Page 85 of Song of the Heart Scale
He let out a breath. “Fine. But I want to be nearby when you do.”
I sighed. “Don’t worry, Damien. It’s Jacob. He won’t do anything to me.”
We were quiet for a while. Pale light from the moon filtered through the windows, illuminating the room with blue shadows. I heard the faint rustle of leaves outside, the occasional hoot of an owl—normal sounds that felt out of place in a world teetering on the brink of chaos.
I turned my head, watching his profile. “You’re really not gonna let Garrick help?”
“No warlock,” he repeated more firmly. “I’m a dragon. I heal quickly. There’s no need to bother him.”
I didn’t push. I couldn’t. Not when I was hiding something from him, too.
He didn’t know what Garrick and I had already planned—the idea that sparked like lightning in the dim corners of The Gilded Serpent. Propaganda. Subversion. A people’s uprising through whispers and songs.
He didn’t know yet.
But he would.
Just not tonight.
For now, I rested my head on his shoulder, comforted by the steady beat of his heart beneath bruised skin. “You’re really going to talk to Lord Mercer?”
“I have to. The Nightwing army was my father’s most elite force. If we can sway them to our side...”
“Then we’ve got a shot.”
He nodded. “It’s a long one, but yeah.”
I tilted my head to look at him. “Do you ever think we’re just two idiots trying to take down an empire with duct tape and hope?”
He smirked. “What’s duct tape?”
“Exactly.”
His laugh rumbled low and soft, and for a moment, the weight of everything faded.
I kissed the underside of his jaw. “Get some rest, Shadow Prince. I’ll keep watch.”
“I thought you were the one who needed protecting.”
“I’m a woman of many talents.”
He hummed. “I’m starting to believe it.”
As his eyes drifted shut, I watched him breathe, my fingers still tightly wrapped around his.
Tomorrow would come soon enough, but tonight, he was here. He was alive. And that was all that mattered.
The carriage wheelscrunched against the gravel drive of the Ryder estate, and for the first time in days, my stomach twisted—not with hunger, but nerves. Maeve sat across from me with her hands primly folded in her lap, though I caught the subtle way her fingers kept adjusting the hem of her cloak. She was nervous, too.
I stepped down first and took a moment to appreciate how the morning sun cast long shadows across the marble steps that led to the heavy double doors. This was the first time I'd returned since I fought with Lord Zacharia—Arya’s father. And judging by the tense silence in the air, I was neither expected nor welcome.
Maeve came to my side and stepped ahead of me to lift the ornate brass knocker, letting it fall against the wood with a loud thud. We waited.
A moment later, the door creaked open, revealing a pair of servants dressed in muted house colors. Their eyes widened when they saw me.
“Y-Young Lady Arya!” one stammered. The other swallowed visibly.
Maeve squared her shoulders. “We request an audience with Young Master Jacob. It's urgent.”
