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SIX

CASSIAN

M orning in Drakar territory didn’t so much dawn as erupt.

Molten light seeped through the ash-dark sky, staining the obsidian halls of the Citadel in red and gold. Steam hissed from the cracks in the stone like the mountain itself was breathing. Cassian moved through it all like a shadow in leathers—silent, watchful, sharp-edged.

He hated mornings.

Too quiet, open, and full of the kind of calm that meant something was waiting to punch you in the damn gut.

He hadn’t slept. Didn’t usually, but last night had been worse than usual. Not because of the guards stationed outside his door, or the faint buzz of Drakar wards humming like a headache in his skull.

It was her.

Seraphine.

The way she looked at him like she was trying to read every scar he didn’t talk about. The way she moved—controlled, dangerous, like someone who’d learned how to survive in a palace of knives.

Worse— the way she didn’t look afraid of him.

Cassian pulled his coat tighter as he turned a corner leading toward the war wing. The team was supposed to be assembled by the time he got there.

“Team.” That word was a stretch. He hadn’t worked with anyone he didn’t trust to stab first and explain later in a long damn time. Trusting some fancy heir’s handpicked soldiers didn’t sit right with him. Too tight. Too clean.

He rounded another corner and nearly walked into a wall of muscle and old rage.

The man didn’t wear armor so much as become it. Dragonbone plating spiked along one shoulder, battle-scarred skin dark with ritual ink beneath a sleeveless vest. His eyes were pale gray, but they didn’t look cold.

They looked tired.

“Took you long enough,” The man rumbled.

Cassian didn’t step back. “Didn’t realize we had a lunch date.”

He didn’t smile. “We don’t. Just thought I’d meet the halfblood the Court can’t shut up about before you got someone killed.”

Cassian tilted his head. “Fair warning. I don’t play well with men who think they piss lava.”

Torren moved in closer—close enough that Cassian could smell the faint tang of ash and steel sweat. “You’re not here to play. You’re here because the king thinks you might be useful. More importantly, she thinks you might be useful.”

She.

Of course he meant Seraphine.

Cassian’s jaw twitched. “If she didn’t think I could handle myself, I wouldn’t be breathing.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Torren said. “Seraphine doesn’t always choose the safest fire. She chooses the one that burns hot enough to finish the job.”

“Good. I like a little heat.”

Torren’s eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t a compliment.”

The silence stretched. Then, voice low: “Don’t get close to her.”

Cassian’s smile dropped.

“That a threat?”

“No,” the man said. “It’s a fucking prophecy.” He turned and stalked off down the hall without another word.

Cassian stood there a beat longer, heart ticking a little faster than he liked.

Don’t get close to her.

Too late for that.

He’d already started watching how her mouth moved when she gave orders. How she flexed her fingers before touching flame. How her eyes went distant when she was in thought.

Cassian swore under his breath and followed the path down to the war courtyard.

The “team” was waiting.

Three stood in a loose cluster near a supply wagon stacked with rations, packs, and weapons. They turned when he approached, all giving him some version of a once-over.

The first was a tall woman with short-cropped hair and scaled gauntlets. Drakar forge-born, if he had to guess. Her fire simmered low and steady, like coals that had been burning for days.

“Commander Lira,” she said with a nod. “Shieldmaster.”

Cassian returned it.

The second was a lean panther shifter dressed in deep gray, his movements too fluid, too smooth. Umbraclaw, clearly. Eyes too sharp, mouth too quiet.

“Alek,” the man said. “Veil tracker. I don’t talk much.”

Cassian nodded. “Good. I talk too much.”

The last was barely more than a kid—fiery-haired, maybe seventeen. His robes were scorched at the cuffs, but his eyes held a jittery eagerness Cassian recognized all too well.

“Name’s Brann. I’m, uh... magical support?”

Cassian raised a brow. “Support as in?—”

“I can read Hollow sigils and set fire wards and maybe explode things if I sneeze wrong.”

“Good to know.”

Seraphine’s voice cut through the air from behind him. “He’s also expendable.”

Cassian turned, and there she was—dressed in black traveling leathers, glaive strapped to her back, eyes unreadable as ever. Her whitefire armor glinted where it peeked from beneath her coat. And there, right beside her was the older gruff man who Cassisus had met in the hall.

“I see we’ve skipped pleasantries this morning,” Cassian said.

“You’re lucky I didn’t skip your breakfast ration.”

He smirked.

Lira looked between them, expression unreadable.

Alek just murmured, “Gods save us.”

Cassian fell in step beside Seraphine as they moved toward the gate. She nodded towards the man. “And this is Torren Blackfang, Drakar’s Commander of Blades.”

That explained everything. Even more so now that Cassisus could see the way he walked by Seraphine that he was her mentor as well.

He ignored the introduction. “You always this charming at dawn?”

“Only when I’m dealing with walking liabilities.”

“I’m honored.”

She glanced sideways. “Don’t be.”

He noticed her hand flexed once at her side—like she wanted to summon flame but thought better of it. He didn’t comment.

Instead, he kept walking.

When the gates of Drakar opened wide and they stepped into the wild beyond the Veil, Cassian felt the air shift.

Like the world had been holding its breath.

Now, it exhaled.