Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Kallias
The light faded through the night. I fought sleep, clinging to the sight of Nienna bathed in Elohios’ glow. My palm rested over her womb, cradling the gentle curve, nursing the foolish hope that our unborn child could feel the warmth and somehow know it was already loved.
When I woke, sunlight had claimed the world. A thin chill lingered in the chamber; Nienna burrowed deeper beneath the sheets, silk whispering against her skin. Her golden hair lay scattered across the white fabric, bright strands strewn like fallen grain.
I brushed my mouth along her neck.
A soft sound slipped from her throat as she arched into me, pressing her back against my chest. Her lips curved in a drowsy smile, sleep still clinging to her.
“The sun waits for no one.” I kissed the rough scab, the texture catching against my mouth. A reminder of what waited beyond this room. My focus had shifted. Uniting Radaan no longer stood at the forefront. We had done what we could.
Now I had a traitor to catch.
And he would pay.
“It stayed up late.” Her voice came muffled, thick with sleep. Fingers tightened in the blanket as though I might steal it.
“I’ll send Alma in.”
She whined in complaint, then tucked the covers behind her back when I pulled away, trapping in my warmth.
I dressed in silence, tugging on my trousers and leaving the laces undone. The door opened with a muted click.
Greaves leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed. Fallione and Alma sat shoulder to shoulder on a narrow bench, heads bent over a book. At the sound, it slipped into Alma’s lap. She startled, pushing her spectacles higher up her nose.
“My king.” Their voices met in unison.
My advisor rose and bowed.
“Did you stay all night, Greaves?” My fingers dragged through my beard, pulling my gaze from the pair on the bench. Perhaps it was nothing more than shared study over Radaan’s histories.
My guard dipped his chin. Shadows pooled beneath his eyes.
A low groan left me. I raked a hand through my hair and glanced down the corridor.
“The tower has been cleared for your use,” Fallione said, as expected.
“Alma, attend the queen. Fallione, Greaves—with me.”
I stepped into the hall, then faltered. The urge struck sharp and sudden: to instruct the advisor to bring her bread with jam, something sweet and warm. No salted meat. No eggs.
The words stayed behind my teeth.
Stone met my boots as I strode forward. Few chambers rose this high within the Golden Palace. This tower had been crafted by my great-great-uncle, who had longed for mountains.
It paled in comparison to the Spire—but we belonged to earth and soil, not open sky.
Inside the appointed room, the door had scarcely closed behind Fallione before he began.
“The remnants are clearing the western courtyard. Staff have resumed duties. The nobles prepare for council.”
“Greaves, sit.” I jerked my chin toward the small couch and crossed to the vanity.
He dropped onto the cushions without protest, one leg draped over the armrest, forearm thrown across his eyes as he surrendered to a scrap of rest.
“And the interruption from the dragon last night?” I asked, pouring tepid water into the basin.
“If anything, it made the evening more memorable,” Fallione replied. “I’ve set ears throughout the city. Radaan is quiet. They believe Nienna is blessed, and that the dragons have an aversion to it.”
Water slid down my face as I washed. At least the beast had not shattered the ritual beyond repair. “And the damage to the roof?”
A pause. His lips thinned. “Severe, but not irreparable.”
When a creature with talons the length of a man’s forearm landed atop a palace, that answer sufficed.
“I want a war council assembled. Any word from our scouts?”
“Tallon rode north, but he’s no longer in Phares. He veered east as anticipated. Toward the Craggs.”
The name Phares snagged in my mind, but grief cut deeper. “Clay would never admit him into Sol. Gayle remains secure in the manor. He’s running for Vellos.”
“Your Majesty, consider who rides beside him.”
The cloth dragged down my face. In the mirror, I caught Fallione’s troubled expression. “Fyrn’sol.”
“I question what a father might risk for his daughter. She has aligned herself with Tallon before. We should assume she will again.”
“Claydon would choose death before opening his gates to Velli.” Conviction rang clean and sharp.
He stood beside me for too many years, hands deep in the blood of men torn apart by those creatures. Sol had endured the full span of the war without falling. He loved his daughter. That did not blind him. He would accept martyrdom before sacrificing his people for her sake.
“Then he moves for the mountain passes.”
“Back to Phares.” Wet fingers combed through my hair. “They welcomed him?”
Fallione lowered himself into a chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Takal opened the gates. Our sources say Tallon stayed one night in the estate. Gone before dawn.”
“Phares will burn.” Rage seized the frayed relationship that bound me to Bac’phares, igniting in righteous fury. “This remains between us.” I wanted him to squirm in the council chamber. Let his fellow nobles witness the cost of provoking a king.
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
Happiness had shed from me with alarming ease.
The warmth of the night before, Nienna’s body curved against mine, dissolved beneath hard resolve.
I folded that memory inward, sealed it behind stone.
The image of her bathed in my light became something sacred.
Tallon’s betrayal would break against me like the surf against the cliffside.
I would not yield. Nienna. Radaan. My child. They were mine to guard.
Clean and dressed, I returned to the balcony chamber. My wife and her mantle were gone.
Pride blossomed within me. She wasn’t lounging around; she had risen to her duties. No fondness for soft pillows would keep her from them.
Greaves settled my mantle across my shoulders—its familiar weight steadied me, grounded me with purpose. Metal chains clicked as I fastened them. Fallione continued, voice measured, outlining the state of the army and the horsemen.
“They’ve grown accustomed to the dragons. They no longer spook at every wingbeat. Yet if a beast turned on them, composure might fracture.”
“My men must trust their horses with their lives.”
On the plains, cavalry decided wars. In the mountains, battles fractured into narrow skirmishes. Guarding passes or holding the foothills demanded strong mounts.
“I have spoken at length with Prince Ronan. He agreed to let a dragon sleep among the horsemen. Trust will deepen as we march. Provided the wildling refrains from devouring anyone, I believe they can fight side by side.”
“And the men?”
The greater concern. I would not command soldiers who fled at the first blaze of dragonfire. They would watch beasts scorch their friends and brothers. When I ordered them forward beside those war machines, I needed certainty that they would hold.
“You can rely on them.” No hesitation touched Fallione’s voice. “Where faith in dragons falters, faith in you fills the gap. They believe they stand on the correct side of history.”
A low hum left me as I moved into the corridor. “Any sign of Velli in Reem yesterday?”
A tired breath answered first. “No confirmed sightings. No reliable accounts.”
But I heard the words he didn’t speak. The creatures of our nightmares had breached Radaan.
They had been welcomed into our cities, my people forced to accept them.
Radaanians could overwhelm them in numbers, but it was the broken trust—the constant anxiety of seeing a stranger and wondering if they would rip your neck out—that unsettled the common folk.
And I was partly to blame. I had brought Egath to Reem.
I could try to assuage my guilt by claiming it was for the sake of the Treaty, but I hadn’t sent my own ambassador yet.
Too much was happening, and I was too leery to send just anyone.
It was my fault Vellos first crossed the border—and now they hid in the darkness like rats.
“Final count from the Craggs?”
“One hundred fifteen. Possibly more. The watch grew lax during our absence.”
Of course it had.
“Updated headcount?”
“Seventy-six.”
Withering fields—that left too many unaccounted for. A single unrestrained Velli could raze a village. If any were Cruor, the thought alone soured my stomach.
My dreams were haunted by memories of fighting them.
But they weren’t nearly as terrifying as the orders I had to give when one was spotted on the battlefield.
Such creatures were rare, and for good reason—I doubted even their own people trusted a being with the power to force a body to move at its whim.
“Then we find the remainder.” I shed my emotions. Stone walls settled over my mind. A war council awaited.
The morning fractured into motion the moment I reached the lower halls. Papers stacked faster than they vanished. Lists. Orders. Pardons. Reports sealed with wax still warm beneath my thumb. Ink stained the side of my hand, the scent sharp and metallic.
Necessary work.
Running a kingdom did not grant indulgence. It demanded sacrifice, piece by piece, until little remained but duty. All for the betterment of my people.
Yet when I claimed the seat at the head of the war table, something fierce stirred beneath my ribs. Bac had tested my patience for years. The thorn would finally be pulled free.
Noblemen crowded the viewing seats where Nienna once sat, silks rustling, whispers threading through the chamber. Only four men joined me at the table.
General Xzaphin commanded the mounted forces.
Lieutenant General Uthiel and General Arphix sat rigid in uniform, silver leaves stitched into their shoulders.
Arphix watched in silence, still as a drawn blade.
He reminded me of Needle, the Master Harvester stationed in the far corner.
Both men guarded their words as if each cost coin.