Morning broke like a blade through fog.
Elma stood at the highest window of the Tower, staring toward the city's edge. The ridge lights were out now—burned to ash and memory. Vale House looked calm from above, but calm was a lie. Everyone moved quietly, like people expecting thunder.
Calista entered without knocking. Her expression was drawn, her voice even. "He's coming. Not soldiers—just him and two riders. The scouts saw him cross the ridge."
Elma turned from the window. "Just three?"
Calista nodded. "That's how kings walk when they think the world's already theirs."
The shard stirred at her ribs, alive again after a day of silence. He knows me.
She exhaled through her nose. "Let him in."
By noon, the courtyard filled with watchers. Guards lined the walls, servants clustered at the edges pretending to sweep or carry wood. The gates creaked open.
The Warlord of Glass entered on a pale horse, armor catching the weak sun like frost. His helm was open-faced, eyes sharp, calm, and cold. Every motion said: I am not here to fight; I am here to claim.
Elma stood in the center, flanked by Calista and two guards. Her heartbeat didn't quicken. She'd faced worse monsters behind smiling masks.
The Warlord dismounted with the quiet grace of someone who'd killed in silence before. He looked around, taking in the cracked stone and faint repairs, then met her eyes.
"So you're the Vessel," he said, voice smooth as poured glass. "I expected more."
Elma's jaw set. "And yet here you are."
He smiled faintly. "Curiosity has always been my weakness. I wanted to see what kind of woman makes cities whisper."
Calista's tone cut like a blade. "Whispers aren't currency here. Speak your purpose or leave."
The Warlord's gaze flicked to her. "Ah, the queen of rebellion. I remember your husband. He begged before the end."
Calista didn't move, but the space between them changed—charged, sharp.
Elma took a step forward. "You came to insult corpses?"
He tilted his head. "No. I came to prevent yours."
That earned silence. Even the guards stopped breathing.
He walked closer until only a few paces separated them. "The shard in your body burns like a beacon. It draws things you don't understand. The city wants it, the church wants it, and before long, the gods might too. I'm offering what Nitron never did—protection."
Elma studied him, eyes narrowing. "Protection or possession?"
His smile didn't change. "Is there a difference?"
The shard pulsed violently. Heat crawled under her skin. The Warlord's gaze flicked to the glow beneath her collarbone—brief but knowing.
"See?" he murmured. "It knows me."
Calista stepped between them. "Then you know what happens when it's provoked."
For a moment, no one moved. The courtyard felt too small for air.
Then the Warlord laughed quietly. "So be it. You refuse peace; I'll grant you legend." He turned away, mounting his horse in one fluid motion. "The next time you see my face, it'll be through flame."
He didn't look back as the gates closed behind him.
When the echo of hooves faded, Elma finally let out the breath she'd been holding. "He wasn't lying. The shard—"
"—recognized him," Calista finished.
Elma nodded. "Like it remembered."
Calista placed a hand on her arm. "Then we don't wait for legend. We write it first."
Elma looked toward the horizon where the city sat under its glass towers, gleaming in the distance. The shard's pulse matched her heartbeat, hot and steady.
"Then we start tonight."