The dawn came gray and heavy, the kind of light that clung to the earth like a funeral shroud.
Aeren stood at the edge of the war camp, watching as the knights of House Valthera sharpened their blades and murmured their prayers. They were elven, most of them—highbloods with silver hair and eyes like polished gemstones. None of them looked at him. Not directly.
His tattoo pulsed.
"You're late."
Lady Sylria's voice cut through the morning mist. She stood beside him now, her armor gleaming even in the weak light. Up close, she smelled of steel and something bitter—witchroot, the herb elven nobles chewed to stay awake.
"I was cleaning my blades," Aeren said.
"You were brooding." She tilted her head, studying the carnage left in the clearing. "They were Valenstahl's dogs. Butchers. You did the world a favor."
Aeren said nothing.
Sylria exhaled through her nose. "The human king has declared our attack an 'act of savagery.' His envoys demand reparations."
"Let them choke on their demands."
"Oh, they will." Her smile was knife-thin. "But first, they'll send the Blackthorn Company."
Aeren's fingers twitched toward Shade's hilt. The Blackthorn were no mere mercenaries—they were Valenstahl's elite. Hunters of mages. Slayers of monsters. And they hated elves.
"You knew this would happen," he said slowly.
"I did."
"You wanted it."
Sylria's gaze didn't waver. "War was always coming, Aeren. But now, it comes on our terms."