Page 18 of FoolSilver
“It’s mine!” I nearly snarled.
Every officer’s head snapped toward me. I might be an asset after this briefing, but I was still the lowest-ranked cadet.
“Give it back to Max,” Caspian growled. Gold bled into his green eyes, just for a second, but enough to remind the room the easygoing wolf prince had a predator’s temper when it came to what he’d claimed.
Commander Lee’s jaw flexed. She released the arrow and slid it across the table.
I scooped it up. Coldiron’s warmth flooded me.Good job! Good job!
I flattened my palm over the arrowhead and pushed. The metal softened, flowed, reshaped. In seconds, the armguard sat snug against my wrist. I rolled down my sleeve.
“Sit down, Cadet Max,” Drakken said.
I dropped into my seat and tried not to roll my eyes.
The man had a gift. If anyone in the four kingdoms could ruin a donut, it was Drakken. He’d timed that “Attention!” for maximum embarrassment—mid-bite, frosting on my lip, colonels watching.
I was developing a reflex to hearing my name in his voice. When I heardCadet Maxin public, my spine snapped straight, stomach dropping like a child hearing the boogeyman scratch at the closet door.
The briefing rolled forward. The officers shifted from Coldiron shock to logistics—patrol rotations along the DarkVeil, supply lines to damaged villages, reinforcement schedules. Holding a border against an enemy that might emerge again at any moment.
One pink-frosted donut remained in the corner of the second box. I wanted it with an embarrassing longing, given I’d just been the centerpiece of a classified briefing.
But Drakken’s gaze kept finding me. If I reached for that donut, the consequences unfolded with perfect clarity: he would wait until my fingers touched the frosting, then—“Cadet Private Max, do you believe your rank entitles you to a second serving before senior officers have had their fill?”
I pulled my hand back.
In the mines, people fought over moldy bread. The Rupture wasn’t kind to excess. The continent was a patchwork of protected cities and lawless zones where mutants roamed and people scavenged.
I was grateful for the coffee and the one donut, and skipping a second donut was no tragedy.
Chapter 7
Max
Two more days until the transports came to take us back to the fortress.
No demon activity since the first wave. The archdemon had retreated with a wound from my Coldiron spike. The Veil sat there, churning. Every stalled hour tightened the wire in my chest.
I needed Drakken’s training. Needed the heirs to build the rescue plan. They’d promised.
Meanwhile, I made myself useful—carried crates, hauled timber, repaired blast barriers. I worked until my muscles burned. Busy hands kept my mind from eating itself alive with visions of Missy in the Collector’s grip.
That night, I slept in my own tent. It was the right call. I’d fed the rumor mill enough. But my chest ached at their absence. No Fae magic shielding me, no wolf-heat comforting me, no volcanic dragon presence anchoring me. I’d felt safe with them, even on my worst night. Now that safety net was stripped away.
I slept poorly and woke before dawn.
We’re here. We’re here.
The chanting started again as I ran.
The sky was a bruised purple bleeding to gray where the first light cracked through the darkness. The air bit, metallic with DarkVeil sulfur and faint woodsmoke. Frost crusted the canvas. Dead grass crunched underfoot.
The camp lay still. A few Spartans moved in the gray: two on watch, one feeding the embers of the campfire, one cleaning a weapon. Their breath fogged.
I ran parallel to the Veil, half a block out. Its pull dragged at my chest, magnetic, deepening with every stride.
My gaze snapped to it.
