Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Nienna
The dark tower of Phares loomed like a tombstone over the ruined city. Thick smoke choked the sun, dragonfire unquenched and raging. It burned until spent, unyielding to the wills of men.
Morning erupted in a flurry of activity. After the medic examined me, we moved to a lower room, safe from flames yet beyond the reach of smoke. The quiet moment with my husband dissolved under a deluge of messengers, papers, and orders demanding signatures and seals.
“And the protection of the southern orchards, eastern fields—Saphirra has claimed that.” Fallione slid another parchment toward Kallias.
“A tithe of thirty percent goes to Mon.” He signed the previous order without looking up.
“Add a clause that Raul and Cain may take as much as they can carry.” I seized the paper, holding it before me to read the neat script. “We might be on a warpath, but we’ll not forget those who have served us.”
Kallias hummed in agreement, reclining and stretching his spine.
“Your ring.” I extended my hand.
He frowned, brow arching in silent question as he wrestled off his signet ring. Thick emeralds glimmered on the sides, the crest of Radaan dominating the surface. When freed, a pale line encircled his flesh. He never removed it—no king did.
“We can leave sooner if you tend to the tasks requiring your presence.” I drew the pot of warmed wax closer, the heavy gold ring thudding into my palm. “The queen will manage the signing and seals.”
The crease in his brow eased, eyes alight with pride. “I must see to our army, but I would have you there when I address Phares’ refugees.”
“I’ll await your messenger.” Quill in hand, I penned my addendum at the bottom of the order, scanning the harvest lists.
His foot nudged mine beneath the table, toes brushing in the smallest show of affection before he rose. “It will be a few hours. Ensure she is refreshed, Freya.” His quick glance swept over my maid before he departed, followed by Fallione and Greaves.
I poured a coin of wax beside my signature, sliding Kallias’ ring onto my thumb and pressing it into the hot liquid.
“Does Her Majesty need a bath?”
I squinted at her, frowning.
“Perhaps a foot massage?” She dropped into his chair, smirking. “I’m to ensure you’re refreshed. Ordered by the king, no less. ”
“He worries. Last night I nearly coughed up my intestines.”
“No worse than vomiting them up.” Her green eyes sparkled, a wry smile twisting her lips.
“You know.”
“Did you think Edith would dare send you across the continent without updating me on your state? Honestly, to think you were raised with me and Scythe… Handmaids know everything.”
“How long have you known?” I taunted, peeling the ring from the paper.
“As long as Edith.”
I shot her a deadpan look, grasping another order.
“Perhaps a day later. Your mother insisted on knowing the latest of your cycles. And given how often you entertain the king–”
“Freya!”
“It was bound to take quickly!” She laughed, leaning out of reach as I swung at her. “Though your pregnancy hasn’t chased him off as it does with some men.”
“Oh, he tried.” I chuckled, pressing my lips together, pretending to study the list of destroyed temples and their rebuilding requests.
“No! You must tell me! He’s not the type to breed you then wipe his hands. He can’t stay away.”
“You, my friend, need to get your mind out of the gutter.” I jabbed the quill at her. “He feared he’d endanger the babe.”
“With his rigorous love-making.”
I gasped, lunging forward, but she danced out of reach, giggling. “Freya, I would like to see the attention you give my love life directed at packing for the Craggs. Perhaps the manual labor shall ease your mind of such burdens.”
“You and the king are my only taste of passion now.” She grinned, striding across the room to fold my nightgown. “As your maid in Radaan, I will not take a husband. Unless it’s Greaves—that could work.”
“You’d be better off seeking marriage with a crab.” I snorted. “That man is as prickly as they come.”
“Oh, he’s just like a crab! Hard and pinching outside, soft and tasty inside.”
Greaves was a protector, loyal to his core.
It was ingrained into his very soul. He wasn’t some young lad looking for a woman like Freya.
As old as Kallias, perhaps older, his life belonged to the king.
No family, no love for him. In a way, Kallias was his family.
I doubted there was a woman out there who could pull him from my husband’s side.
“I’ll thank you not to refer to men as tasty ever again, if you please.” My nose wrinkled, but my lips curved. The trek to the Craggs would be long, yet with Freya, a little more bearable.
Kallias moved among the weary crowd, their bundles knotted in blankets and worn cloaks at their feet. Those who fled Phares stretched to the horizon, a sprawl of soot-streaked faces and hollow eyes. North winds cut across the plain, cruel as blades, tugging at frayed garments.
Dragons towered behind me, scales gleaming against the broken city. Ash drifted through the air, catching in my throat. Ronan stood at my side, arms crossed, gaze fixed on Kallias’ golden armor.
“He’s probably apologizing.” He scoffed.
My elbow twitched with the desire to drive into his ribs. “The king is assuring them they’ll have shelter farther south to weather the winter, you scallop. Phares will take time to clear.”
“Who are you calling a scallop?” He bristled. “Tsunami dropped wet fire. It could be weeks before those flames die. Even longer before it cools enough to touch.”
The report had landed like a stone in my gut. Dragons required discipline; their ruin was measured in careful strikes. I hadn’t given it much thought, letting Tsunami join in the ruin of the city. Now I carried the burden of telling Kallias that the clearing would stall for weeks, perhaps months.
Wet fire came when oil poured too freely and sparked. It did not simply ignite. It soaked timber, seeped into soil, bled through porous stone. Flames crawled low and stubborn, smoke thick with the scent of pitch, burning long past reason.
No one had checked Tsunami. She cast her oil to the wind, instinct guiding the torrent.
She sat beside Breon, angled as far from Gyrak as pride allowed. Her irises glittered like sunlit sand, gaze flicking between me and Kallias. Nostrils flared. A faint curl of smoke slipped from her jaws.
One misstep toward us and Gyrak would humble her again.
Gold flashed through the crowd as my husband’s armor gleamed, scoured clean, not a smear of blood left to stain it. Greaves followed in dark leather, silent as a shadow stitched to his king. The night to Kallias’ sun.
He paused before an older man propped against a girl’s shoulder. Their words were lost to the wind. The man reached out, frail fingers emerging from a torn blanket to brush the king’s polished metal.
Greaves shifted, weight rolling to the balls of his feet—ready to intervene.
Then Kallias saluted him. Fist to chest. Head bowed.
Respect offered without hesitation. The girl’s mouth parted before she caught herself, dipping into a curtsy and tugging the old man with her.
My husband clasped the man’s shoulder, slowing the contact so it would not jar fragile bones.
Precision lived in him, even in mercy. When he turned, his gaze found me on the rise.
He broke from the crowd and climbed the hill. Dirt-streaked faces tracked his ascent.
Fallione joined him. “Final count stands at two thousand, three hundred sixty-two.”
Kallias said nothing. Tension locked his shoulders. Glacier eyes swept the mass below, frost masking the fracture beneath.
“Two hundred soldiers will escort them to Reem. Have them wait there until I return.”
Fallione’s frown flickered toward me, as if answers might hide in my expression. “I’ll send word to Alma to see them cared for.”
Kallias drew a breath that lifted his chest. His hand flexed above his sword’s hilt.
“Citizens of Radaan!” His voice carried across the plain, striking silence into the wind itself.
“Phares lies in ruin. Betrayal of gods and king brought destruction upon house and livelihood. You are no longer welcome in these streets. The name Phares will stain you no further. You are to bear the title of the Wandering People.”
A murmur shivered through the crowd.
“You may find shelter wherever you travel. No city is to refuse you. Yet you are forbidden to plant roots. You shall walk Radaan all your days, a living testament to the wrath of Elohios. A warning to any who would betray the mantle.”
Horror drained faces of what little color remained. Gasps rippled like wind through brittle grass. Women crushed children to their chests. Men’s jaws hardened, fury banked behind clenched teeth.
But none dared object while dragons stood at our backs.
“Your king and queen shall not rest until Radaan is purged of the darkness you harbored. Until that day, you will rest in Reem under guard and provision. May the gods have mercy on your souls.”
“Wait! King Kallias!” A boy tore free from the crowd. He stumbled, black smeared across his small face, hair matted with grime. “My mama can’t walk. My sister is sick. We’ll never make it!”
A dragon rumbled, low and warning. Sympathy squeezed my lungs. He couldn’t have seen more than eight summers. Wind snapped his thin tunic against narrow ribs. Bare ankles showed beneath too-short trousers. His fingers curled into hooks as he stared up, hope raw in his expression.
“The rain falls on the just and the unjust.” Kallias’ tone cut like winter stone. He turned without pause and mounted his horse, turning his back on the stunned crowd.
Ronan helped me mount before he rushed to Gyrak.
In their eyes, their king had abandoned them, forsaken them, punished them more than they could bear. They escaped the city, hoping to find mercy, but only faced his judgment.
But they did not notice the sun catch on the wet trail along his cheek.