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CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

T rophonios’s workshop was silent, but not empty, as Tristan entered.

A lone figure bent over the Compendium at the far workbench, her tucked white wings glowing in the moonlight.

Tristan had just returned from Typhon Mountain, where Cael had slipped him a crucible full of dragon-fire. He’d known the instant he’d touched the warm graphite that his choice was made.

It took every ounce of his integrity to not portal straight to Tartarus.

But he needed to tell Ione first. In person. He owed her that much after all she’d done for him, for the rebellion.

A floorboard creaked beneath his foot and she turned, her honeyed hair sliding over a shoulder.

Her smile died when she met his gaze.

What expression was he wearing? He’d never been great at hiding his true feelings.

And right now, despite the difficult conversation ahead, effervescent joy and molten desire coursed through him at the thought of reuniting with Cassandra.

“Does Trophonios know you’re playing with his toys?” Tristan asked, an attempt at lightness.

Ione didn’t bite. Merely gestured to the seat across from her.

High Gods, why was this so strained? Why was everything between them so strained? As if the bond they’d shared in youth counted for nothing.

What a cruel trick of immortality—to age a friend slowly enough to mask centuries of change.

“I don’t need the jokes and the small talk, Tristan.” Ione rubbed her temples. “I can tell you’ve made your choice.”

“I have,” he said, taking his seat. Her hand lay on the table between them, but he didn’t reach for it.

“ Born from phantom wings and mortal bones, a new Delphine will rise to light the way. I don’t think those words could have been any fucking clearer.”

Tristan flinched. He hadn’t heard Ione swear once since they’d been reunited.

“Delphine,” he whispered. “Not Empress. You could be one and not the other.”

Silence crackled between them, kinetic and combustible.

“Why do you want me?” he asked.

She jolted, her brows jumping. “I?—”

“No, honestly. Why do you want me , specifically? Is it just because some Goddess says you should?”

She flattened her palms on the table, sneering. “Love is a luxury. One that people like us don’t enjoy unless we’re extremely lucky. We were, once. And we could be again if you’d just give us a chance. I’ve always known you were idealistic, but I never thought you’d be stupid enough to risk your people for some woman .”

Tristan huffed out a bitter laugh, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “Adelphinae’s principles in action.”

Ione’s face went stony. “If you breach those wards and enter Tartarus, I cannot guarantee the Crystal Throne will be waiting for you when and if you’re able to come back.”

He sat up straight, looming above the table. “Are you threatening me?” He spoke in a low, powerful voice. A Prince’s voice. An Emperor’s voice. “It will be waiting for me because I am its true and rightful occupant. You may have built this movement, but you did so using my name. It would be very dangerous for you to forget that.”

To her credit, Ione remained calm. Looked a little impressed, even.

“There’s the leader we need,” she whispered, resignation settling over her features. “So, what’s your plan then?”

He pulled the crucible from his pocket. “I’ll burn a temporary hole in the wards, slip into the prison, and get the dragon’s name from Aedelmar Burkhardt.”

Ione perked up. “If that’s all we need, why can’t someone else go? Send Layla. Or Seraavi. Why does it have to be you ?”

“You know why,” was all Tristan said. End of subject.

He told Ione the rest of what he, Cael, and Trophonios had discussed. That once Tristan learned the name, he’d pass it along to Cael via the cuff.

Trophonios had said the devices were far more powerful than regular commstones. Powerful enough to be used beyond the wards, though the connection might be spotty or difficult to achieve. And would likely only work to send a single communication.

Tristan had asked why the mentrite speck would work beyond the wards if the opal wouldn’t, and Trophonios had answered that it was far easier to transfer sound waves than an entire body of flesh and bone.

Fair point.

“This still seems like a tremendous risk,” Ione said. “If anything goes wrong, if you’re not able to get the name from Aedelmar, or if the cuff fails, you’re stuck in there. Maybe forever.”

Tristan sent her a rueful smile. “Well in that case, I suppose it would be smart to have a plan B, wouldn’t it?”

Tristan signaled through his cuff, and Trophonios entered the workshop.

To bear official witness.

Tristan took Ione’s hand and led her toward the tall, elegant male.

“She doesn’t look too angry.” Trophonios grinned.

“Oh, she was furious a few minutes ago,” Tristan said. “Cursed her head off. Threatened to steal my throne.” Ione laughed as he turned to her. “But I’m hoping she’ll make the same promise I made a few nights ago. To protect our people at all costs. No matter what happens to me in Tartarus.”

Fierce determination shone in Ione’s indigo eyes. “I will. Always.”

Tristan nodded, relieved. He’d made this plan shortly after he’d heard the prophecy. A way to honor Ione’s sacrifices and dedication in a manner that didn’t require him to give her his heart. Which he didn’t have the authority to give away, anyway.

It belonged to Cassandra.

“Ione Saros,” he said, grasping her hands, “until I marry or produce an heir, I officially name you my successor. If I die before either of those events take place…”

He rested his palm upon her forehead, where her opal normally rested when she wore the Delphine’s circlet.

“…then you shall be Empress of Ethyrios.”