In her quarters, Sarika startled to her feet, but she shook her head at the girl. Let her get some rest. All her people were hollow-eyed for lack of sleep and hunger. Haomane’s Allies had come early; the siege had already endured longer than anticipated. Unattended, Lilias made her way through the fortress, the lie churning in her belly. It would give them hope, for a little while. How long, she could not say.

Her feet trod a familiar path along the stone hallways of Beshtanag, taking her to the tiny egress hidden at the rear of the fortress. For once, it was unguarded; every man who could be spared was on the siege-lines. This too did not matter. No one went this way save her except under duress. Lilias slipped through the door and started up the winding path, heedful of sharp rocks beneath her slippers. After the claustrophobic atmosphere of the fortress, it was good to be outdoors.

The mountain stretched down below her, ringed around with the great wall she had raised. She allowed herself a moment to contemplate it with satisfaction. Even viewed from above, it was a formidable obstacle and, for all their numbers, Haomane’s Allies had not breached it yet.

They were trying, though. There, on the eastern side, a group of Altorus’ Borderguardsmen had built a roaring fire, seeking to weaken the bindings that held the granite together. Lilias paused, frowning down at them. Tiny figures clustered around a mighty log, a battering ram with its prow sheathed in bronze. Closing her eyes, she probed the section of wall they assailed.

There … yes, there. A breach-point, where the smooth stone, annealed by fire, threatened to crack, remembering the composite rocks from which it had been rendered. Faint lines showed on its surface. Drawing on the Soumanië, she Shaped it, restoring it to a seamless whole.

The effort left her weak.

It didn’t matter. At the top of the mountain, Calandor was waiting. Gorse bushes caught at her skirts, dragging her back. Lilias tore free, forcing her way upward. Step by weary step, she made her way to the crest of Beshtanag Mountain. When she reached the mouth of the cavern, she was breathless.

He was there, waiting.

“You knew,” she panted, the tears coming unbidden. “You knew!”

For a long time, the dragon was silent; then he moved, one clawed foot scraping the cavern floor as his mighty head lowered until one green-gold eye was level with hers. “No, Liliasss.” A deep voice, laden with sorrow and sulfur fumes. “Only what mussst be. Not when, nor how.”

“Why?” Her voice cracked. “Why?”

He let her strike him then, her soft fists thudding against his bronze-plated cheeks and jaw. His sinuous neck bent to gather her in a protective coil. “All things musst be as they mussst, little sssisster,” Calandor murmured, his voice rumbling in his furnace-chest beneath her ear. “All things.”

Defeated, she slumped against him. “Must it be now?”