Chapter 21 #2
Then it was just Darian and the male. They faced off in the carnage, blades clashing. But the male wasn’t rushed. He wasn’t panicked. He was playing. As though Darian was nothing more than entertainment.
And then, gods.
His sword drove straight through Darian’s chest.
I screamed.
And I felt it. The jagged, searing shock that tore through him as the blade sank deep.
His body buckled, knees hitting the ground.
Blood poured from his chest, fast, so fast, soaking into the earth in pulsing waves.
His hands clawed at the wound as if he could hold the pieces of himself together if he just pressed hard enough.
Each rasping breath was a struggle, a wet rattle that shuddered through the air and scraped down my spine.
I could feel the pain as if it was my own. The world splintered open beneath my feet.
The male was still grinning when wrenched the blade free and stepped back, casual as anything. As if it hadn’t meant a thing.
Muscles spasmed. Fingers curled. Darian’s back arched with agony before he crumpled forward, strength abandoning him in an instant.
And everything went dark.
I jolted back into the chamber.
My breath came ragged, chest rising and falling too fast. My hands trembled in my lap. Tears slid down my cheeks without my permission.
Darian wasn’t looking. He stood by the window now, back half-turned, one hand braced on the stone ledge.
Finally, he spoke, cautious, almost like he didn’t trust his own voice. “Forty-five soldiers were with me that day.”
The weight of it sat in my throat, unmoving.
He didn’t turn. “Good males. Friends. The kind you’d trust to have your back in battle. The kind who’d take a blade for you without hesitation.”
He swallowed hard, as though the next words refused to be spoken.
“I was the only survivor.”
The silence that followed wasn’t simply quiet, it remembered.
I didn’t know what to say. What could I say? That I was sorry? That I’d seen it, felt it, and that it had nearly shattered me even as a mere memory?
Darian’s hand curled into a fist against the window ledge.
“How did you survive?” I didn’t know if he wanted to say more, but asking seemed better than false comforts.
“Luck.” A bitter smile twisted his lips. “And Eilrys.”
Darian rolled his shoulders slowly. “I thought I was dead. Half-dead among my own warriors, bleeding out on the ground. I remember the smell of it. The blood and dirt, the bodies around me.”
He moved back to the lounge, sitting back down to face me, though he held himself differently now.
“But Eilrys,” he said, glancing at the door she’d walked out earlier. “She found me. Pulled me out. Dragged my sorry ass halfway across the valley and got me to a healer.”
His hand moved absently to the centre of his chest, fingers splaying against his sternum. The motion drew my attention to the savage scar that carved apart his intricate tattoos.
It was deep, jagged, a brutal contrast against the vines inked into his skin.
Darian exhaled hard, a sound that was almost a laugh but lacked any real amusement. “That blow should’ve killed me.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile, but his eyes remained distant. “But the funny thing about mating bonds? They’re stubborn.”
I couldn’t look away from the scar, from the way his fingers lingered against it.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like... the bond itself fights for you. Keeps your heart beating when it should stop. Draws on your mate’s strength when yours fails.” His fingers traced absently along his chest where the sword had pierced him. “Eilrys wouldn’t let me go. And the bond... it listened to her.”
He shook his head, a touch of wonder in his voice despite the darkness of the memory. “By the time she found me, I shouldn’t have had enough blood left in my body to keep breathing. But I did.”
I absorbed his words, trying to wrap my mind around the connection he was describing—magic that defied death itself.
“The mating bond… It’s really that powerful?”
Darian looked at me, and for once, there was no trace of mischief on his face. “It’s the most powerful magic we have. More ancient than any court. More binding than any oath.”
For a moment, we sat in silence.
“What happened after?” I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to know.
Darian’s gaze dimmed, the light retreating behind a wall of exhaustion and ice. “Varyth was... furious, which doesn’t begin to cover it. I’d never seen him like that before.” He paused, swallowing hard. “He wanted to attack immediately. March on Nyxaria and burn it to the ground.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“Because it would have been suicide.” Darian spoke the answer like he’d rehearsed it. “They were hoping for that reaction. Wanted us to charge in, blinded by rage, so they could finish what they started.”
His mouth twisted into a grim smile. “Varyth may be many things, but he’s not stupid. He knew we’d be playing right into their hands.”
“What did he do instead?”
“He waited. Planned. Then, when they least expected it, he struck back.”
“How?” I leaned forward, unable to help myself.
Darian’s eyes glinted, dark and satisfied.
“He infiltrated their court during their winter solstice celebration. Got past their wards, their guards. Everything.” He paused, as though savouring the memory.
“And then he killed forty-five of their highest-ranking officials. One for each warrior Stormborn, who you saw in the memory, had slaughtered.”
My breath caught. “Varyth did that himself?”
Darian nodded. “Walked right into the heart of enemy territory and executed them at their own feast. Left their bodies on display with a single message burned into the wall. For Raivelle.”
“Who was he… Stormborn?” I asked.
“Nyxaria’s second in command. Merrick’s his real name, but I suspect any history you’ve read uses the prick’s war title.”
He wasn’t wrong. I’d seen the title a few times, a warning in legends.
“He wasn’t there that day,” Darian said, bitterness tinging his tone. “Shame, really. Varyth would have made his death particularly memorable.”
I swallowed, trying to process the image Darian had painted of Varyth slipping into the heart of Nyxaria’s court, of him cutting through their ranks, those forty-five bodies left behind as a message.
It wasn’t a story of honour. It wasn’t a tale of justice.
It was vengeance.
I thought of the man who had held me after the nightmare, who paid me the most unfortunate compliments of my life. I thought of his lips on the edge of a smirk, the heat in his eyes. And now, I saw him standing over a feast of corpses.
I didn’t know which version scared me more.
Darian studied me. “You’re thinking too hard.”
I blinked, dragging myself out of my thoughts. “I’m just trying to picture it.”
“What, Varyth going on a murderous rampage? Not hard to imagine, really. He’s always had a bit of a flair for the dramatic.”
I snorted despite myself. “Dramatic?”
Darian smirked at my expression. “I mean, personally, I would have gone even more ominous. Maybe a crown made of their teeth or something equally unsettling.”
I groaned, shoving his shoulder. “Gods, Darian.”
He let out a bark of laughter. “What? If we’re going full cold-blooded revenge, might as well commit to the aesthetic.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think anyone needs you in charge of vengeance planning.”
“Probably not,” he admitted, “but it’d be memorable.”
“And deeply disturbing.”
“That’s the fun part.”
I couldn’t help but smile. But even through the grin, the image stuck. Forty-five bodies in a banquet hall. A message carved in flame. And Varyth—calm, composed, watching it all burn.
Darian’s expression shifted, a seriousness settling over his features despite the lingering amusement in his eyes. “My point is, Varyth has a whole list of reasons to fight back against Nyxaria. A very long, very bloody list that predates you by centuries.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but he kept going.
“And Nyxaria wouldn’t be sitting sweetly by if you weren’t here.
Our courts...” He paused, searching for the right words.
“Peace between them is rare. Fragile. Yes, your presence has certainly increased their activity. But as you can see—” He gestured to the scar bisecting his chest. “Nyxarians have made a habit of stabbing me. So you’re not special. I’m frequently stabbed.”
I stared at him. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“It’s supposed to make you stop blaming yourself.” His voice lost its teasing edge, becoming rougher, more honest. “You didn’t start any of this, Isara. You’re just... caught up in it now.”
The words should have been comforting. Should have eased the weight pressing against my ribs.
But they didn’t. Because even if I hadn’t started this war, my presence had escalated it.
My magic, my children, my very existence here had turned a simmering conflict into something that could boil over at any moment.
“They nearly killed you,” I said quietly, my fingers twisting in my lap. “You were bleeding out in my arms.”
Darian was quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting to the window where grey morning light filtered through. When he looked back at me, something softer had crept into his expression.
“I didn’t, though,” he said simply. “Bleed out, I mean.”
“That’s not—”
“I make a point of not bleeding out in my friends’ arms,” he continued, that familiar smirk creeping back onto his face. “It’s in my personal code of conduct. Very important rule. Right up there with ‘don’t fuck your enemies’ and ‘always have an exit strategy.’”
I stared at him. “You don’t know me well enough to call me a friend.”
“I know you well enough.” Darian’s eyebrows lifted. “You’ve got amazing kids. You’ve survived shit that would’ve killed most people.” His mouth quirked into a crooked smile. “And anyone who shoves me into a bush, I call a friend.”
I snorted, the sound escaping before I could stop it. “That’s your criteria for friendship?”
“Absolutely.” Darian’s grin widened, all wicked amusement again. “Most people are too terrified of me to do it. You didn’t even hesitate. Just—” He made a shoving motion with his hands. “Right into the shrubbery. It was beautiful.”
“You were being insufferable.”
“Fuck.” He rubbed his temples. “You and Eilrys are going to team up and be the death of me.”
“Speaking of death,” he said, taking on an edge I hadn’t heard before, “what the actual fuck were you thinking yesterday?”
I blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “What?”
“Jumping off a dragon.” His tone was flat, but I could hear the fury building behind it. “In mid-flight. While we were being attacked by shadow dragons.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “It worked out.”
“It worked out?” Darian sat up straighter, wincing as the movement pulled at his bandages. “Isara, you threw yourself into empty air. You could have died.”
“But I didn’t.” I crossed my arms, defensive. “The green dragon caught me. Thessarian got you and Varyth to safety. Everyone lived.”
“By sheer fucking luck.” The words exploded from him with enough force to make me flinch. “Do you have any idea what it was like watching you just... step off into nothing? While I was bleeding out and couldn’t do a damn thing to stop you?”
The raw pain in his words caught me off guard.
“Do you have any idea what it was like for Varyth?” Darian’s voice went quieter, which somehow made it worse. “Watching you drop?”
I stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Come off it, Isara.” His eyes were narrowed, seeing right through my bullshit. “You show up here looking like that—” He gestured at my rumpled state. “Clearly something’s happened, and now you’re playing dumb?”
My mouth opened, but whatever half-formed excuse I’d been about to offer died in my throat as the door to the chambers swung open.