The war room—that’s what Malik calls it, though it’s really just an unused chamber in the servants’ wing, and it’s honestly adorable—smells like old stone and lamp oil.

Maps of the arena spread across the table. Damon leans over them, marking positions with chalk. Marcus stands by the door, arms crossed, jaw tight. Malik paces near the window, checking sight lines like he’s already planning escape routes.

And I sit in the center of it all, watching my makeshift war council try to save my life.

“The first trial is combat,” Damon says, not looking up from the map. “One-on-one, no weapons, shifted forms only. The arena is circular, fifty yards across, with observation boxes here, here, and here.” He marks them. “The King sits center. The Queen Mother will be to his right.”

“Can you communicate during the fight?” Malik asks. “Through the bond?”

Damon and I exchange glances. We’ve been testing it since he left my chambers last night—pushing thoughts, feelings, simple words through the connection. It’s not perfect, but it works.

“Yes,” I say. “Not full sentences, but impressions. Emotions. Warnings.”

“That’s an advantage she won’t expect.” Malik moves closer to the table. “You can coordinate without anyone knowing.”

“It’s also dangerous.” Marcus finally speaks, his voice rough. “If you hesitate too long, if you don’t make it look real, the Queen Mother will know something’s wrong.”

Damon’s head snaps up, eyes flashing silver. “And whose fault is it that we’re in this position? Oh right. Yours.”

“Damon—” I start.

“No.” He straightens, facing Marcus fully. “You helped hide my sister. You kept her safe for years, fine. But you also kept her weak. Kept her trapped with that bastard Alpha. Kept Theron distracted.” His voice drops dangerously. “You were the Queen Mother’s accomplice, whether you meant to be or not.”

Marcus’s jaw clenches. “I know what I did.”

“Do you?” Damon takes a step forward. “Because my sister spent years being humiliated, rejected, beaten down—and you could have stopped it. Could have told someone what she was. Could have brought her here where she’d be safe.”

“Safe?” Marcus’s voice rises. “She would have been dead within a month! The Queen Mother would have ensured it, just like she ensured Queen Elara’s death. Hiding Kira was the only way to—”

“To keep her weak enough that I could kill her easily.” Damon’s hands curl into fists. “That was the plan, wasn’t it? Keep her suppressed, keep her ignorant, make sure when the time came, I could end her without a real fight.”

“That wasn’t—” Marcus stops. “I didn’t know about the false mate bond until after it formed. I swear. When I realized what the Queen Mother had done—”

“You did nothing.” Damon’s voice is ice. “You kept serving her. Kept playing her game.”

“I was trying to keep Kira alive!”

“By sacrificing her happiness? Her dignity? Her chance at a real life?” Damon moves around the table toward him. “That’s not protection. That’s just a slower kind of murder.”

“Stop.” I stand, putting myself between them. “Both of you. This isn’t helping.”

“He betrayed you—”

“He made mistakes.” I face my brother. “Terrible ones. But he’s here now. Helping us. That has to count for something.”

Damon’s jaw works, but he steps back. The twin bond thrums with his anger, his protective fury. I push calm back through it, and after a moment, he nods stiffly.

Marcus clears his throat. “For what it’s worth—I am sorry. For all of it. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I see now that I was just a coward.” His eyes meet mine. “I owed your mother better. I owe you better.”

The sincerity in his voice rings true. But trust? That will take time we don’t have.

“The plan,” Malik says firmly, redirecting us. “We need to focus.”

We spend the next two hours going over every detail. How Damon and I will fight. How Malik will position himself near the King during the trials. How Marcus will gather the final pieces of evidence.

“If we can get the evidence to the King before the final trial,” Marcus says, “he can stop it. Call off the blood trials entirely.”

“He’s been poisoned for months,” Malik counters. “He might not be strong enough to act.”

“Then we fight anyway,” Damon says finally. “And we survive long enough to expose her ourselves.”

“We should rest,” Malik says. “The trials start at dawn. We need—”

“I need a minute,” I say. “With Malik. Alone.”

Marcus leaves first, then Damon. But my brother pauses at the door, glancing back at me. Something passes between us through the bond—worry, affection, fear.

Be careful, he pushes through.

Always, I push back.

Then it’s just me and Malik in the dim room, maps scattered between us.

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