Chapter 30 #2
“My prince, if matters are truly this dire, we’re wasting precious time. The Blades must be summoned now.”
I had hoped, perhaps foolishly, for more time. For peace. For the warmth of Amara's skin beside mine and the hush of a kingdom untroubled by war. But I see now how na?ve that hope was. The war had never ended. It had merely paused to draw breath.
And now it exhales.
I rise slowly, the gravity of the moment anchoring each movement. My hand flattens on the table, steadying myself. My kingdom. My family. My daughter’s future. All of it teeters on the edge.
“You’re both right. There’s no time for rest. We must prepare for war.”
My gaze cuts to Ilyra.
“I want full reports from your spies. Everything. I need to know which houses remain loyal to me and I want them summoned to Baev’kalath immediately. This war will not be won alone.”
I pause, turning the thought on my tongue before letting it free.
“And I want to speak with my father.”
Zyphoro lifts a brow, her goblet pausing halfway to her lips. “Why?”
“Because, for all his sins he has survived more centuries than any of us combined. He knows the houses. Their strengths, their fractures, the secrets they bury and the heirs they pretend don’t exist. That knowledge might be the only edge we get.”
She snorts, finishing her drink in one long pull before slamming the cup down. “Fine. But if he starts acting like a sanctimonious prick, we throw him in that cage with Lanneth. That alone is a fate worse than death.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “Agreed, sister.”
I turn back to Ilyra. “Where is he?”
“The hour is late,” she begins, voice softening as she bows her head. “Perhaps in the morning…”
The scrape of Zyphoro’s chair splits the air. She stands, eyes hard as flint.
“My brother didn’t ask for suggestions.”
I raise a hand before it can escalate.
“Zyphoro,” I say quietly, “we owe Lady Ilyra our thanks. Without her, we’d have no castle to return to.”
Ilyra straightens. “No. The Princess Zyphoro is right.”
She lowers herself into a shallow bow.
“I misspoke. My nerves are frayed, as I imagine all of ours are. These halls have known too much silence. Too much waiting. With the prince away and the houses circling like wolves, we’ve all been on edge.”
She lifts her chin, eyes clearing.
“Come. I will take you to him.”
We follow Ilyra through the silent halls of the fortress, the storm outside snarling low across the sky, thunder rolling like a warning too late.
She walks ahead of us, unhurried, silent, her gaze cast downward, and I study her carefully, her every movement, every flicker of tension in her shoulders.
I lean toward Reon.
“None of this feels right, does it?”
He shrugs. “I’ve always thought Baev’kalath to be a peculiar place. I assumed this was normal.”
I frown. “Well, it’s not.” My fingertips graze the pommel of the dagger at my waist, more out of instinct than threat, but it calms me to know it’s there.
“I still want that back,” Zyphoro mutters.
Reon glances sideways, speaking under his breath. “You doubt, Ilyra? I thought she was our ally.”
“Are there such things among the Fae?” I whisper back. “I hope I’m wrong. I hope Modok hasn’t gotten to her. But if I’m right… we’re walking into a trap.”
Ilyra halts suddenly before a pair of tall carved doors.
“He is in here,” she says softly, stepping aside.
My jaw tightens. “Open it,” and my voice is harsher than I mean it to be. She flinches, just slightly.
“Of course, Your Highness.”
She reaches for the handle, but her fingers hesitate, brushing it as if it might bite.
I square my shoulders. “Now, Ilyra.”
Her throat bobs with a swallow, and she pulls the door open. It creaks with protest, groaning under its own age. Beyond the threshold, there is nothing. No firelight, no hearth-glow, only blackness that swallows the room whole.
A flash of lightning forks the sky outside, and for a heartbeat the room blazes white, revealing the silhouette of a figure seated in a high-backed chair, unmoving, face cloaked in shadow.
“Kaelus,” Ilyra says. “Your son has returned and wishes to speak to you.”
I step forward, cautious, lingering at the edge of the darkness.
“Father?” I call out.
No response. No movement.
Zyphoro scoffs behind me. “Enough of this,” she says, stepping into the room.
“No!” I snatch at her arm, but she’s faster than my grasp.
In a blink of steel and shadow, they descend, Fae cloaked in the dark, knives glinting, eyes hollow with fury. They crash into her, dragging her down. I surge forward, magic pulsing to life in my blood.
But then, impact.
A shield slams into me, flinging me back with a force that rattles through my skull. I stumble, brace myself against the doorframe, blinking hard, and then I feel it, the shimmer, the hum of something far older than mere wards.
Mor’Thravar magic.
A barrier, thin as gossamer but pressing down with the force of a mountain. My fingers twitch, smoke curling up from my palms, my power coiling at the edges of my control, begging to be unleashed. Ready to burn. Ready to destroy.
But I can’t. Not here. Not now. Not when I’m this close. Not when summoning it could call something darker.
Something I might not be able to send back.
Instead, my companions fight in my stead.
Reon lunges toward Zyphoro, arm outstretched, golden sparks of his gift already beginning to shimmer across his fingers.
But before time can bend to his will, a barrier flares around his hands, snuffing out the magic like a candle under glass.
The light dies with a hiss. He grits his teeth, wrestling against it, but it’s too late.
A boot slams into the back of his knees and he collapses with a grunt, taken down hard.
Orios is next. He hurls himself into the shadows, fury made flesh.
His sheer strength alone sends two, three of them flying, bodies hitting stone, crashing into tables, thrown like dolls.
For a heartbeat, hope flares. For a heartbeat, I believe he might actually do it, tear through every coward in the dark, every fool who dares lay hands on us.
But even the fiercest champions have weaknesses.
“Enough!” Ilyra’s voice cuts through the chaos like a whip crack.
Orios stills, his chest heaving. He turns toward her, and I see the way his rage falters. The way it dies.
Because she’s holding a blade to Solena’s throat.
A slow burn begins in my chest as the shield coils tighter around me, crushing me to my knees. It scalds my skin, dragging fire across my ribs, over my spine.
“You fucking traitor,” I grit out, voice ragged with pain. “Ilyra.”
“She is no traitor,” says a voice from the dark.
The figure in the armchair has finally moved. He steps forward slowly, as if he has all the time in the world, and though I have not yet seen his face, I know the voice. I knew it the moment it curled from his lips.
Modok.
“She sees the truth,” he continues. “Her eyes are open now. As all Fae eyes will be. She knows who should rule the Sundered Kingdoms.”
He steps into the light. The same cruel grin, the beard like bramble, the jagged spikes of hair pointing skyward except for that single, braided strand hanging like a noose over his collarbone.
“I expected more surprise,” he says, his smile widening. “Not even a blink?”
“I’m only surprised I let myself walk into this ambush,” I reply, jaw clenched. “I knew it reeked of rot.”
“Another reason I should be king,” he says, his voice like gravel. “Any Fae who smells a trap and walks into it, anyway? That’s a Fae unfit to rule. That’s a Fae who deserves to die on his knees.”
He gives a long sigh, moving about the room with casual ease. Then, with mock courtesy, “Now. Didn’t you say you wanted to see your father?”
My pulse stalls. My fists clench against the burning barrier.
Modok tucks his fingers into his belt and throws back his head. “Who am I to deny a last wish?”