Chapter 35 · The Eighteenth Burning

"Put the blade down, Kael." Varen's voice came from everywhere at once. "Or your bride dies before you can kill her yourself."

Kael's sword stayed against Seraph's throat.

The edge pressed just enough to break the skin. One thin line of heat slid beneath her jaw. Kael stood behind her, chest against her back, one arm locked across her ribs. His other hand held the sword steady.

Too steady.

"Kael," Seraph said.

His breath touched her ear. Warm. Shallow. Not his normal breathing. The real Kael breathed like a man who had already counted every exit in the room. This Kael sounded trapped.

"Don't move," he murmured.

"I'm not the one holding a sword."

His grip tightened.

The chamber around them shook without moving. Ironfate's command hall had become a broken copy of itself. The war table floated upside down above them. Black fire crawled across the walls. Men Seraph knew were standing in the corners, frozen with their mouths open, their faces blurred like wet ink.

Varen was the only thing that looked real.

He stood at the far end of the hall in Kael's armor, smiling with Kael's mouth.

"You hear her, Commander?" Varen asked.