lucien's power."

My entire body flinches. King Lucien. Not prince, not just Lucien but King. I knew that after the Trials he would crown one of them king. I had expected Riven to be next in line. Riven, who always took what was his without question.

But it wasn't Riven. It was Lucien. The thought tastes bitter in my mouth. King Lucien. My mind flips through memories like pages ripped from a book I never wanted to read. That day when he saved my life. The day where I chose Riven over him. The way he looked at me that night—like I was the only thing that mattered—burns under my skin even now.

And I turned away. Chose Riven. Left Lucien standing there, silent and wounded in a way no one else could see. Lucien, who always made me laugh no matter what. Lucien, who stayed patient, waiting for me yet I still ran into the arms of someone who could kill me without a weapon.

I left him and two years later he wears a crown and I wonder how much of me he remembers. Is he looking for me? Are any of them? Or did they leave me, just like I left everyone in this world?

I pull in a slow breath. "So he's king."

Callan gives me a sympathetic look. " Riven and Lucien were crowned twin kings the week after you opened the gate. Apparently so, Riven Knox decided he didn't want to be king and stepped down to be his brother's enforcer instead."

He moves toward the maps, pointing to scattered marks that signal attacks and survivors. "This is what's left after the first wave," he says. "Stonehollow was the worst. Trackers are still picking up traces but we've come to the assumption that Varethin is seeking something."

My eyebrows scrunch in confusion. " He's been hitting minor villages if he wanted anything, he's not getting it from them."

Callan nods slowly. "No. Not the villages themselves. He's drawing out power. Testing defenses. Looking for a trace. Something specific."

I frown, my stomach twisting. "A trace of what?"

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he pulls another map closer, his finger tracing a jagged line across the lands. "There's a pattern," he says finally. "Stonehollow, Ironspire, the outskirts of Tenebris—they're not random. He's looking for someone... or something. And the Trackers picked up faint residual power, old power."

I narrow my eyes at the General, crossing my arms over my chest. " What are you saying?"

He sucks in a breath, exchanging a glance with Jolyene, one of his soldiers. She's part of the team that went to Stonehollow and has been tracking Varethin's attacks.

" We picked up traces of the marks." Jolyene says, nodding towards me.

I flinch. " But that's impossible." My hand instinctively reaches across my shoulderblade, tracing the engraving of the Bloodmark. " You said that the gods are imprisoned. You shouldn't be picking up any traces because I'm the only one that has access to my Origin Lord."

"That's right. The only reason the Blood Goddess isn't imprisoned," Callan says, eyes locked on me, "is because you're compatible. Your body... It's a full vessel now. Her soul can survive inside yours."

He pauses, then corrects himself. "Ur—Syerin. Did any of the Knox Brothers transform?"

I remember that day. So vividly. They did transform. All of them. I remember the terror I felt when I saw the Origin Lords in their true form but also the relief knowing that none of them got ripped apart.

"They did," I admit. "When I was about to open the gate. But... it wasn't complete."

The Blood Goddess had explained that transformation alone wasn't enough. For full compatibility, their power had to be stored inside our bodies, our souls bound to them.

"Their souls weren't bound?" Callan asks, lifting an eyebrow as he catches my expression.

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. "In the most simple terms... yes. Their souls weren't bound. Their gods should be imprisoned."

"And there's no way for them to be free?"

"As of now... no."

Callan's jaw tightens. " That means that maybe one of the princes still has access or..."

" Or Varethin is searching for the gods." I finish for him.

My stomach twists. Fear isn't for me—it's for the villages, the people, everyone left in his path.

"And he won't stop," I mutter. "Not until he finds what he wants. Until he finds me."

Callan doesn't flinch. "Not just you. But yes. If he traces you, everything else falls."

I swallow, trying to push the bile that has risen, down. Everything else—the hall, the noise, the warm dinners—all of it feels like another life. Now the world is just maps, ruined villages, and the hum of danger threading through every mark Callan traces.

"Then we have to find them first," I say. " The Lords are weak. If Varethin can get into their prisons, he has a chance of killing them and there goes our chance of stopping him."

I pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders, ignoring the faint burn of the Bloodmark beneath my skin. Maps, markers, traces—they're all pieces of a puzzle I'm not sure I want to complete. I've done this before and I have no desire to do it again.

Callan folds his arms, watching me like I might collapse into the floorboards any second. "We leave at first light," he says, softly. " To Ironspire."

My body jolts. " Ironspire?"

" Your princes have taken the survivor at Stonehollow. We need to get her out before she breaks any info to them." My fists clench by my sides. I don't even realise it until Joylene's gaze drops. " Look princess. You've been through shit. Lost people. Fuck, lost yourself. But if you don't get your head into the game... then you're going to lose a lot more than just yourself."

I let out a short laugh, bitter and sharp. "My head's in the game," I say. But the words feel empty even to me. My head has been in the game for years, since I was born in Eryndrael and lost the life I knew, living in the Wastes—lost villages, burning fields, dying screams.

Callan studies me for a long beat, his mouth a grim line. He doesn't believe me, but he doesn't call me on it either. Instead, he nods once. "First light."

The office feels smaller, the walls pressing in with maps, markers, and all the little red stains of death and ruin. I can almost hear the villages screaming off the parchment. Stonehollow. Ironspire. Tenebris. Each name is a wound. Each mark is my fault.

The Blood Goddess stirs in me, her whisper sliding through my skull like silk dragged across a blade.

Let him hunt. Let him burn. You are not theirs to save. You are mine.

My fingers twitch, digging into the wood of Callan's desk until the edges bite into my palm.

Not now, I snap back, though my pulse betrays me. I can feel her satisfaction curling hot under my skin.

Jolyene clears her throat, breaking the silence. "If the Knox brothers have her..." Her gaze flickers to me. "You'll have to face them, won't you?"

The words hit like a blade to the ribs. Lucien. Riven. Their names have weight, heavier than crowns, heavier than any title etched into stone.

My jaw clenches. "If they stand in my way, yes."

It comes out steady, but inside I'm unraveling. The thought of Lucien—King Lucien now—looking at me with that patient, aching warmth again... or worse, looking at me with nothing at all. Like I was erased. Forgotten.

And Riven. God, Riven. I don't know if I can face him again and trust myself not to break down. Run back into the arms of the only danger I've ever known.

I slam my eyes shut for a heartbeat, forcing air into my lungs. When I open them again, both of them are still watching me. I hate it. I hate the way they all treat me like I'm some kind of broken thing.

I am not a thing. I am a warrior.

I am not broken. I am inevitable.

"Get some rest," the General says finally. " Be ready. Tomorrow, everything changes."

I almost laugh, but it curdles in my throat. Everything has already changed. Tomorrow is just the execution.