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We are met with carnage.

Morrin is waiting.

Not perched casually like usual, not watching with that ever-present amusement, not ready with a sharp remark laced in dry humor.

No.

He stands rigid, his wings drawn tight, his talons scraping deep against the marble floor with barely restrained fury. His beady black eyes burn, but it is not just anger that twists through him. It is something far sharper. Something bitter. Something jagged.

And it is directed solely at Nyxara.

"You were gone," he snarls, stepping forward, his wings flaring. "And while you were gone, the king marched into your lands."

The words shouldn’t make the very castle feel like it's sinking beneath us, but the weight of them is unbearable.

I go still.

Nyxara’s body tenses beside me, the only outward sign that the words have struck. She exhales slowly, measured, controlled,but I can feel the heat rising beneath her skin, the pressure of her magic pressing against the air.

"How much ground did they gain?" Her voice is eerily calm.

Morrin's wings snap open. "You do not get to ask that."

His beady black eyes shift to me, and the barely contained fury within them boils over, scorching, livid.

"This is because of her."

A cold silence fills the air, thick with something dangerous, something that trembles on the edge of ruin.

Nyxara’s claws twitch at her sides, but she does not argue. She does not deny it. Instead, she steps forward, her voice a blade sharpened on fire and grief.

"How many human filth slithered their way into my lands, Morrin?"

Her words are like steel, but her body betrays her. Her claws twitch at her sides, her shoulders drawn so tight that I can practically hear the tension crackling in her bones. But her face—her face is pure, deadly calm.

Morrin's feathers ruffle, his beak clenching as his talons scrape against the stone floor. "Too many."

Nyxara inhales sharply, but it isn’t a breath of restraint. It is a slow, burning pull of air through her lungs, as if she is trying to keep from roaring, from letting her rage shatter the very foundation beneath us.

Morrin steps closer, his talons clicking sharply against the stone. "The borders were overrun. The king’s men came in, stronger, faster, trained for slaughter. We thought they were only testing our defenses but they came with fire. They came in numbers." His voice lowers, bitter, full of accusation. "And our warriors were not prepared."

I don’t have to hear the rest. I already know what he’s going to say.

"They didn’t stand a chance."

Nyxara doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

But the air around her shifts, thickening with the scent of burning embers, with the telltale warning of a storm about to ignite. Her magic is curling at the edges of the room, pressing against the walls, slithering into the cracks of the floor. Heat licks at my skin, a silent scream of fury restrained behind clenched teeth.

Morrin's gaze sharpens, his voice lowering into something venomous. "You let her distract you," he hisses. "You let her pull you away from your duty, and now your people have paid the price."

I expect Nyxara to lash out. To bare her fangs. To remind him exactly who he is speaking to.

But she doesn’t.

Instead she turns. Slowly. Her glowing green eyes land on me.

It is not just rage. Not just fury.