(Dorian POV)
Three walls of crystal overlooked the city — a city that obeyed me in the light and questioned me behind my back. Cassian stood over the map table, Rafe lounged near the comms, and a tech stacked datapads in silent terror of dropping one near the King.
Then the door opened.
Nyx walked in without knocking. My jacket hung off her shoulders, and her hospital band still clung to her wrist. Every guard looked — most out of curiosity, a few out of instinctive fear. She was still half-wolf, half-weapon, and entirely beyond my control.
I pretended not to feel the bond flare the second she entered.
"Status," I said.
"Square's packed," Cassian reported, "Press at every entry. Zealots front row. Liora's team is conducting interviews on the upper terrace."
"Of course they are," Nyx said, dropping her cap onto the table. "Define zealot."
"Anyone who thinks prophecy takes requests," Rafe muttered.
Her mouth twitched — not a smile, more like a muscle remembering how.
"Dusk," I said. "We go live then. One unified statement. No leaks."
"Too late," Rafe said. "Princess Martyr's already crying on three networks."
"She'll be onstage," I replied.
Nyx's head snapped up. "You're inviting her?"
"I'm containing her," I said. "The only thing worse than a rumor is a royal with a microphone."
Cassian glanced between us like a man caught between explosives. "We'll need double glass at the dais."
"Do it," I said, still watching Nyx. "And sweep the corridors."
She arched a brow. "What about transparency, Your Majesty?"
"Transparency doesn't mean suicide."
Her hand slid into her pocket, came out with a phone. "Then you'll want this."
She set it on the table, screen up. One message glowed.
SUBJECT B. WRONG TWIN. RIGHT BULLET. A live location pin pulsed red — two blocks from the palace.
The room froze.
I reached for the phone. She didn't let go.
Our fingers brushed — bare skin, lightning. Heat jumped straight through bone. Her pupils blew wide, her breath hitched once. The bond answered before I could leash it; gold fire under my ribs, a pulse that said mine and don't you dare.
"Thank you," I managed.
She still didn't move. "For what?"
"For trusting me with something that could kill you."
When she finally released it, the contact broke, but the air stayed charged.
I looked at the screen again because it was safer than looking at her. "When did this come in?"
"Before the tunnel ambush," she said. "Whoever they are, they're patient."
"Echelon," I said.
The word hit the room like a blade. Not a low-level street gang, Echelon was the Council's invisible hand, a covert division built to track and erase unsanctioned bonds. They could sniff out a mate-mark through concrete and name it science.
Cassian swore softly. "We thought they were disbanded."
"They don't disband," Rafe said. "They redeploy."
Nyx stared at the glowing words. "So I guess I'm Subject B," she said, voice dry. "Which means Liora's Subject A? How do they even come up with that — some sick alphabet for who gets to live?"
Cassian's jaw tightened. "Echelon doesn't use names. Every bloodline gets coded at birth — A for authorized, B for anomaly."
"Anomaly," she repeated, testing the taste of it. "That's a pretty way to say disposable."
"It's not personal," Cassian muttered.
I met her eyes. "It was never about you as a person. It's about control. Echelon was built to catalog every potential bond in the royal gene pool. The first twin born to prophecy gets 'A.' The second gets 'B.' One to crown, one to clean up."
Her gaze hardened. "And the cleanup's me."
The mark on her neck pulsed once, gold under her skin. "So they've been tracking us since birth," she murmured. "Classifying us like weapons."
"Not weapons," I said. "Threats."
Her eyes flicked back up, steady and lethal. "Then they should've labeled me properly."
I slid the phone into my pocket. "Confiscated for forensics."
She lifted a brow. "You could ask nicely."
"I could," I said. "But you like it when I don't."
Color rose in her throat. Cassian cleared his throat hard enough to sound like rapid gunfire.
"Back to work," I said.
Cassian resumed, voice clipped. "Crowd-control lines in place. Two snipers per roof. West exit secured. Liora enters from the south gallery—alone."
"She won't," Nyx said. "She needs witnesses."
"She'll have one," I said. "Half the kingdom."
She gave me a look that said You're enjoying this too much. Maybe I was. I'd spent years turning politics into combat. She just made it feel like an actual fight.
"Minus two hours," Cassian said. "We go live at full dark."
"Liora?" Nyx asked.
"Already warming up the choir," Rafe said.
"A choir?" Nyx blinked. "Who brings backup vocals to treason?"
"Someone who plans to win," I said.
Her gaze snapped back to me. "And you?"
"I don't plan. I decide."
Her laugh was small and dangerous. "That's your problem."
"No," I said. "That's my advantage."
The comm chimed. Ren's voice came through, low and grim. "Four houses fund Echelon. One brags. One prays. One smiles."
Nyx frowned. "Translation?"
"One shows off, one hides behind faith, and one pretends to be your friend," Ren said. "Guess which one's closest to the palace."
"Which one smiles?" Nyx asked.
"The one that smiles, the deceitful house that acts like an ally but secretly funds Echelon — and this one is closest to the throne," he finished.
Her jaw flexed. "Makes sense."
Cassian adjusted his watch. "Time to move. Dais check, then wardrobe, then mic test."
Everyone started shifting, but Nyx lingered by the glass wall, the city's glow painting her reflection gold. I stepped beside her, close enough that our reflections merged.
"You don't have to stand next to me out there," I said quietly.
"Yes, I do."
"You could walk away."
She looked at my reflection instead of my face. "From you, or from them?"
I didn't answer because I didn't know.
When she turned, we were close. Her shoulder brushed my chest; her scent — something I hadn't identified yet, something intoxicating and wild — filled every breath. The bond thrummed like a pulse we couldn't ignore.
"Stop looking at me like that," she said.
"Like what?"
"Like you're deciding which of us would survive the explosion."
I smiled slowly. "You'd win. But I'd make it hurt."
Her breath caught again, just for a second. Then Cassian's voice cracked the tension. "Your Majesty, ready."
We stepped apart before the room combusted.
Cassian handed her a comm mic. I reached to adjust it, my knuckle grazing her throat. She froze, pulse fluttering against my hand.
"You good?" I asked.
"Define good," she whispered.
Rafe opened the door. "Convoy's waiting. Choir still off-key."
We moved—guards, corridors, floodlights — the rhythm of controlled chaos. Every step toward the stage felt like walking into a loaded chamber.
At the final threshold, I stopped her. "If something goes wrong—"
"It will," she said.
"—You run west. Gallery exit."
"I don't run."
"You do if I tell you."
She leaned in until her mouth was near my ear. "Then don't tell me."
For a heartbeat, everything else vanished — the crowd, the glass, the prophecy: just her breath, my pulse, and the promise of war between us.
Cassian opened the door. "Showtime."
Light exploded in. The square below roared. Liora stood at the far dais, shining like an actress who hadn't read the new script. The High Seer glared, waiting for his cue.
I stepped to the podium, Nyx beside me. She didn't hide. Didn't bow. She planted her feet and faced the crowd like a soldier facing artillery.
"Dusk," I said, voice cutting through the noise. "You came for the truth. You'll have it."
Nyx lifted her chin, the mark on her neck catching the light like a golden scar. "We survive," she said clearly. "We keep you."
The chant caught like wildfire. Glass vibrated, banners snapped. Somewhere, a rifle scope found its mark. I felt it — the invisible prickle of danger — but I didn't move.
I looked at her instead.
Whatever bullet, prophecy, or god came next — I'd take it standing beside her.
Because the truth was lethal and straightforward: I'd spent my life fighting for a crown. Now I was fighting for the reason to keep it.