[Draven’s POV]

The war council fills the chamber for the last time before the fleet arrives.

Every seat is taken. Sera and Theron at the flanks, Riven standing at the map, and Torren and the senior warriors lining the walls. Evelyn beside me, silver hair braided back from her face in the warrior’s plait Seren taught her.

“Here’s what we know,” I say. “The southern fleet is a feint. Forty ships bearing down on the harbor to pin our defenses and draw every eye west.”

I tap the map at the Shattered Coast.

“The real assault comes here. Two hundred elite warriors in longboats, threading the eastern channel at dawn during the spring tide. They’ll stage behind the outer reef islands and move through when the water clears the rocks.”

“Aldric’s personal guard,” Sera adds. “Veterans, hand-selected, not conscripts.”

Riven takes over. “My flanking force has repositioned to secondary concealment along the eastern ridge. The original positions were compromised by the intelligence leak, so we’ve shifted north — new angles, new terrain, same killing principle.”

He traces the approach with his finger. “When the longboats commit to the beach, we hold. Let them land, form up, and start moving toward the gate. Then we hit their flank from the ridge and funnel them into the corridor.”

“The eastern gate becomes the kill zone,” Theron says.

“Exactly. Fifty yards wide, palisades on both sides, archer platforms at elevation. Anyone who makes it past Riven’s flanking force walks into a corridor of crossfire.”

“And the southern fleet?” Maret asks.

“We hold the harbor defenses with the main garrison. Cliff batteries, harbor chains, catapult positions — everything stays manned. The fleet has to believe we’ve taken the bait.”

I look around the table. “If the south holds and the east holds, we win. If either breaks, we’re fighting on two fronts with half the numbers we need.”

The room absorbs this. Warriors exchanging glances, running calculations, weighing odds. The particular silence of soldiers who’ve heard the plan and are deciding whether it’s enough.

“There’s one more element,” I say.

The room focuses.

“Evelyn and I will fly. Khaira and Aspis — together, providing aerial support over the eastern approach and drawing the fleet’s attention from the southern engagement.”

The ripple moves through the room like wind through tall grass. Heads turn and eyes widen. Torren’s scarred face goes still.

Black and white dragons flying together. Every person in this room grew up on stories of the last convergence — the destruction, the madness, the Alliance shattered.

Now I’m proposing they do it deliberately, in combat, over the heads of people they’re trying to protect.

“The tactical advantage is significant,” Sera says into the silence. “No one alive has faced dual dragon combat. The fleet won’t have doctrine for it. The psychological impact alone could break their formation before the first catapult fires.”

“And if the dragons don’t cooperate?” Theron asks.

“They will,” Evelyn says. “Aspis and Khaira have been sharing territory for months. The bond between riders reinforces coordination through the dragons.”

“You’ve tested this?”

“We’ve drilled formations flying over the eastern water for the past week. Khaira takes high position, and Aspis takes low. The crossfire pattern covers twice the area of a single dragon pass.”

The room digests this. The strategic advantage is immense — but the symbolic weight is heavier. The houses that have warred for generations, their dragons united in the sky.

The map lies spread across the table, marked with positions and approach routes and the careful geometry of a battle plan built from intelligence, terrain, and the desperate hope that we’ve anticipated correctly.

Every mark on the paper represents a decision that will cost lives if it’s wrong.

I roll the map and leave the chamber.

The wall at midnight is cold. The storms have moved closer — the spiral clouds now visible without squinting, their rotation carrying a faint luminescence that has nothing to do with moonlight.

The sea below is dark and restless, waves breaking in patterns that change direction mid-crest.

The fleet will arrive in days. Maybe sooner, if the winds favor Aldric. I close my eyes and reach for Khaira through the bond.

She’s on the high roost, her massive body coiled against the stone, wings folded. Through the connection, I draw on what I’ve always drawn on — the dragon’s ancient calm, the steady pulse of a creature that has lived through storms and wars and the slow erosion of centuries.

Khaira has been my anchor since the day we bonded. When Lyanna died, it was Khaira’s heartbeat that kept mine going.

But tonight the calm isn’t there. Khaira shifts on her roost, talons scraping stone, and through the bond I feel what she feels — a vastness pressing against the edges of the world, patient and immeasurable, watching with an attention that makes the approaching fleet feel like a distraction.

“What comes after the war,” Khaira says, “may be worse than the war itself.”

I open my eyes. The storms spiral on the horizon, and somewhere behind them, something ancient waits for the prophecy to finish what it started.

The fleet is days away, and the Watcher is closer. My dragons and I will fly into both.