Chapter 20
Kai
“It’s been a week.” I cross my arms, staring down at the healer who is packing up her satchel, having accomplished absolutely nothing more than she had any other day she’s checked on Rowan.
"Prince Kai." The healer's voice carries the patience of someone who's had this conversation multiple times already.
"The young woman burned through more raw magic in a single moment than most fae use in a lifetime.
Her body is... recovering. Or trying to.
But this isn't an injury I can heal with herbs or magic.
This is her very essence attempting to rebuild itself from the inside out. "
“Trying to,” I echo. Shadows snake around me, as dark as my mood. Trying is a new word. I little liked the healer’s usual declaration that Rowan would wake when she was ready, but I like this version even less.
“Trying.” The healer purses her lips as she looks down at Rowan’s sleeping form. “Humans were never meant for such magic. That she still breathes and takes water tells me her body is -”
“— Trying. I got it.” The words come out with more bite than I intend.
A better person than me would have apologized.
A better person would have bothered to learn the healer’s name too.
But there isn’t a better person here, there is just me.
Well, me and Logan—but that bastard is stretched out in wolf form next to Rowan, so he doesn’t count.
“Kai.” Kyrian, the third member of our disaster troop, barges into the tent, narrowly avoiding knocking the healer over. In fact, the ancient female only remains standing because he grabs her shoulders before she can topple. “We have shitstorm brewing.”
“So it’s Tuesday." My attention stays on Rowan, who should be sitting up and arguing with us right now instead of drowning in her own body. In retrospect, we should always have been suspicious of Viera’s request that Kyrian and I orient the other draken riders to Eryndor’s position.
At the very least, only one of us should ever have gone.
We’d known Logan was in a precarious position with the wolves. We’d known Rowan was under threat.
And we’d fucked it all up anyway.
Which is the story of my life. I generally destroy anything precious I touch.
“How is -” Kyrian starts.
I shake my head and he snaps his mouth jaw shut without bothering to finish the question.
We are fortunate that Rowan is still able to swallow water, if it's poured into her mouth. Without it, she’d have died from dehydration already.
But she can’t take food. The healer insists that Rowan needs time to heal, but how long can she live without eating? “What’s the shitstorm?” I prod.
“Thank you for your time, Mistress Brynja,” Kyrian tells the healer.
So that’s what the old hag is called. I should probably make an effort to remember it, but I know I won’t bother. The elder inclines her head and takes her leave, while I perch impatiently on the wobbly table Theron’s quartermaster generously provided. “Well?”
He doesn’t sit. He never sits when his blood’s up; he prowls, as if moving about can dispel his ire. So far, it never has. “Theron’s gathered all leadership in the command tent.”
“And you’re sore over not being invited?”
“I’m bloody suspicious over you not being invited,” Kyrian shoots back. There is none of his usual irritating good humor behind his eyes now.
“Does Flurry make a habit of inviting other kingdoms’ princes to their command meeting?” I cross my arms. It’s hard to care about Theron’s whims when all I want to do is watch Rowan’s chest to make sure she draws the next breath.
“Theron makes a habit of making coward’s play look like statecraft.
And between not knowing that his top commander is running a cabal of dark wolves under his nose and this morning’s reports of Eryndor gathering forces, he has plenty to be scared about.
Theron is angling to do something. He’s going to make it look like a glittering act of leadership.
And he isn’t going to want us weighing in on it until after he gathers all the officers and nobles behind him. ”
Theron could crown himself the queen of Flurry for all I care, but Kyrian has a point.
Desperate people do stupid things, and the most valuable piece on Theron’s board right now is our Rowan.
“Which one of us crashes his party?” I ask.
We’ve agreed that at least two of us should always be with Rowan now, so we can’t both go.
“You,” Kyrian says grimly. “I show and he’ll do contrary to whatever I suggest just on principle.
“That’s bullshit.”
“This isn’t the time to litigate that.” Kyrian jerks his head toward the main camp, and the command tent that crowns its center.
“Go. It’s my turn with Chaos anyway.” Taking a glass of water from the side table he sits next to Rowan and strokes her hair, his blue eyes filled with the same kind of deep ache that gnaws at my soul.
The human girl has no idea what kind of hold she has on the three of us.
Hell, I’m not sure I understand it either. All I know is that it's true.
I cut through the draken field without slowing, shadows trailing like spilled ink over trampled grass and straw behind me.
Riders break off their murmured repairs to watch me pass, the draken’s following my progress with huffed discontent.
Every slit-pupiled stare says the same thing: an alchemist—even an unconscious one—doesn’t belong near their roost.
Beneath the windbreak, the ridge-backed dam, Lethara, coils tighter around a mottled egg, her low growled rumble intense enough to rattle teeth.
She’d come into the field to be with her rider-bonded mate, and the egg had been unexpected.
I empathize. Discovering who Rowan really is has been no less of a surprise.
Ulyssus tracks my steps, making it known he’ll torch the first idiot who thinks to test me. He can do it too, being bigger, stronger and older than most anyone here, bar Rhaegor, Lethara’s mate.
I let it all slide off—glances, grumbles, the hiss of banked flame—because I have exactly two problems worth my time: Rowan still not waking, and Theron about to turn cowardice into policy. Anyone who makes themselves a third gets ignored or dead. Their choice.
By the time I make it to the command tent, Theron's meeting is in full swing, his voice carrying beyond the canvas. “… thousands strong and armed with auric steel. Ainsley knows we have her daughter and she wants her back. That cannot be allowed to happen.”
“Are we discussing a threat to a Slate princess then?” I say, inviting myself inside.
The Flurry prince stands behind a campaign table laden with maps and dispatches, his posture as confident as his voice.
Like Kyrian predicted, Theron has the tent filled to bursting with all the camp’s most influential courtiers and officers.
This isn’t a war council, it’s a public relations event.
Theron’s eyes narrow with displeasure for only a heartbeat before he regains his composure. "Prince Kai. I’m pleased you decided to join us.”
“I’d have come earlier, had you extended an invitation.”
“My apologies. Kyrian was to inform you but I suppose he’s been.
.. preoccupied.” The asshole offers a tight smile as if he’s walking the line between appeasing a neighboring prince while protecting his half-brother’s reputation.
“I realize the breakdown in communication may appear unforgivable, but I assure you Kyrian intended nothing nefarious with the delay. He never does.”
My fingers curl into a fist, which I barely keep from taking out Theron’s jaw.
“As I was saying,” Theron continues, “Eryndor wants their alchemist back and that absolutely cannot be allowed to happen. Not only out of respect for our Slate neighbors,” the bastard actually bows slightly in my direction, “who are no doubt anxious for the wellbeing of their new family member, but for the safety of the draken and shifters among us. As such, the alchemist cannot remain here.”
“No problem. I’ll have her out of your hair within the hour,” I tell Theron.
“An expedient solution, Prince Kai, but unfortunately premature. My advocate general tells me that Lady Rowan’s destruction of a significant portion of our weapons cache must at this point be classified as calculated sabotage.
Under Flurry’s War Protocol, she must answer the charges before we can release her.
I trust you understand this is not a personal attack, but a necessary measure to maintain the integrity of our forces in a time of war. ”
“You mean Rowan's reflexive use of magic to save her life after your officers kidnapped and tortured her?”
“Whether the act was intentional, reckless, or merely uncontrolled, it resulted in the disabling of vital defense assets,” the crooked nosed male I recognize from an initial meeting with Theron interjects. “The charges must thus attach.”
“You need not be concerned.” Theron has the gall to look me in the eyes. “I will personally escort Lady Rowan to the palace and advocate on her behalf before the throne. She will have every advantage in this situation.”
“Not that the bitch deserves any of it,” someone in the crowd mutters, others voicing their agreement. Theron lets the voices of discontent sound just long enough to be spread through the room before reprimanding the group back to order.
“You are not taking Rowan anywhere.” My voice drips with equal measure ice and threat.
“If you wish to bring her up on charges, you may hold the tribunal here.” A tribunal that I’ve no intention of being around for, since the moment Eryndor’s advancing forces take up the other drakens’ attention, we are flying the hell out of here, politics be damned.
“Unless you’ve not the rank to preside over such a proceeding?
If that’s the issue, I’m certain Prince Kyrian could step in. ”
“My rank isn’t the issue,” Theron snaps back, the tips of his ear darkening.
“But since you are insisting on being crudely blunt, sir, the truth is that Lady Rowan is currently dying.
Flurry's court physicians have centuries of experience with magical exhaustion.
You may be willing to let territorial posturing trump the well being of an alchemist who might develop an auric poisoning antidote, but I am not. Strategic prudence must be exercised."
"Your 'strategic prudence' nearly got her killed once already. Viera was your captain. Your security. Your failure."
"A regrettable oversight," Theron concedes with practiced humility. "Which is precisely why immediate relocation is essential. We cannot afford another breach."
"No, we can't." I step closer to the table, my voice dropping to that register that makes smart people nervous. "Which is why she's coming with me."
The temperature in the tent seems to drop several degrees. Theron's diplomatic mask slips just enough to reveal the calculation beneath.
"I'm afraid that's not possible," he says, recovering quickly. "The lady’s safety is my responsibility as commanding officer. I cannot simply hand over such a valuable... such an important diplomatic asset to—"
"To her fiancé?" I cut him off. "How scandalous."
“Check your emotions, your highness,” Theron snaps back at me.
“Or take leave from the command tent until you are able to contain them. We are discussing the most prudent actions to take given current circumstances. If you cannot meaningfully contribute to the discussion, then do the rest of us the courtesy of keeping your mouth shut.”
The ice that saturates my voice slips into my veins. “My error, Prince Theron,” I say, announcing each word. “I failed to realize we were looking for a prudent course of action. From everything you’ve said thus far, I presumed we were seeking a way for you to save your own ass.”
Theron opens his mouth to respond but I beat him to it, raking my eyes over all the officers gathered in search of the few who are ready to hear the truth.
“Here’s what I see, Commander Theron: A third of your weapons cache is now dust. Your top captain managed to run a cult under your nose.
Worse yet, she’s run off, leaving you without the one competent field commander you had.
To top it off, Lethara laid her egg last night, shifting the draken’s priorities to hatchling protection.
A bad strategic posture any day, but especially unfortunate when a force of Eryndor soldiers is about to march on you.
Normally, this leaves a commander two options — admit failure and retreat, or hold ground and die with glory.
But you? You’ve found a third option—abandon your people to do the glorious dying, while you smuggle yourself to safety under the noble guise of escorting a valuable asset home to daddy’s throne. Did I miss anything?”
“Diplomacy brother,” my twin sister’s clear voice rings from the tent entrance, filling the space without effort. “The part you missed is called diplomacy.”