Caden, Cyrus, and Caleb stood just outside the hospital room, Lilith swaying gently with Mirela in her arms. The baby had fallen asleep, her breath soft against Lilith's collarbone, but no one in the corridor seemed calm.
The air was heavy — almost too heavy — and the silence that followed Caleb's words felt like the moment before a storm hits.
"We need help," he said again, more firmly this time.
Cyrus crossed his arms, his jaw tight. "From where? You think the Highborns of Iryllan will lend us their mages? Or that the Council of Thorns will leave their vines and poetry to come fight our battles?"
"No," Lilith said quietly, shifting Mirela in her arms. "But the Bastion in the North might."
Caden's brow lifted. "The Bastion? You mean the Skyforge Monks?"
"They're not just monks anymore," Lilith replied. "Not since the last Black Winter. They've trained warriors — Frostbinders, Seers, Beastcallers. They're the last of the old order. And they owe us."
