Chapter 242
The room they chose for Maeven's interrogation wasn’t the usual council chamber. It was colder, deeper, carved into the roots of the mountain beneath the packhouse. A relic from old wars, long before my time. We rarely used it—only when things turned... uncertain.
Maeven sat chained at the center of the iron-marked stone floor, surrounded by silence and eyes that wanted answers.
Roman stood beside me, his arms crossed, jaw tight. On my other side, Ella tapped her fingers against her thigh in a rhythm I knew well—restless energy she didn’t trust herself to release.
"We begin," Nessa said. Her voice echoed off the stone.
Maeven lifted her chin.
"Tell us what the Ashborn are planning," Wyatt demanded.
Maeven looked at me. Not him. Me.
"They've already moved to Phase Three. Your ridge was Phase Two. The next strike won’t be underground. It will be political."
"Meaning?" Ella asked.
Maeven didn’t flinch. "They want to fracture your leadership. Break trust. Replace it from within."
Roman leaned forward. "They have someone in the pack. Don’t they?"
Maeven didn’t answer.
"Who is it?" I asked quietly.
She looked at me again, something flickering in her gaze. "They don’t tell us names until it’s too late. But... there is someone. Someone close enough to influence strategy. I was sent to misdirect you. But after the Hollow, they stopped trusting me. They knew I wouldn’t detonate. That I’d warned you."
"Then why haven’t they killed you?" Wyatt asked.
"They think I’m still useful. As bait."
Later, Roman and I walked the long corridor back to the upper levels. The stone walls felt closer than usual, pressing in.
"She’s not lying," I said.
"No," he agreed. "But she’s not telling us everything either."
"There’s a traitor. Someone inside."
"We have to flush them out."
We entered the strategy hall, where Nessa was laying out scouting logs. She looked up. "Something's off."
"What do you mean?"
"One of the guards from the eastern perimeter hasn’t reported in. Not since Maeven came in. He was on shift during the sigil collapse."
"Name?" Roman asked.
"Jaren Lorne. Formerly from the Greystone outpost. Transferred here three months ago."
My blood chilled. "Pull his file. Now."
The next day, the guard post where Jaren was assigned stood empty. No trace. No scent trail. No signs of struggle. Just a single symbol etched into the wall behind the weapons rack:
A coiled serpent wrapped around a broken crown.
"He ran," Ella muttered. "Or was extracted."
"Either way, it confirms it," Roman said. "Maeven didn’t lie."
Wyatt emerged from the archives. "We found his file. It’s falsified. The background doesn’t match any legitimate Greystone rosters. He was planted."
"How many others?" I asked.
Wyatt swallowed. "We’re running a full sweep now. Interviews. Aura scans. But if they slipped one in..."
"There could be more."
Roman set his jaw. "No more waiting. We make it public."
That night, we held a gathering in the central yard. Every warrior. Every elder. Every civilian who could stand shoulder to shoulder under the moon.
Roman stepped forward first, his voice carrying clear.
"We have fought together. Bled together. But today, we learned our enemy has walked among us. Disguised. Hidden. One of our own."
Gasps rippled. Whispers.
I stepped beside him.
"We found their mark. We saw the deceit. And we will find the rest. But this is not the time to fracture. This is the time to hold fast. Because the Ashborn think we will turn on each other. They are counting on it."
I looked at every face.
"Let’s prove them wrong."
A moment of stillness.
Then a rumble of agreement. Quiet but growing.
Hope was a fragile thing. But I saw it catch tonight.
After the crowd dispersed, Roman and I walked the inner paths that circled the training fields. The moon bathed everything in silver.
"Do you think the others believe we can really find the rest?" I asked.
"They have to. That’s the only way they keep standing."
I nodded. "We need to step up patrols around the inner hall. The infirmary. The archives. If they have access to any of those—"
"They could dismantle us from the inside."
He paused. "But not if we dismantle them first."
He stopped, turning to me. "You’ve been carrying too much. I see it."
I gave him a tired smile. "I’m Luna."
"You’re more than that."
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "Come with me. Just for a moment."
"Now? We have spies running loose and bombs—"
"And if we don’t remember who we are in the middle of this war, we lose anyway."
He led me to the southern bluff.
A lone bench sat overlooking the valley, fireflies drifting in the distance. Stars above.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just let me sit with him in the silence.
Then, softly:
"You remember that time you told me I wasn’t allowed to die before I taught you how to properly throw a shield blade?"
I huffed. "Yes. You still haven’t."
He grinned. "I was waiting until the exact right moment."
"Roman."
His smile softened. "What I mean is—we keep waiting for after. After the war. After the threat. But what if there is no 'after'? What if this is our life?"
I turned to face him.
"Then we build anyway," I said.
He leaned in. "Exactly."
And there, under the stars, with the world still burning in the distance, we kissed. Not with urgency. But with quiet certainty.
A promise between us that no battle could break.
Back in the war room, Wyatt intercepted us with grim news.
"Another symbol. Just found it burned into the infirmary cellar. Same serpent. We checked the wards. Someone had deactivated them for thirteen minutes at dawn. Just long enough to plant something."
I felt the weight settle back on my shoulders.
"Evacuate the lower hall," Roman said. "We search it top to bottom. No shortcuts."
As our team moved into formation, torches blazing, blades drawn, I looked to Roman one last time before descending the steps.
"Still glad we took a moment to kiss in the starlight?"
He smirked. "I am. Gives me something to fight harder for."
And with that, we plunged into the dark.
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