Seven bloodlines mixed into a single shimmering pool, swirling together as if stirred by an unseen hand.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the basin detonated gold. The flame tripled in height, burning so bright that every person turned away until it dimmed.

Whispers filled the chamber.

"You return."

The pause that followed was loaded with the particular energy of ancestors who had opinions about the circumstances.

"Seven entered the lake. Seven survived. The ancestors are pleasantly surprised."

The words hit the room sideways. The ancestors had expected casualties. Gav exhaled through his nose. Of course they were going to be like this.

"We have already spoken your names and your fates. We will spare you the introductions."

The fire in the basin flared gold, then settled.

"Though the ancestors would like it noted that Gavriel Sterling was told a crossroads lay ahead. The crossroads has arrived, and he is standing in it bleeding. The ancestors consider this on brand."

Gav stared into the fire. "Appreciate that."

"The ancestors did not ask the Gamma for commentary."

"The Gamma is providing it free of charge."

"The ancestors have noted the Gamma’s sarcasm."

Dex’s mouth twitched. Serena looked at the ceiling. Fin didn’t react, but through the matebond Serena felt a flicker of amusement he’d deny under oath.

"This temple drains. It tests. The Daughter of the Moon Goddess was meant to bleed first. The worthy are not measured by what they bring. They are measured by what they give when there is nothing left to give."

Serena didn’t react to this. But she had already guessed it was doing something to her magic.

"The Moon Blood’s magical reserves will take seven days to fully restore. She must conserve what remains."

Through their matebond, Dex felt the quiet dread that settled into Serena’s chest at those words.

"The creature you fought today was never meant for this temple. Dark magic changed the lake."

The fire dimmed.

"The spikes removed were parasitic anchors that broadcast the location of their host through the shadow plane. The shadow-tether between the Moon Blood and the High Emperor of Orosia has been accelerated by orders of magnitude."

Maelor’s head snapped towards the fire. His eyes burned.

"The cloak placed by Maelor Vantheos held. Barely. But the Emperor heard every scream."

Fin’s hand tightened around hers until his knuckles went white.

"Maelor Vantheos."

The fire twisted towards him, changing into an emerald color.

"The tether is accelerating. If the Moon Blood’s emotional state is heightened, the Emperor will be able to forge a portal to her exact location. Recloak her immediately and every seven days until you sever it. If she dies, you die. Let that be motivation."

Maelor’s eyes widened at the last part, but he stayed silent.

"The ancestors also saw you redecorated Nightspire’s war room without permission again. They approve of the pink."

He lifted his chin as if he knew that already. "The ancestors have taste. I always suspected."

"One last thing, the ancestors would like to note that the two men most likely to compromise Maelor’s cloak are standing in this room looking guilty."

Neither Dex nor Fin was looking guilty. But both of them started looking guilty immediately after the ancestors pointed it out.

"Stop upsetting her. Banning her from speaking to the Gamma is the funniest thing the Ancestors have heard all week."

The silence that followed was deafening and longer than necessary. Dex and Fin both developed a sudden, intense fascination with the basin.

"Hyran Thornfell."

The flame flared gold, urgent and sharp.

"The dark magic extracted tonight left residual threads too fine for even Fae magic to catch. They are harmless while dormant. If any of the three hosts shifts into wolf form before you burn the threads out, the corruption will reactivate and burn the wolf from inside."

Hyran’s face drained of color. His eyes cut to Fin, then to Dex, then landed on Serena, and the calculation behind them was immediate and grim. Three wolves. Three ticking clocks. And the only man who could defuse them was already running on fumes.

"Unbind what is bound before two sunrises pass. Many lives depend on it, including the fate of your wise king."

"What does King Tiberon have to do with the threads?" Hyran asked.

The fire didn’t answer.

"Aeron Lancaster."

The flame pulsed sapphire.

"The mage who stands beside the Alpha King of North Varos has carried Morbia in his blood since before he could speak and in his mind since before he could read. The ancestors have watched him."

Aeron’s jaw tightened. He didn’t know if he was being praised or set up. With these ancestors, the answer was usually both.

"His burn book has been updated fourteen times since the ancestors last spoke. The entry on Gavriel Sterling alone spans three pages. The ancestors have read it. They agree with most of it."

"I knew it," Gav said.

"The Gamma will be quiet."

Gav went quiet.

The fire dimmed. When it returned, the sapphire had deepened to something closer to indigo, and all warmth drained from the chamber.

"The High Emperor of Orosia does not fight his own wars. He sends weapons. His armies are a weapon. His dark magic is a weapon. But the deadliest weapon in his arsenal is not forged or summoned. It is trained."

The fire pulsed once. Hard.

"His court mage is Morbian, a descendant of the Solenne line."

Maelor’s head turned towards Aeron. Hyran’s followed a second later. Both mages arriving at the same conclusion at the same speed, which was fast, and arriving at the same horror, which was faster.

"All three mages in this chamber have argued with Declan Solenne at various academic events. He won most of them. The ancestors will not specify which ones, but Maelor knows."

Maelor’s jaw tightened. He did, in fact, know.

"Aeron went to magic school with him in Morbia before the fall. They scored the same marks on every exam until their third year, when Declan edged ahead by a half point on a ward theory practicum, and Aeron has never fully recovered."

Aeron’s eye twitched.

"The ancestors have access to the transcripts. Declan Solenne graduated first in their class. Aeron Lancaster graduated second. The gap was negligible. Aeron’s feelings about it are not."

"I was robbed," Aeron said flatly, crossing his arms.

"The ancestors reviewed the grading methodology. He was not robbed. Aeron Lancaster and Declan competed in every class, every exam, and every tournament. They were rivals, study partners, and co-authors of a ward theory paper that was rejected from three journals before publication."

Aeron closed his eyes. "That paper was ahead of its time."

"The paper had errors. Declan found them. Aeron has never acknowledged this."

"Because they weren’t errors," Aeron insisted. "They were unconventional notation."

"The ancestors have sided with Declan on this matter."

Aeron’s jaw was locked so tight it could have cracked a walnut. His eyes said, I would like to speak to the management of the afterlife.

"Both Aeron and Declan kept burn books. The ancestors have been reading them for entertainment since Morbia fell. Get in losers. We’re taking a trip back to Morbia Academy."

Gav blinked. "Did the ancestors just..."

"The ancestors said what they said."

Aeron lifted his chin, arms still folded. "My burn book circulated. People added to it. There are annotations from six different classmates in the margins. Declan’s never left his desk drawer. One of these was a cultural moment. The other was a diary."

"Declan on Aeron, year two: ’Showed up to an exam hungover. Thinks his comebacks in debate are so fetch. They aren’t. Always has to one-up everyone. Giant ho bag bitch.’"

Hyran pinched the bridge of his nose. He had presided over many sacred rituals. None of them had ever included the phrase "ho bag bitch."

"Aeron on Declan, year two: ’Claims he doesn’t care about rankings. Checks the board every morning. Also wore the same fucking tunic three days in a row. Sorry babe, you can’t sit with us.’"

Across the basin, Maelor gave Aeron a look that said I see you and I respect the work. Aeron returned it. An alliance had just been formed that no one in this room was prepared for.

"Aeron on Declan, year three: ’His ego? The limit does not exist.’"

"Declan on Aeron, year three: ’Why is Aeron so obsessed with me? He spelled my name wrong on purpose.’"

Gav’s nostrils were flaring in a rhythm that suggested he was breathing in counts to survive this.

"The ancestors confirm: the misspelling was intentional."

"It was a typo," Aeron said.

"It was not," the ancestors replied. "The ancestors have seen the original draft. He spelled it correctly, crossed it out, and misspelled it."

"Aeron on Declan, year four: ’Declan cried during graduation. Actual tears. Said it was ’dust.’ Bitch, please. We all saw you.’"

"Declan on Aeron, year four: ’Corrects everyone’s grammar in public. Still crying about half a point. Boo, you dramatic whore.’"

Fin looked at Aeron. Then at the fire. Then back at Aeron. He didn’t say a word.

"When the Emperor comes for the Dragon Queen Incarnate, and he will come, Declan Solenne will be the one who opens the door. He will unmake every ward, every shield, every magical defense standing between the Emperor and his target. He has already begun studying Maelor’s cloak. He recognized the Fae signature within hours."

Maelor’s nostrils flared. His eyes burned with something that, on anyone else, would have been called fear. On Maelor, it looked like fury wearing a mask.

"The same foundation that makes Declan Solenne dangerous makes Aeron Lancaster the only person alive who can stop him."

Aeron’s expression hardened into focus, fury, and the specific energy of a dramatic whore who had just been given permission to destroy his ex-best friend. Declan Solenne had no idea what was coming.

"Find his weakness, Aeron Lancaster. You trained beside him and know his weaknesses. You wrote it down, underlined it twice, and drew an arrow pointing to it in the margins of your burn book. The ancestors suggest you start there."

Fin’s hand found Aeron’s shoulder. The weight of his grip said everything: You’re not doing this alone. But also that is crazy.

"The ancestors would also like it noted that Aeron’s handwriting gets worse every year. It looks like he’s writing with his non-dominant hand with his eyes closed. Declan’s still looks like he has perfect control of his life. This has nothing to do with the upcoming war."

Aeron exhaled through his nose. The sound was halfway between a laugh and something much worse.

The flame changed to gold.

"Finnick Shadowclaw, Gavriel Sterling, and Dexmon Drakenfell, listen closely."