The Final Working

Isolde was already kneeling at the stone when Thane came down the newly barred postern stair, both entrances sealed now with fresh iron Hollan’s smiths had forged overnight. She didn’t look up from the spiral’s faint, waiting grooves until his shadow fell across the lamplight.

“You didn’t wait for me to be ready,” he said, not quite an accusation.

“I’ve been ready since the moment Cressida let go of that stone last night.” She sat back on her heels, meeting his eyes in the low light, steadier than she felt. She was grateful, not for the first time, that he’d never once been able to read past her composure when she needed it held. “I’ve spent three years wanting to be the one who arrives in time to stop something, instead of the one who hears about it afterward. I’m not spending one more day wanting it, General. Today I…