The booming blast of the horn should have changed signified something. It should have sent the guards to the walls and the families to the cellars, but as Emery walked back through the manor gates, she found a scene that felt surreal in its normalcy.
The servants were not arming themselves; they were hanging lanterns. The gardeners were not digging trenches; they were trimming the hedges for the Harvest Gala. It was as if Emery was the only one who had heard the sound of the Eldharûn horn.
Inside the dining hall, the air was thick with the scent of roasted duck and sweet wine. Her father, Lord Alaric, sat at the head of the table, laughing as he discussed the vintage of the wine with the Madam.
"Father," Emery said, her voice cutting through the clatter of silverware. "The horn... Did you not hear it? I think it cake from the north."
Alaric didn't even look up from his plate. "A ceremonial signal, Emery. The Empire's scouts are simply marking the change of the season. Do not let your imagination run wild with rumours."
"It wasn't a signal for the season," Emery insisted, her hand going to the dragon-glass beneath her collar. "And it definitely wasn't a rumour. I—"
"Enough with the cock-and-bull story, girl." The Madam hissed. She cast a long, cooling look at Emery. "You have an event to prepare for. Your dress has arrived, and I expect you to be present and composed. The Empire is our ally, and their presence is a sign of stability, not a threat."
Emery looked around the table—at Riven's smug silence, and at her father's easy, unearned confidence. They were living in a house of cards, and they were the ones handing out the matches. She felt like a stranger in her own home, the only one who could smell the smoke on the horizon.
Two nights later, the air was heavy and still, the calm before a devastating break. Emery slipped out of the manor, her movements were ghost-like. She didn't head for the stream this time; she went to the old fallen tree.
The one that had blocked Zekar and his twin on their first day of arriving at Velanthri.
He was already there, sitting on the silver-grey trunk, his bow resting across his knees. He looked older than he had just a week ago. The lines around his eyes were deeper, and the restless energy that usually pulsed from him had settled into a grim weight.
When she sat beside him, the heat from his shoulder immediately began to seep into her. They didn't speak for a long time, watching the moon struggle to peek through the thickening clouds.
"They do not listen," Emery said softly, breaking the silence. "They are planning a party while the sky is turning something else."
Zekar turned his head, his golden eyes reflecting the pale moonlight. "My Baba talk same. The elders talk peace making and the young skalds sharpen their steel. No one believe the fire is coming."
He reached out and took her hand, his thumb tracing the delicate veins in her wrist. Emery felt the every vibration of his pulse.
"I have a word for you," she whispered, leaning her head against his shoulder. "In English. It is very important."
Zekar nodded, his attention sharpening. "Tell me."
"Promise," she said, letting the word linger in the air. "It means... I give you my word. It means I will do what I say, no matter what happens. A promise is a bond that cannot be broken."
Zekar repeated it, his voice deepening as he tasted the syllables. "Prom-ise." He looked at her with an intensity that made her breath hitch. "I make promise, Emery. I promise to keep you."
"And in Drk?" she asked. "Is there a word for something that never ends?"
Zekar's expression softened, a rare, haunting look of tenderness crossing his face. "Vael'kaar," he said. "It mean... Eternal. Like the first fires. Like the mountain that does not move."
"Vael'kaar," Emery whispered, committing the sound to her heart.
They sat on the fallen tree, the same spot where he had once looked at her like a predator watching a bird. Now, they were just two children caught in the gears of a world that didn't care about their names.
Zekar shifted, his gaze dropping to his hands. "Emery," he started, his voice rough. "I am afraid."
The confession shocked her. Zekar was the boy who fought water-warriors without flinching, the one who walked into the dark without a torch.
"Afraid of the soldiers?" she asked.
"No," he said, shaking his head. He looked toward the ridges where his village lay. "I am afraid... I am not strong. The stories say Druvkaur are dragons. They say we have the wing and the tooth. But I only have... this." He opened his palm, a small, flicking flame dancing in his hand. "I am not dragon, Emery. I am just a boy with fire. What if I cannot... kill the hawks? The bad men."
Emery looked at the flame, then up at his dark, tortured face. She saw the "itch" in his shoulders he had told her about, the way he carried the weight of his entire tribe's expectations. She reached out, her fingers gently turning his face toward her.
She didn't kiss his lips. Instead, she leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek, her white lashes fluttering against his dark, sun-scarred skin.
"You are already a dragon in my eyes, Zekar," she breathed against his skin. "You do not need wings to be powerful. You have the fire inside. That is what matters."
Zekar closed his eyes, his breathing shuddering as he leaned into her touch. For a moment, the fear seemed to recede, replaced by a quiet, desperate strength. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his lap and holding her as if he could hide her from the entire world.
"In two days," Zekar murmured into her hair. "The moon will be full. We meet here. We go. I take you to the coast, Emery. We leave the manor and the village behind."
"Two days," Emery agreed, her heart aching at the thought of leaving her home, yet knowing she couldn't stay. "I will bring what I can. I promise, Zekar."
"Promise," he replied.
Zekar watched her until she was nearly out of sight, his hand resting on the hilt of his hunting knife. He didn't know that the Harvest Gala was scheduled for that same night. He didn't know that the ceremonial hawks were already circling lower.
They had made a promise to meet in two days. It was a promise made in two languages, sealed with a kiss and a shard of dragon-glass.
One they dearly hoped to keep.