Page 92 of Stolen
I snarl low in my throat.
“I know the name. He used to be a monk of the Silver Flame.”
“Yes! He was until he burned the abbey to the ground and stole their relics,” Dagan mutters, throwing a dagger onto the battle map with a loud thud.
“He’s the one? Well, that explains how he’s raising shadows, pulling from the very veil that keeps the death realm sealed.”
I glance at the map. Lines mark our position on the crest of the Vale, just south of Mount Thorn, with our forces fortified along the two ridgelines bordering the North Road.
But we’re stretched thin.
“Their dead don’t stay dead,” Kael mutters, scowling. “I watched three of my men take down a SoulTaker beast. And then it got back up.”
“We’ll hold them here. We must,” I say.
My voice sounds calm. But inside?
I burn.
It’s been seventy-two hours since I left the Eyrie.
I haven’t slept.
I haven’t shifted.
I haven’t allowed myself to think about anything but the fight.
But I feel her.
My Myrrin.
My viyella.
Jules’ emotions seep through our bond.
And they humble me.
Gods, I believe that woman might actually love me.
Me? Imagine that?
I don’t deserve her or her love. Not with how I tricked her to begin with. But now that I have it? I plan to keep it and her.
Mine.
My Dragon agrees.
Her presence is a silver thread in my chest.
Tugging. Anchoring.
If I fail here—if I fall—those monsters will take her.
And the thought alone is enough to make my Dragon shake the fucking foundation of Nightfall.
“I’ve sent Dauphiné to the Eyrie,” I say, forcing myself back to strategy, the battlefield map before us blurring at the edges of my vision.
Kael arches a dark brow. “I saw that. She came seeking sanctuary when her borderlands fell,” he muses, sipping mead like we aren’t half a breath from war.
