Cassian turned, and there she was—dressed in black traveling leathers, glaive strapped to her back, eyes unreadable as ever. Her whitefire armor glinted where it peeked from beneath her coat. And there, right beside her was the older gruff man who Cassisus had met in the hall.
“I see we’ve skipped pleasantries this morning,” Cassian said.
“You’re lucky I didn’t skip your breakfast ration.”
He smirked.
Lira looked between them, expression unreadable.
Alek just murmured, “Gods save us.”
Cassian fell in step beside Seraphine as they moved toward the gate. She nodded towards the man. “And this is Torren Blackfang, Drakar’s Commander of Blades.”
That explained everything. Even more so now that Cassisus could see the way he walked by Seraphine that he was her mentor as well.
He ignored the introduction. “You always this charming at dawn?”
“Only when I’m dealing with walking liabilities.”
“I’m honored.”
She glanced sideways. “Don’t be.”
He noticed her hand flexed once at her side—like she wanted to summon flame but thought better of it. He didn’t comment.
Instead, he kept walking.
When the gates of Drakar opened wide and they stepped into the wild beyond the Veil, Cassian felt the air shift.
Like the world had been holding its breath.
Now, it exhaled.
SEVEN
SERAPHINE
The forest outside the Veil’s edge didn’t look like death.
It looked like any other stretch of the wilds—dense trees hung with moss, shafts of pale morning light streaming through the canopy, soil damp with dew. It even smelled normal. Earthy. Alive.
But Seraphine knew better.
She could feel it beneath her boots—like something ancient had opened its eyes beneath the dirt and decided to hold its breath.
Behind her, the squad moved in practiced silence. Alek vanished between shadows like a ghost, Lira walked like a sentinel born, and Brann kept muttering to himself about sigils and spellwork.
Beside her Cassian Veyne moved like he owned the dirt under his feet.
He hadn’t spoken since they left the Citadel gates, save for one offhand comment when Torren had stopped at the boundary wall and turned back without ceremony.
“Your shadow staying behind? Thought he was surgically attached.”
She’d just answered, “He’s not meant to die here,” and kept walking.
Now, though, as they passed beneath the twisted black arch of a shattered old shrine—one of the ancient Veil markers long claimed by rot—he spoke again.
“Still no explanation, huh?”
