The sun began to bleed into the horizon, casting long, violent streaks of crimson and gold across the polished marble floor of the Imperial War Room.
Kaia stood at the head of the massive oak map table, watching the grandfather clock in the corner. It was five minutes to nightfall.
If General Kaelen did not walk through those heavy double doors before the sun disappeared, the Silver Legion would march, the Southern ports would burn, and Arindale would be plunged into a continent-shattering war.
She wasn't afraid. The stiletto strapped to her right thigh felt like a grounding weight, a physical reminder that she was no longer a pawn waiting to be moved.
Aeron stood directly behind her. He didn't pace. He didn't check the clock. He simply rested his bare hands on her waist, his thumbs tracing slow, lazy circles against the dark grey wool of her gown. He was an immovable mountain of heat and absolute, terrifying calm.
