"This ends badly for everyone if you keep going," Hyran said evenly, voice carrying authority without volume. "You are inside a High Council tent. You are threatening the Dragon Prince's bonded. You do not want what follows."
Viremont's mouth twitched.
"Spare me your lecture, mage."
The silver around Serena's wrists and throat cinched tighter.
She stifled a gasp, pain flaring white hot as the metal bit into her skin, stripping the air from her lungs. Her knees buckled, only Viremont's grip keeping her upright.
Viremont leaned closer, his breath brushing Serena's hair. He inhaled slowly in a way that made her skin crawl.
Fin surged again, snarling, but was held back.
"So this is Frostborne," Viremont said softly. "I wonder if King Tiberon would still look at you the same way if you were stripped of all that polish."
"Reginald," Hyran warned. "You are crossing a line that cannot be walked back."
The knife pressed harder. A thin line of blood slid down Serena's neck. Her Hidden Flame mark flared hot. She was fighting the urge to burn him, instincts taking over.
Hale's voice cut into her mind, sharp and controlled.
Hale: Stay calm. Hold position.
She closed her eyes for a second, forcing her nerves back. Forcing herself to calm. To focus. They needed to identify all five traitor packs. Before the invasion tonight. She knew that.
King Tiberon: Status.
Hale: Viremont has a blade to her throat. Accusing her of framing Agnes.
King Tiberon: En route. What additional traitors are confirmed?
Gav:Hollowcrown and Grimward.
Hale: Ashbourne and Dreadmoor had weapons drawn on her two days ago. Status uncertain. Monitoring for escalation.
King Tiberon: Understood. Lock the room down. No sudden movements. Anyone who tightens steel answers for it.
Her vision swam, gold sparks flaring uselessly behind her eyes.
"Portal," Viremont snapped to Hyran. "Now."
There was no need. The tent entrance tore open.
King Tiberon strode in, armored, eyes blazing with fury. Dexmon was right behind him.
"Drop the weapon," Tiberon commanded.
"Get. Me. My. Daughter."
The room went deadly still.
"Give us Serena, and your daughter walks free."
King Ashbourne lunged, putting himself between Dexmon and Viremont, blade at the prince's throat.
Hale:Ashbourne confirmed.
King Tiberon lifted one hand, palm out, a clear signal to everyone in the tent.
"This is a war summit," he said. "We are allies. This does not become a hostage situation."
Viremont laughed.
The sound was thin and wild.
The knife moved.
Not a clean cut. A slash.
A pained grunt escaped her throat, bitten off before it could become a scream. Blood spilled down her neck, gold catching the light as it ran over her skin.
Viremont did not notice. Everyone else did.
Dexmon's breath hitched, and his body went rigid.
"Quiet," Viremont snapped, yanking the silver tighter.
Serena's vision blurred and her lungs burned. The metal seared in her skin, her magic screaming uselessly beneath it.
He shook her again, fingers digging bruises into her arms, voice rising to something unhinged.
"Your mother spread her legs for anyone with a crown. And you're no different," he snarled into her ear.
Nightspire's eyes flared gold. The calm evaporated from his face like it had never existed.
"You dare speak of Seraphine." His voice dropped low and deadly. "You dare say her name with that filthy mouth."
He didn't struggle against the blade that was still at his throat. He stood there, his words coming out measured, precise. Each one a nail in a coffin.
"Consider yourself done, Reginald. All coin. Your soldiers eat grain I subsidize. By dusk, Viremont will be a name people use to describe failure."
Viremont spat on him. The saliva hit Nightspire's cheek and slid down toward his jaw.
Nightspire didn't wipe it away. He just kept smiling.
"Agnes will have justice even if I have to carve it out of this whore myself," Viremont sneered. He spat again on Nightspire.
Fin was shaking with rage. He wore a gold cuff, as did Bloodmoon and Darkhowler, and could hear the mindlinks. But he was at his limit. This crossed the line.
His eyes surged gold, restraint snapping. The sound that came out of him wasn't a roar. It was older than that. Deeper. The kind of sound that wolves made before language existed, when territory was blood and bone.
The men holding him didn't let go. They should have.
He threw the first one into a tent pole hard enough to snap it. The second he grabbed by the throat and held there, feet dangling, without looking at him. His eyes were locked on Viremont.
"You put a blade on her."
He dropped the man.
"You put your mouth near her ear."
He stepped forward. No one replaced the men he'd broken through, because every instinct in the room was saying the same thing: do not get between that and what it wants.
"You made her bleed."
"Take another step closer and she's dead," Viremont threatened, dragging the knife a few centimeters. More blood came out of Serena's neck.
Fin froze, jaw locked, every muscle coiled to kill.
The tent flap burst open.
Agnes was dragged inside, wrists bound in cloth, eyes wide and wild. She stumbled, nearly falling to her knees.
"There she is," Viremont declared, breath ragged now. "The innocent your little harlot tried to kill."
He shook Serena violently, punctuating every word again.
"You thought you could fuck with her," he screamed, face buried in her hair, veins straining along his neck. "Frame my daughter and walk away?"
"This is what you get," he snarled, spittle flying. "You little—"
He raised the knife. High.
Too high.
Viremont brought his blade down, driving for her stomach, while he pulled the silver chain around her neck tight. Meant to snap her neck.
Dexmon roared.
Serena's cuff vibrated and light exploded around her.
She vanished.
Viremont's blade cut empty air and silver chains clattered uselessly to the floor.
He stumbled forward, off-balance, slashing at nothing, screaming in fury.
The tent erupted.