Kylar had dressed and looked over to Darius. He was packing his bag up.

  "I'm going to see Damon. Will you be here?"

  Darius buckled the last strap on the bag and thought about it.

  "I'll go check on the Prin-… Kairi before I head here to sleep. They have guards patrolling throughout, so we can probably sleep soundly here."

  Kylar nodded. "She tell you not to call her Princess?"

  Darius only nodded.

  Kylar smirked and headed to leave the room.

  Darius watched him and then spoke, before he could open the door.

  "With everything I know now…"

  Kylar stopped and waited for him to continue. He didn't turn around yet.

  "I know you wanted me to be her guard. I'm sure you weren't thinking Ash Guard when you told me that years ago. But you already had me in mind for her… even then."

  Kylar finally looked over his shoulder, thoughtful, like he was choosing whether to admit it.

  "That was what...three years ago," Kylar said, and his fingers brushed his left shoulder like the memory lived under skin. "After one of my many failures."

  Darius’s eyes flicked there automatically. "You saved those soldiers, that isn't a failure."

  Kylar’s mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Anyway, I was probably falling for her then. Or my mind was already making plans around her then. I didn’t realize all the planning I started back then would turn into what it is now."

  Darius stared at him for a beat longer than normal. It landed cleanly.

  "You’ve been building a guard detail around her like she was already yours," Darius said quietly.

  Kylar didn’t deny it. He didn’t confirm it either. He just stood there, shoulders lowered a fraction as if the truth cost him.

  Darius swallowed once. "When did you know you had feelings for her?"

  Kylar chuckled, but it didn’t have much humor in it. "Feelings? I had lots of feelings about her from the beginning. Irritation. Joy. Annoyance. Happiness. Sadness. Confusion."

  He paused, then added, quieter, like it slipped out before he could catch it.

  "And then… the kind that makes you reckless."

  Darius watched his throat work. Over the years, he had always gotten to see this side of Kylar.

  Kylar kept going anyway. "She has talked me down when I spiral. She knows how I get stuck in my own head and start chewing my own thoughts into bones. I think that was the first time I really felt something more than just friendship. She was taking care of me and not doing it with an ulterior motive in mind."

  "We had been sharing that place for a little over a year, maybe close to two years at the time. She didn't know I was a Prince. And frankly, she didn't care. When I asked her why she would take the time to help me when she didn't even know who I was. She simply told me that I was me… and that was all she needed. Just me. Just the boy inside the man."

  Darius sat down on the edge of his bed and smiled, the expression going soft without permission. "Basically… everything you ever wanted. To be seen as just a normal person. She gave you that. And you gave her that too."

  Kylar touched his shoulder again and rolled it slightly, he was realizing she had healed the old injury with the new. Kylar’s gaze dropped for a second. His voice came out low. "It makes it hard to breathe sometimes."

  And that was the moment Darius chose to save them both from drowning in it. He cleared his throat, forcing his tone casual.

  "Are you going to bring her food?"

  Kylar blinked, caught off guard enough it actually showed. "I...can."

  Darius nodded like it was obvious. Like Kylar was being stupid on purpose. "You should. Or I can."

  Kylar’s mouth twitched. "I can bring her food… I need to eat anyway too."

  He paused in the silence and narrowed his eyes. "This is you making sure I eat?"

  Darius shrugged, unapologetic. "I will use what I can to make sure you stay healthy. So yes. I will use her against you."

  Kylar glared at him, but it was thin. "Cruel."

  Darius’s smile flashed quick. "Effective. I could probably just tell her you haven't ate and she will feed you herself."

  Kylar shook his head like he hated him, then hesitated like he meant the next part.

  "I’ll swing by her room after Damon," Kylar said. "I'll be sure to have food. For both of us." He stretched and popped his neck. "I'll grab you something for the trouble...Thanks Dare"

  Darius nodded. "Anytime, Ky."

  Kylar gave a small two finger salute and left, and the door clicked shut behind him.

  Darius sat there for a heartbeat longer, then stood and grabbed his uniform jacket and slipped it on before he left to check on Kairi.

  Kylar walked down the hall toward Fenway.

  “Fen,” he greeted.

  Fenway nodded once. “Dato.” He used the proper name with the fort guards in earshot.

  Kylar glanced at the door Fenway guarded. “May I speak with my brother?”

  Fenway’s eyes flicked down the hall, quick and measuring, then returned to Kylar.

  “If he isn't up for talking, leave when he asks." He spoke low so it wouldn't carry.

  Kylar nodded. “I understand.”

  Fenway stepped aside and opened the door.

  Kylar moved in and closed it behind him.

  The room was dim, lanternlight kept low. Damon was at the table with bread in front of him like he’d started eating and forgotten why. He set it down slowly and stood.

  “Dato… are you…” He cleared his throat when his voice came out rough. “Are you okay?”

  Kylar took a couple steps closer, taking in how unmade Damon looked. The usual polish was gone. The usual grin was missing. His clothing was rumpled.

  “I’m good,” Kylar said gently. “Are you?”

  He didn’t get another word out.

  Damon crossed the space and hugged him, hard, tight, like he needed proof Kylar was solid.

  Kylar wrapped his arms around him without hesitation. “I’m alive, Damon.”

  Damon made a rough sound that was half breath, half grief, and held on anyway.

  Kylar let him. Charming, handsome, charismatic Damon, clinging like a brother instead of a performance. “I’m sorry we scared you,” Kylar whispered.

  Damon pulled back just enough to scrub at his face, blink hard, and drag in air like he hated needing it.

  “Apologies accepted.” He swallowed. “The rest? Are they okay? Is she okay?”

  He didn’t wait for the answer before the next thing spilled out.

  “Father is going to have words with you, you know that. You gave her your ring.” He pointed at Kylar like accusing him might keep him from shaking. “And then I had to sit with her brother who looked so… so broken.”

  Damon stared at the wall for a second like he could still see it.

  “I am not meant to comfort terrifying men,” he continued, voice pitching up just a touch, “especially terrifying men who can move whole convoys over a broken bridge. A very high, dangerous bridge.”

  He took another breath and focused on Kylar again, eyes sharp despite the red around them.

  Kylar’s mouth curved. “Missed you too. She is good as well.”

  Damon blinked, then a grin flashed, something almost normal. “Don’t get smug.” He dragged a hand through his hair, trying to reassemble himself.

  “Father is going to have you tied to an altar within twenty-four hours after your Name Day,” Damon said flatly. “You know that, right?”

  Kylar flinched. “I can go willingly. No one needs to tie me to the altar.”

  Damon stared, then his grin came back, slower this time. “willingly” he said, like the word explained everything.

  Kylar exhaled through his nose. “Yes.”

  Damon leaned a hip against the table. “I told her I wasn’t going to pursue her anymore.” His gaze slid sideways, the smallest crack of discomfort. “Did she say anything?”

  Kylar didn’t answer immediately, and Damon took that as permission to keep filling the air.

  “I told her about those biscuits you like. The dark chocolate ones.” He lifted a finger, counting off. “And Darius was helping too. Did he ever tell her the Naberian court expectations? We were getting to that before…”

  Damon’s voice dipped at the end, quieter. “Before everything.”

  He looked back at Kylar. “So. Did she accept it. Verbally? Are you betrothed officially?”

  Kylar just stared at him for a beat. “Let’s take this one step at a time, Damon. You gave up?"

  Damon looked away, then back, jaw working. “I stepped back.” His voice went almost too casual. “I saw how you looked at her.”

  He let a beat of silence exist before continuing. “And how you looked at me,” he muttered.

  Kylar held his gaze, steady.

  Damon exhaled and gestured toward the table. They sat.

  “Besides,” Damon said, quieter now, “if I was in your shoes when that bridge went… I’m pretty sure her and I would be dead right now.”

  Kylar shook his head. “Doubtful.”

  Damon raised an eyebrow.

  “They would have kidnapped you with her,” Kylar said. “They weren’t trying to kill us.”

  Silence settled, heavier this time. Not awkward. Processing.

  Kylar watched Damon fidget with the edge of the bread until he seemed to force his hands to stop.

  When Damon spoke again, he sounded more like himself. Collected, but not pretending.

  “When we are back home,” Damon said, “she will be placed in the side palace.”

  Kylar nodded once. “I know.”

  Damon leaned forward slightly. “First I have to ask.”

  Kylar’s eyes lifted.

  Damon tilted his head in that very Damon way, like he was making a joke but refused to look away while he did it.

  “Did you ask her because you wanted to?” he said. “Or because you felt you had to?”

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  Kylar’s gaze dropped to his hands.

  “Both,” he admitted. “I want this.” His thumb rubbed faintly at his palm like he could scrub nerves off skin. “And I felt I had to ask sooner. Before we got home. Before Father, or nobles, or priests tell her she has to pick someone.”

  Damon’s grin didn’t come back. Not fully. He studied Kylar for a long moment, then asked carefully, “And do you think they’re going to let her pick you quietly?”

  Kylar lifted his head, suddenly serious. “Tearia has their own rules,” he said. “Ladies’ choice. Rush will insist it.”

  Damon nodded once. “If Father agrees.”

  He tapped the table a couple times, eyes drifting like he was already mapping the palace in his mind.

  “There are tunnels from the servants’ hall that go to the side palace.”

  Kylar stared at him.

  Damon continued, utterly calm, like he was discussing the weather. “It’s easy to sneak in and out. The side palace has grates that make it easier to slip out into the city.”

  Kylar’s cheeks warmed as realization hit. Damon was… helping. Helping help.

  Damon’s mouth curved into a smug little grin as he looked away. “Much easier and less noticeable than climbing rooftops.”

  Kylar’s flush deepened, because of course Damon would say the exact thing Kylar had been trying not to think about.

  Damon’s gaze slid back to him, delighted. “Which I’m sure you were thinking about. Just going across the roof from your windows to hers. And it isn’t that far, actually.” He lifted his brows. “Maybe the rooftop would work. Pending which side her rooms are.”

  Kylar was a brighter red now, equal parts horror and betrayal that Damon had somehow guessed the shape of his thoughts.

  “Damon…” Kylar warned.

  Damon shrugged, unrepentant. “Brilliant choice on the room assignment by the barracks, by the way.”

  Kylar’s groan came from somewhere deep and exhausted. “Damon.”

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Damon said, leaning back in his chair like he’d won. “I can get you tinctures. And one of the healers is very good at being quiet about placing runes, if you want to have some fun. But, I'm telling you this because If the court starts tightening doors around her, you’ll need options."

  “Damon,” Kylar cut in, annoyed, but yet thankful. “Thank you, but stop.”

  Damon’s grin only widened. “What? I’m being helpful.” Damon wasn’t done.

  “You can’t tell me,” he said, leaning forward like he was about to argue a case before the gods, “that you can look at her and not fantasize. Look at her. Have you used your eyes?”

  Kylar’s jaw tightened. “Yes, Damon. I have eyes.”

  “Mm.” Damon’s grin turned wickedly pleased. He gestured with his chin toward his own travel bag in the corner. “And did you read those Tearian books I told you about? The ones with the… educational illustrations?”

  Kylar’s ears went hot.

  Damon’s eyebrows jumped. “Oh. So you did.”

  Kylar’s voice went flat with effort. “I’m not blind. I am well aware of Kairi.”

  Damon sat back, satisfied, like he’d just coaxed a confession out of a man who’d rather swallow nails. “That entire culture is too open compared to ours. They talk about courtship like it’s a banquet and everyone gets a plate.”

  Kylar glared at him. Damon only kept going, because Damon had never met a boundary he didn’t want to poke until it squealed.

  “You would wrap her in a cloak if she wore one of those Tearian summer dresses,” Damon said, almost fond. “You’d be circling her like a stormcloud with a sword.”

  Kylar flushed. “She isn’t allowed to wear those.”

  Damon lifted a brow. “In public,” he corrected, smooth as silk. His smile turned sharper. “But I can already see you in private. ‘Kairi, please. For the love of all sacred oaths, put it back on. I need to… assess the threat.’”

  “Damon.”

  “I’m not wrong.”

  Kylar’s hands flexed on the table. “You’re enjoying this.”

  Damon pressed a hand to his heart. “I am recovering from trauma,” he declared, solemn as a priest. “This is my therapy.”

  Kylar’s stare didn’t soften.

  Damon’s mouth twitched. For half a second the performance slipped, just enough for the truth to show. His eyes went distant, like he could still hear the bridge cracking, still smell smoke and panic.

  “I had to sit with her brother,” Damon said quieter, the words falling out without decoration. “And I could not fix it. I could only sit there and watch him try to hold himself together.”

  He blinked once, hard, and the ridiculousness snapped back into place like armor.

  “So yes,” Damon continued brightly, too brightly, “I will now be obnoxious until the gods personally beg me to stop.”

  Kylar’s expression changed. Not softer exactly, but attentive. He knew that tone. Damon’s smile was wide, but his hands were still.

  “You’re enjoying this,” Kylar repeated, calmer now, like he was letting Damon have the shield.

  “I’m surviving it,” Damon corrected, and then he lifted a finger like he was announcing a new law. “Also, as your older brother, I am required by ancient Lyon tradition to be unbearable at the worst possible time.”

  “There is no such tradition.”

  “Oh there is,” Damon insisted. “It’s carved into the bedframe in Father’s third guest room. Go check.”

  Kylar huffed a breath that could have been a laugh if he’d allowed himself.

  Damon pointed at him triumphantly. “There. That sound. That’s proof you’re alive.”

  Kylar’s glare returned on principle. “Stop talking about her like she’s a topic.”

  “Like she’s beautiful?” Damon interrupted lightly. “She is.”

  Kylar leaned forward so fast the chair barely scraped. In one swift motion, he reached across the table and caught Damon by the collar, not yanking him up, just pinning him in place with controlled force that promised consequences if Damon stepped wrong. The word ‘beautiful’ wasn’t the problem. The way Damon said it like she belonged to the room was.

  Damon didn’t flinch. He blinked at Kylar, and the teasing in his face softened into something measured.

  “She is my betrothed,” Kylar said, voice low.

  Damon’s gaze held steady. “Not until Father approves it,” he reminded quietly. “And not until Rush does.”

  Kylar’s grip tightened by a fraction, anger and protectiveness twisting together.

  Damon reached up and calmly pried Kylar’s hand away, not fighting him, just removing it like you take a blade from someone who’s too wound up to notice he’s cutting himself.

  “I can admire beauty,” Damon said, gentler now, but still Damon. “I can look. No touching.”

  Kylar stared at him, breathing a little harder than he wanted to admit.

  Damon gave him a small, knowing smile. “Besides,” he added, voice turning sly again, “if you’re going to threaten someone for thinking about her, you’re going to have to start with yourself.”

  Kylar’s glare sharpened.

  Damon lifted both hands, palms out in surrender, but his eyes stayed bright with mischief. “All right. All right. I’ll behave. I’ll be a dignified nobleman. A pillar of restraint.”

  Kylar’s look said: liar.

  Damon leaned forward again, elbows on the table, and his tone shifted. No sparkle. No jokes. Kylar felt it immediately, the way you feel a door closing.

  “But I will say this, little brother.” Damon’s voice went intent. “If you’re going to be the man beside her, be the kind of man who doesn’t make her feel like her body is a problem to solve.”

  Kylar blinked.

  Damon watched him carefully. “Tearia worships their vessel,” he said. “Naberia hides its women behind etiquette until they forget they’re allowed to breathe.”

  Kylar swallowed.

  Damon’s smile returned, smaller, real. “Don’t turn her boldness into a cage. Let her be what she is.”

  Kylar sat back slowly, like the fight had been pulled out of him by a sentence he couldn’t argue with.

  “I would never,” he said, quieter.

  Damon nodded once. “Good.” Then, because he couldn’t help himself, the ridiculous returned full force. “Now, speaking of not making anything a cage, did the illustrations make you faint, or did you stare at them like a soldier studying battle strategy?”

  Kylar’s groan was pure suffering.

  “Damon.”

  Damon beamed. “Sacred. Duty.” his grin sharpened, the way it always did when he smelled weakness.

  “So,” he said lightly, too lightly, “how intimate have you been with her.”

  Kylar’s eyes went flat.

  Damon waited with actual patience for once.

  Kylar didn’t rise to it. He didn’t blush. He didn’t sputter. He simply gave Damon the stare of a man who’d survived battlefields and did not intend to be taken down by his brother’s mouth.

  “That’s not a conversation we’re having,” Kylar said.

  Damon’s brows lifted. “Not even with me?”

  “Especially not with you.”

  Damon pressed a hand to his chest like he’d been stabbed. “Cruel.”

  Kylar exhaled through his nose, then added, quieter, like he was reminding himself as much as Damon, “Things need to be proper.”

  That word sat between them like a locked door.

  Proper.

  Damon watched him, the humor still there but softer now. “Proper by whose rules.”

  Kylar’s gaze dropped to the table for a moment. "By whatever father says is law."

  In his head, time rearranged itself in cruel little pieces. The bridge. The road. The fort. Kairi’s tired eyes when she finally sat down. The way she’d tried to feed everyone else before herself.

  How long it had been since she’d eaten something that didn’t taste like fear.

  Kylar’s jaw tightened.

  “I need to go,” he said abruptly, pushing back from the table. “I’m getting food. For her. And for me.”

  Damon blinked, then smiled like he’d just won a quieter kind of argument. “Good.”

  Kylar paused at the door, glancing back once. “Where’s the kitchen.”

  Damon perked up instantly, as if this was the most exciting topic in the world. He pointed with the authority of a man who had never once questioned his right to steal snacks from a royal pantry.

  “Down the hall, second stairwell, left past the laundry. Follow the smell of bread and overworked staff.”

  Kylar nodded once, committing it to memory.

  “And,” Damon added, casually, “ask the cook for cake.”

  Kylar stopped mid-step. Turned his head slowly. His expression made it very clear he was deciding whether Damon had suffered brain damage on the road.

  “Why.”

  Damon shrugged, like the answer was obvious. “Cake. Maybe a candle.”

  Kylar stared.

  Damon’s grin widened, bright and wicked and oddly fond. “Try to be romantic, little brother. She’s been running for her life for days. Let her have one moment that feels like you chose her, not just protected her.”

  Kylar didn’t answer right away.

  But the way his shoulders eased, just slightly, betrayed him.

  He turned back toward the hall.

  Damon called after him, voice sing-song. “If you bring her stew and cake, she’ll think you’re noble.”

  Kylar’s voice drifted back, dry as stone. “I am noble.”

  Damon laughed. “Yes. That’s the problem.”

  Kylar found the kitchens by scent alone.

  Bread. Onion. Rendered fat. The sharp bite of vinegar in a pot someone was pretending wasn’t burning. It was the first place in the fort that felt alive in a normal way, noisy with work instead of fear.

  And it stopped being normal the moment he stepped through the doorway.

  Heads turned. Not all at once, but in that ripple a room makes when it recognizes power. Ladles paused mid-stir. A knife hesitated over carrots. A boy carrying a tray nearly dropped it and caught it with a strangled little gasp.

  Someone whispered, “Prince.”

  Kylar kept his face neutral and his shoulders square, like he could wear anonymity by force of will. He approached the counter where a stocky cook was plating stew with the grim focus of a soldier loading ammunition.

  The cook looked up, eyes widening, and immediately wiped her hands on her apron like that would make her more presentable to royalty.

  “Your Highness,” she said, voice tightening. “We didn’t know you’d be… coming yourself.”

  Kylar nodded once. “Food,” he said. No flourish. No arrogance. Just a man who needed something practical. “For two, please.”

  That was all it took.

  Two.

  Not “for my men.” Not “for the escort.” Not “extra portions.”

  For two.

  The kitchen inhaled as one organism. You could almost feel the rumor hatch, stretch its wings, and begin flapping wildly around the room.

  Two. Prince and...the girl?

  The cook’s eyes flicked past him, as if expecting to see the second person appear behind his shoulder.

  “Of course,” she said too quickly. “Stew is ready. Bread too. We have… apples.”

  Kylar’s gaze stayed forward. He didn’t react. He didn’t dignify it.

  Behind him, the whispers grew teeth.

  “Is it that hooded girl?”

  “They said he came in with someone hidden.”

  “Consort?”

  “Prince wouldn’t be fetching food for a consort.”

  “Unless…”

  Kylar’s jaw tightened. He kept his hands relaxed at his sides like he wasn’t imagining a hundred ways to quiet a room. The whispers is what he always hated. Maybe he should have asked Darius to grab the food instead.

  Then a familiar voice slid through the noise, calm and sharpened with authority.

  “Prince Dato is escorting a noble lady he is courting,” Jayce said, clear enough to carry. “Please get the man his food for two, and maybe something sweet for the lady.”

  The effect was immediate. The rumor shifted, startled, forced into a different shape. Not softer, exactly, but less dangerous. “Courting” had rules. “Consort” had knives.

  The cook snapped into motion like she’d been given a direct order from a battlefield commander. “Yes, Captain,” she said, already reaching for another bowl. “Yes. Of course.”

  Kylar turned slowly.

  Jayce stood in the doorway like he owned it, travel-worn and composed, that steady Shadowguard calm that always made a room behave. He looked healthier than he had any right to, considering everything they’d survived, but there was something careful in his eyes like he’d learned to measure his own breathing.

  Jayce stepped closer, lowering his voice as he came to Kylar’s side.

  “Glad you guys made it in,” he said, softer now.

  Kylar’s throat worked once. He nodded, the relief sharp and immediate in a way that almost hurt. “It’s really good to see you too, Jayce.”

  He glanced toward the suddenly frantic kitchen, where someone was already cutting a slice of something dense and sweet.

  “But was that needed?” Kylar asked quietly, gesturing with a small tilt of his head toward the room.

  Jayce shrugged, entirely unbothered. “I already heard rumors you had a secret consort with you.”

  Kylar’s eyes narrowed.

  Jayce continued, voice still low, like he was discussing logistics and not the kind of gossip that could get people killed. “I’d rather they hear the truth than start calling her a consort.”

  Kylar’s mouth tightened. “She wouldn’t—”

  Jayce cut in gently, but firmly. “She might hurt someone.”

  Kylar stared at him.

  Jayce didn’t flinch. He just held Kylar’s gaze with the same quiet certainty he used when he stood between princes and arrows.

  "She must have been upset with you at some point. She has a temper. She doesn't take well to rumors. Remember that"

  Kylar considered this and nodded. "She doesn't" he admitted.

  “For the record,” Jayce added, a faint edge of humor showing at the corner of his mouth, “I’m not interested in watching you strangle a cook over stew.”

  Kylar exhaled through his nose, reluctant amusement slipping through despite himself. “Tempting.”

  Jayce’s eyes flicked toward the counter. “Besides. Courting sounds nicer than consort.”

  Kylar’s gaze followed the movement without wanting to.

  Two bowls of stew was placed carefully onto a tray. Bread wrapped in cloth. Two apples. Then, after a moment of consideration that looked suspiciously like fear, the cook added a small plate with a thick slice of honey cake.

  Jayce nodded at it as if this was precisely what he’d ordered.

  Kylar picked up the tray with both hands and kept his face blank as the room watched him like he was a story being written in real time.

  Jayce leaned in one last time, voice so low it barely disturbed the steam.

  “You doing okay?” he asked.

  Kylar didn’t answer with words at first.

  He adjusted his grip on the tray, steadied it like it mattered, then finally said, “We’re alive.”

  Jayce’s expression softened, just a fraction. “Good.”

  Kylar started toward the door.

  Behind them, the kitchen returned to motion, but the whispers had changed flavor. Less filthy. More curious. More… expectant.

  Kylar hated it. But as he stepped into the hall with the warmth of food in his hands.

  Jayce walked with him back toward the corridor, boots quiet on stone.

  “Tessa plans on being at your side the rest of this trip as soon as she finds you,” Jayce said. “Rush went to see Kairi immediately. Darius said you went to talk to Damon, then to get food.”

  Kylar listened, the corner of his mouth twitching like the news should have annoyed him but didn’t quite manage it. “Of course she will,” he muttered. “My freedom is limited.”

  Jayce’s lips quirked.

  Kylar shifted the tray in his hands, careful not to slosh stew. “Have you talked to Darius and Kairi?”

  Jayce cocked his head. “Darius gave me a brief report of what happened. Kairi is being monopolized by her brother.” He paused, like he was deciding how much chaos to deliver in one breath. “Oh, and congratulations are in order.”

  Kylar glanced at him. “For what.”

  Jayce didn’t soften it. “You’re sharing a room with her.”

  Kylar stopped so abruptly Jayce took two more steps before he realized. Kylar held the tray perfectly level, all discipline and disbelief.

  “What.”

  Jayce turned back, grin widening. “Darius, Tessa, Kairi, and you. One room. Rush’s orders. And he outranks me.”

  Kylar stared like Jayce had just told him the fort had sprouted wings.

  Jayce added, almost casually, “And frankly, your father may agree with the decision.”

  Kylar’s voice came out careful, clipped. “I feel like I’m missing an important piece of information for this sudden change.”

  Jayce’s grin faded into something quieter. He started walking again, forcing Kylar to move with him unless he wanted to stand in the hall forever holding stew like a statue.

  “I’ll… let him tell you,” Jayce said, lower now. “Privately.”

  Kylar followed, jaw tight, mind already racing through possibilities like a soldier counting exits.

  He looked down at the tray, at the honey cake Jayce had practically ordered on Kairi’s behalf, and felt the world do that strange tilt it did whenever danger and blessing came wrapped in the same cloth. Rush would never put them in the same room without reason.

  “Jayce,” Kylar said, voice very controlled, “if this is some kind of joke…”

  Jayce didn’t look back, but Kylar heard the seriousness in his answer.

  “It’s not.”