Chapter 30
Daed
My shadow stretches across the courtyard, long, formless, more smoke than substance. It slithers into every crack and seam in the stone, a silent herald of what follows. Behind me, my brethren descend, their wings snapping in the howling wind like torn banners.
This place is darker than I remember. Colder. Hostile.
Rain lashes my face, soaking through my clothes, tangling in hair that still carries the warmth of distant, sun-scorched shores. The sting of it makes me flinch.
How long have I been gone, that even the rain of Baev’kalath feels foreign to me?
But it is not just the rain.
Baev’kalath may still rise like a fortress of nightmares, spires piercing the sky, obsidian stone swallowing the light, endless corridors and stairs that spiral into nothing, but something has shifted. The soul of this place has changed.
Where are the Blades? Where is Ilyra?
We should have been met the moment The Shattered Edge appeared on the horizon. But no watchmen stood on the towers. No horns. No movement. No sound.
Baev’kalath feels... empty. Abandoned.
My chest tightens. Have they fled? Or fallen? Have I returned not to a stronghold, but to a tomb?
I grip Ashen’s mane, and with a command, guide him to the high balcony.
His massive paws strike the stone with a heavy thud, sending muddy water rippling outward.
I slide off his back, the leather of my boots hissing against wet stone.
One by one, my warriors land beside me, their blades at their sides, wings folding in before vanishing with the soft flicker of rune-light.
Ashen bows his head. He will wait.
We press forward.
Still, even this close to the heart of the fortress, there is no sign of life. No torchbearers. No guards posted at the thresholds. Not even a whisper echoing off the walls.
I don’t need to speak. The scrape of steel follows, blades drawn with silent precision.
I nod once, then turn toward the nearest alcove, stepping beneath the overhang and out of the punishing rain.
The torches here still burn low, their flames guttering in the damp, casting flickering shadows across the black stone.
But there is no line of Blades guarding the throne room passage.
I move soundlessly, hugging the darkness as we approach. My steps are deliberate, every inch of my body tuned to the silence.
I glance back. My eyes find Orios and narrow. He understands immediately, peeling away to stalk the far wall.
The massive doors of the throne room loom.
Memories assault me.
I have stood before these doors more times than I can count, summoned by my father, by Lanneth, by the cruel weight of bloodbound duty. Dread was always waiting on the other side. Orders I could not refuse. Betrayals I could not undo.
I wonder now if anything has truly changed.
We halt. I listen, straining through the thunder and the hiss of rain for the faintest sign of life.
Nothing.
My hands press to the cold wood, my heart a furious rhythm in my chest, skin prickling like something unseen brushes against it.
And then, the doors explode open before I can push.
Standing within the yawning threshold is Lady Ilyra.
She is illuminated by moonlight, a vision carved from ice and grace. Her gown is the color of glacier water, pale and flowing, caught in a wind that doesn’t touch me. Her hair, fair and thick, is braided loosely and long over one shoulder, and her blue eyes are wide with shock.
“Your Highness,” she breathes. “You’ve returned?”
My brow furrows, rain trailing down the side of my face and along the sharp line of my jaw. I swipe it away with the back of my sleeve, narrowing my gaze on her.
“Lady Ilyra,” I say. My eyes flick past her, to the hall cloaked in shadows behind her. “Are you alright?”
She straightens. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
I peer into the gloom again, eyes straining for movement in the corners. “Where are the Blades? The Reapers?”
“The hour is late, Your Highness,” she replies smoothly. “They’re in their quarters. Sleeping.”
My brow furrows. “Blades rarely sleep. Reapers even less.”
She lifts a delicate shoulder in a shrug. “Had I known you would return tonight, I would’ve roused them.”
Something cold skitters down my spine. A slow, gnawing unease curls in my gut. I glance over my shoulder. Zyphoro’s scowl matches the storm still thrashing beyond the walls. When I turn back, I study Ilyra again, her posture, her tone, her too-calm presence in an empty, echoing castle.
My gaze flicks past her once more, to the twin thrones at the end of the hall.
“How is my father?”
Ilyra inclines her head. “As well as a prisoner can be. Though his chambers are far more luxurious than most. Would you like to see him?”
I shake my head too quickly. “No. Not yet.” A pause. “And Lanneth? Does her cage still hold?”
A faint smile ghosts across her lips. An expression rare for Ilyra. “It does. There are days I forget she’s even there.”
“Modok,” Zyphoro calls behind me, loud and clipped.
I frown at the interruption, but gesture for her to speak.
“Has he crossed the sea?”
“Not yet,” Ilyra replies. “The Blades still guard the coast, and my spies have eyes on his stronghold. For now, we hold the advantage. You return to order.”
Order.
The word rings hollow.
I lower my head slightly. “You have my thanks, my lady.”
She clasps her hands together. “You must be hungry. Or weary. Shall we see to your needs?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She glances over my shoulder at my brethren behind me, drenched, silent, waiting. “What of the others?” Her eyes pause on the last of them. “What of your wife?”
“She will join us soon enough,” I say, voice cool. “When I know it’s safe.”
Ilyra cocks her head, the movement almost birdlike. “But Your Highness... I’ve already told you. It is safe.”
I offer a shallow dip of my head, the closest thing to a smile I can manage. “You have. But after what I’ve seen these past weeks, I no longer take things at face value. Let us sit. Talk. I would hear everything.”
She nods slowly. “Of course. The dining hall, then. I’ll have wine brought up.”
“Wine,” Reon mutters, stepping from the ranks with a dramatic sigh. “I never thought I’d grow sick of rum, but here we are.”
Ilyra leads us to the dining hall, and it’s colder than I remember.
Not just in temperature, though the fire at the far end does little to soften the stone, but in presence. In memory. In silence.
She strides ahead, confident and regal, and slips into the seat at the head of the table as though it’s hers by right.
My brow arches. Zyphoro, mid-step, freezes beside me. Her eyes find mine, and there’s a flicker of shared understanding between us.
Solena is the one to speak. “Lady Ilyra. That is the prince’s chair.”
Ilyra’s eyes narrow, like a blade being unsheathed. “I don’t need lessons in etiquette from a maid.”
The air stills. Solena’s gaze drops at once, her spine stiff with quiet shame.
Chairs creak, shoulders tighten, jaws clench, eyes darken. One careless phrase, the room turns against her.
A breath passes. Then another.
She glances down at the seat beneath her and lets out a soft, almost rueful laugh. “Apologies. Of course it is. I’ve been sitting here so long… I suppose I forgot what belonged to me, and what does not.”
Her voice lingers on that last part a little too long. A little too wistful.
I nod once. “It’s fine. The food tastes the same no matter which chair you sit in.”
She dips her head and slides one seat to the side. I take my rightful place, but there's something hollow about it now. As if the weight of tradition feels trivial in a world where thrones fall and death waits at every turn.
The heavy doors creak open, breaking the moment.
Servants file in, quiet as ghosts.
I don’t recognize a single one of them.
Then again, there was a time I didn’t recognize Solena either.
They move with the precision of the well-trained, laying down the first courses in reverent silence. Goblets of deep red wine. A board of cheese and thick bread still warm from the ovens. Dried fruits, honeycomb, thin curls of salted meat.
Zyphoro slings her boots onto the edge of the table and rips into a hunk of bread like she hasn’t eaten in days. Reon grunts his approval, already filling his goblet to the brim.
Ilyra leans back in her seat, eyes flicking across our ragged company. “There’s more than enough food,” she says lightly. “Are you sure your wife does not wish to join us?”
My fingers curl around the arms of my chair. One boot taps against the cold stone floor, steady and sharp.
“She’s fine where she is,” I say. “Tell me about Modok.”
She meets my gaze without flinching.
“He’s building,” she says. “Quietly. Carefully. The longer you were gone, the more the houses of the Untold Sea turned to him. Some believe he’s the only Fae strong enough to reclaim the Sundered Kingdoms.”
I say nothing. I watch her instead.
She pours herself a goblet of wine. The jug lands back on the table with a soft slam, wine sloshing over the lip. Her fingers wrap around the stem in a grip too tight, too tense. Her knuckles go white.
I’ve seen Ilyra fierce. I’ve seen her cruel, clever, biting.
But not like this.
Not rough.
Not trembling.
She lifts the goblet to her lips and drinks. The wine stains her mouth like blood. Her eyes hold mine over the rim, darker than they were a moment ago.
“Your return is well-timed, Your Highness,” she says softly. “He will strike soon and Baev’kalath must be ready.”
“No rest for the wicked,” Reon sighs, pouring himself another generous goblet. “If this is true, I should return to Eyr’Drogul at once, see what state my house is in. I will rally my warriors to fight at your side, as always, Rook.”
Orios doesn’t sit. Doesn’t eat. Instead, he remains at the far end of the table, the firelight carving sharp edges into the line of his jaw. Then he bows his head and presses a closed fist to his chest in salute.