Page 41 of Wicked Depths

Because they don’t.

I stiffen. “What in the abyss—?”

Nyxara doesn’t look at me. Instead, she watches as the Sentinels take their places around the war table, standing at silent attention. Only then, does she speak.

“They are the last of their kind,” she says, voice smooth, clipped. “They swore fealty to my father when he fell protecting them.”

I raise a brow, crossing my arms. “Fealty?”

“They were once men,” she continues, trailing a claw over the edge of the table. “Once flesh and blood, warriors who fought at my father’s side in the first war against the humans. But when he fell, when Varelieth burned, they made a choice,” she glances at me, emerald eyes dark, “to remain.”

A slow, eerie smile unfurls beneath Rhyzan’s hood, his violet eyes gleaming as he tilts his head at me.

“We are bound to the crown.” His voice is like the wind through dead leaves, an echo from another time. “And so long as Varelieth stands, we shall never fall.”

Something cold brushes over the back of my neck.

I’ve heard of ancient magics that bind warriors to the land, of creatures who exist between life and death. But I have never stood so close to them.

Nyxara turns back to the table, her expression unreadable. “Rhyzan and his warriors will hold the borders. They will ensure the king’s forces do not move beyond the eastern cliffs.”

I drag my nails over the table’s edge, watching the Sentinels with new curiosity. “And you trust them?”

She lifts her gaze, sharp and unwavering. “With my life.”

For once, I do not taunt her.

Because I believe her.

The room stills, the weight of their presence thick, suffocating. Nyxara steps forward, placing her hands on the war table. The flickering light from the sconces casts deep shadows across her face, accentuating the sharp line of her jaw, the fury simmering just beneath the surface.

She taps a claw against the carved landscape. “The eastern cliffs will be where we strike first. The humans will expect us to hold Varethorne, to defend, but we do not wait for battle to come to us.”

I arch a brow. “So you plan to take the fight to them?”

A slow, wicked smile curves her lips. “We strike before they are ready.”

The Sentinels murmur their approval.

I trace my fingers along the carved rivers, my gaze sharp. “The king’s men know the risk of entering your lands, but they’ll expect you to be holed up in your castle, guarding your precious captive. They won’t suspect that you’ve made a deal with me—or that I’ll be the one fighting at your side.”

I glance up, a slow smirk curving my lips. “And they certainly won’t expect the full force of the sea to rise alongside your fire. Let them come thinking they have the advantage. Let them believe they hold the upper hand. When the tide crashes down and the flames consume, they’ll realize too late just how wrong they were.”

Nyxara doesn’t respond immediately.

Because she still doesn’t trust me.

I see it—the subtle shift in her posture, the tension tightening her shoulders, the way her claws tap, tap, tap against the war table, a controlled display of frustration. A hesitation she doesn’t want me to see. But I do.

I roll my shoulders, sighing, letting the exasperation slip into my tone. “Tell me, Dragon Queen, how exactly do you expect me to aid you if you refuse to let me fight?”

Her eyes snap to mine, sharp as steel, but beneath that glare, something flickers. Annoyance? Or reluctant acknowledgment?

She exhales slowly, her emerald gaze shadowed by thought, assessing me with the same intensity she does the battlefield. Like I am a piece in her war. A risk she isn’t certain she should take.

I watch her, studying the way the candlelight glows against her skin, illuminating the high slant of her cheekbones, the firm press of her full lips. Her hair, dark as the depths of the abyss, cascades over her shoulders in thick waves, still damp from her bath. Strands cling to her collarbone, trailing over the exposed skin where her gown dips low. The sight makes something coil deep in my stomach, a slow heat licking at my ribs.

She’s fighting it. Fighting me.

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