Sir Levan's voice was low, but every ear strained to catch each word.
"The situation outside is… dire, Your Majesties. The prince—" his eyes flicked briefly toward the queen "—is doing everything he can to keep us alive. He orders us to take cover if the fighting grows too intense, and… thanks to the weapons he gave us—blades unlike any ordinary steel—we can cut down some of the creatures. But…" His gaze dropped for a moment. "…not all of them."
A ripple went through the hall.
"What do you mean some of the creatures?" Serin asked sharply, her voice rising. "Are you saying there are things out there different from that shadow-like horror Aurean killed?"
Rhalia quickly reached over, her hand on Serin's arm, trying to still her.
"Yes, my lady," Sir Levan said gravely. "Different… and worse in some cases."
The room went silent. Even the usual background noises—shifting armor, murmurs—seemed to fade.
Queen Elendra stepped forward, her voice tight. "And what of my son? How is he?"
Sir Levan straightened. "The prince… seeing that some of us were too injured to keep fighting, said we could not risk splitting our strength protecting the wounded while battling the creatures. He ordered me and the others to bring the injured here to safety. He… stayed behind to draw the main force away."
The knight's voice wavered slightly as he added, "The rest of the men are fighting those that did not follow him. That is why I am here, Your Majesty. To deliver them to safety—and to return to the fight."
The table felt colder than ever, the steam rising from the bowls between them already fading into the stale air. No one reached for a spoon. No one even tried.
The groans of the wounded carried through the fort, a relentless, jagged melody that scraped at the nerves. It wasn't loud, but it was constant—an unending reminder of what was still out there… and of who wasn't with them.
Rhalia stared into her bowl as if she could disappear inside it, her hand resting in Kael's without either of them moving. Lareth's arm was still looped protectively around Renna's shoulders, but even she could feel the rigid tension in his frame.
Aurean sat opposite them, Verethian lying across his knees, his fingers absently tracing the runes on its hilt. The faint silver gleam of the blade seemed out of place against the muted shadows of the room, a spark of something dangerous and alive in the midst of stillness. His food sat untouched, the broth now cooling into a thin film.
Thalan tried to say something, but the words died before they left his throat. The only sound was the rasp of boots on the floor as healers moved between the cots, the faint clink of bowls, and those low, pain-laced groans that rose and fell like waves on a black shore.
Every face at the table was pale with exhaustion, yet none could bring themselves to rest.
Because rest felt like giving up.
It was Maleus who finally broke.
He set his spoon down with a sharp clink that made Renna flinch. "We can't keep doing this," he said, voice low but tight, like a rope pulled to breaking. "Sitting here… listening… knowing he's out there alone."
"Maleus—" Rhalia began, but he cut her off with a sharp shake of his head.
"No. I'm not saying we rush into the dark like fools, but every hour we sit in here feels like we're leaving him to die." His hands clenched on the table, knuckles white. "You've heard them out there—the howls, the shrieks—gods know what else. And he's been fighting them for days."
Aurean's eyes flicked up from Verethian, meeting Maleus's for a heartbeat. The omega's voice was calm, but there was a weight to it. "If we go out there without a plan, without knowing what we're up against, we'll only give him more people to protect. That's not help—it's another burden."
Maleus's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. The truth of it hung heavy in the air.
Kael leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "Still… he's just one man."
Aurean looked down at his blade again. "He's not just one man," he said quietly. "He's Rythe."
No one spoke after that. The groans of the wounded filled the silence once more, each one sounding like a clock tick marking the time they had left before something—inside or out—finally broke.