Page 129 of Crown of Storm and Silence
Nesilhan
I wakein our own bed for the first time in weeks, sunlight filtering through familiar crystal windows instead of the oppressive darkness of demon realms. The moonstone necklace rests cool against my throat—Kaan's mother's necklace—a tangible reminder of last night's revelations and the trust he showed me in his mother's solarium.
The ball feels like a lifetime ago, though it was only hours since we escaped the political theater to find sanctuary in that preserved sanctuary of memory and love. My fingers trace the delicate silver chain, and I can still feel the weight of everything we discussed—Zohan's betrayal, my fears about trusting my own judgment, the strength Kaan sees in me even when I can't see it myself.
Through our bond, I feel him stirring beside me, his consciousness gradually rising toward wakefulness. There's contentment there, and relief—not the desperate satisfaction of conquest, but the quiet peace of having provided comfort when it was needed most.
"Good morning,hatun," he murmurs against my hair, his voice rough with sleep but warm with affection.
"Good morning," I whisper back, turning in his arms to face him properly. In the morning light, with his dark hair mussed and his aristocratic features softened by sleep, he looks younger somehow. Less like the fearsome Shadow Lord and more like the man who held me while I cried last night.
But the peaceful moment is shattered by sharp knocking at our chamber doors, followed immediately by Zohan's voice calling through. I hear frantic panic in his tone.
"Nesilhan! We need to talk. Now."
The urgency in his tone cuts through my contentment like ice water. Through the bond, I feel Kaan stirring beside me, his shadows immediately coiling defensively as consciousness returns.
"What time is it?" I murmur, noting the gray pre-dawn light filtering through the obsidian windows.
"Too early for emergencies," Kaan growls, his arm tightening around my waist with possessive protection. "Unless someone's dying, they can wait until civilized hours."
But Zohan's knocking grows more insistent, accompanied by hunting terror that suggests whatever news he carries won't improve with delay.
"Enter," I call reluctantly, pulling the silk coverlet higher as my brother practically bursts through the doors.
Zohan looks haggard, his golden perfection dimmed by exhaustion and something that might be despair. His usually immaculate appearance is disheveled, suggesting he hasn't slept, there's a tremor in his hands that betrays his desperation
"The Light Court has issued an ultimatum," he says without preamble, his voice tight with strain. "They're demanding your immediate surrender to their custody, claiming the child youcarry poses a threat to both realms that requires their direct oversight."
The words land like stones into still water, ripples of horror spreading outward as implications sink in. Through our bond, I feel Kaan's rage spike, his shadows surging with volcanic fury.
"What exactly did they say?" Kaan asks with deadly calm, though darkness is already beginning to pool around his feet.
"That recent magical disturbances—the poison cure, the border incidents, even the shadow ball—are evidence of destabilizing forces that threaten regional peace." Zohan's perfect features crumple with guilt. "They're using my reports, everything I told them about the pregnancy and your political situation, to justify immediate intervention."
"And if we refuse?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Full military action within the week. They've positioned three legions along the borders, claiming they're 'protecting neutral territories' from whatever threat the prophecy child represents." Zohan's voice breaks completely. "They say they'll level the Shadow Court if necessary to prevent the birth of an abomination that could destroy both realms."
The magnitude of the threat steals my breath. Not just political maneuvering or border skirmishes, but open warfare that could devastate everything we've built.
"How long do we have?" Kaan demands, already moving toward his wardrobe.
"They want an answer by sunset today. And Kaan—" Zohan's voice grows even more strained. "They're not just demanding custody. They want the child delivered to them immediately after birth, to be raised in the Light Court under their 'proper guidance' away from shadow realm corruption."
"Over my dead body," I snarl, my hand moving instinctively to my belly where our miracle grows. "They will not touch my child."
"That might be exactly what they're hoping for," Zohan says miserably. "Father's been planning this for months, maybe years. The marriage manipulation, the reports, all of it designed to create a situation where the Light Court has justification for claiming your child."
All at once, the truth becomes inescapable. Not just political convenience, but a carefully orchestrated plan to produce and control a prophesied child that could reshape the balance between realms.
"I have to leave immediately," Kaan says, his voice tight as he pulls on formal leathers. "Try to reach neutral territory before they can position this as the Shadow Court refusing reasonable diplomatic solutions."
"You can't leave," I protest, fear cutting through my anger. "Not when they're threatening?—"
"If I stay, they paint me as the aggressor." His hands frame my face with gentle intensity. "But if I'm already in neutral territory seeking diplomatic resolution when their ultimatum expires, it becomes harder for them to justify immediate military action."
Through our bond, I feel his internal struggle—every protective instinct screaming against leaving me vulnerable while political necessity demands that he distance himself from the immediate threat.
