60. Chapter 60
“ G reymoor will be forever thankful for Your Highness’ kindness.” The messenger bowed low, his bald scalp catching the candlelight in the throne room.
“We grieve for those who have crossed the Veil,” King Maelion replied.
Kaelin sat poised beside him, her gaze steady on the messenger. The lower fae’s hands trembled as he straightened, his throat bobbing. She tilted her chin a fraction higher. There it was, that subtle pause. The but .
“However, more undead gather on the horizon,” the messenger said carefully. “We’ve sent legions to hunt them, but few have returned. The dead travel in vast numbers.” His voice cracked. “We would be eternally grateful for more soldiers to aid us.”
From the corner of her eye, Kaelin saw her mother lift her wine goblet—ruby liquid gleaming as richly as blood. Queen Lyra drank slowly, while Kaelin’s father’s expression remained unreadable. Always listen before you speak. His lesson echoed in her mind. Fools answer too quickly before thinking.
Kaelin’s lips twitched despite herself. She knew someone who would have blurted out her thoughts without a second thought.
Ren .
Maelion leaned forward. “We understand your plight. My finest soldiers have already been dispatched to neighboring villages; our numbers here in Pyraelia have dwindled.”
The messenger’s shoulders drew tight, bracing for a blow.
“That being said,” Maelion continued, “we will send what soldiers we can spare. In the meantime, evacuate any remaining villagers and send them here. We will house them within the walls.”
Silence rippled through the chamber. The messenger exhaled shakily, bowing once more until his head nearly brushed the floor.
Maelion’s words were merciful, but she could see the exhaustion buried behind her father’s eyes, the unspoken truth on everyone’s tongue.
The undead were spreading faster than they could be stopped.
And even mercy was beginning to run thin.
Lyra’s voice cut through the stillness. “How fares your daughter?” She tilted her head, a fond smile crossing her lips. “Mare. I recall she used to plait flowers into her hair each summer solstice.”
The man’s face went slack, the color draining from his already-pale cheeks. “She has crossed the Veil, Your Majesty. She and her mother were slain in the night. The undead came through the village while everyone slept. No warning, no chance to flee.”
The words struck like an arrow. Kaelin remembered the bright-eyed and wild-haired youngling, racing through the gardens with armfuls of daisies and thistle blooms, insisting every other youngling’s crown of flowers needed more color.
Kaelin’s voice was soft but steady. “You have our deepest sympathies. May the gods guide them both safely beyond the Veil.”
The messenger nodded numbly and bowed again.
No one spoke after that. The only sound was the faint clink of Lyra’s goblet as she set it down, her gaze distant, and the echo of a father’s grief that lingered long after the messenger was gone.
Kaelin sat still, her fingers curling around the arm of her chair. Even the candles seemed to burn quieter, their flames trembling as though afraid to disturb the quiet grief lingering in the air.
Then, footsteps.
Hurried, uneven – echoing down the marble corridor .
The double doors slammed open. A second messenger stumbled inside, his cloak torn and streaked with ash. He fell to one knee before the throne.
“Your Majesties—” he gasped, his voice hoarse, “Briarstead… Briarstead has fallen.” The messenger swallowed hard, his words tumbling out in broken bursts. “All of the villagers were evacuated, thank the gods, but—”
Lyra rose so suddenly her goblet toppled, crimson wine bleeding across the marble. “My son,” she demanded, her voice a whip. “Where is he?”
The messenger hesitated. His mouth opened, then closed again, as if the next words might cost him dearly. “Prince Talen is unharmed, Your Majesty,” he managed. “But…” He glanced up before lowering his gaze again. “The human girl. Ren. She… she burned everything to the ground.”
For a heartbeat, no one breathed.
Kaelin felt the blood drain from her face, her pulse thundering in her ears. Burned everything to the ground? The image seared through her mind—flames devouring fields, homes collapsing into embers, the sky painted in orange and ash.
Maelion’s voice broke the silence. “Explain yourself.”
But Kaelin barely heard him. Kaelin saw red. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out the echo of her father’s voice, the distant drip of spilled wine spreading onto marble. The messenger’s words repeated in her mind like the toll of a bell. She burned everything to the ground.
Kaelin rose. “What of Ren Harper?” she demanded. Her voice cracked through the silence, sharp enough to make the messenger flinch.
The soldier’s head snapped up, startled. “She-she lives, Your Highness,” he stammered. “Injured, but the healers have her in care. She – ”
He didn’t finish.
Kaelin was already moving.
She descended the dais in a rush, the echo of her heels striking the marble. She barely registered her mother’s sharp inhale or her father’s barked command. The only thing that mattered—the only words pulsing through her—was she’s alive.
But Kaelin couldn’t breathe until she saw her with her own eyes. Couldn’t think until she knew for certain .
The air seemed to crackle around her as she strode for the doors. The guards scattered at her approach, startled by the look in her eyes. Kaelin didn’t care about royal decorum or that half the court was staring.
The world could crumble around her, so long as Ren still drew breath.
The wound was surprisingly shallow, but gods, it hurt like hell.
Ren gritted her teeth as the nursemaid dabbed at the torn skin, the sting of the cleansing salve flaring hot at her side. She tried not to make a sound, but a hiss slipped between her clenched teeth anyway.
“Would you like more pain elixir?” the nursemaid asked, her eyes darting with concern.
Ren shook her head, a motion that betrayed the memory behind her silence, what seemed like an absolute living hell.
What she did.
Now she was strapped to a cot in the infirmary, the scent of herbs thick in the air.
The door creaked open behind them, and light footsteps approached.
“How is she?”
The nursemaid froze and immediately straightened. Ren didn’t need to turn to know who had entered.
“Healing, Your Highness,” the nursemaid replied quickly. “But in considerable pain.”
The nurse began preparing the dressing, and Ren’s stomach turned. She could already feel the sting of the wrappings on raw skin, the clumsy tug of fabric.
Ren nearly opened her mouth to request the elixir after all when a voice, velvet-smooth and sharp as glass, cut in, “Then why haven’t you given her the pain elixir?”
The nursemaid stilled mid-motion. “Apologies, Your Highness.”
“Go get it. I’ll do the wrapping myself.”
With a bow so quick it nearly stumbled into panic, the nursemaid scurried from the room .
And then it was just the two of them.
Ren turned her head and found Kaelin easing forward, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
Her curls were loose, strands of pale hair spilling down around the angles of her fae features, and faint shadows clung beneath her eyes.
It was the look of someone who had lingered here night after night, who had watched too long and slept too little.
Yet every gesture, every move Kaelin made was practiced and fluid as she knelt beside Ren’s cot and reached for her bandages.
“How long have I been asleep?” Ren asked.
Kaelin answered, “Three days.”
“You shouldn’t be here. I’m sure you have other duties to attend to.”
“Perhaps.”
Ren frowned. “Why are you so pale?”
Kaelin’s gaze flicked toward the chair tucked into the corner of the room—a chair that bore the unmistakable slump of long nights sat vigil. “Because I’ve spent the nights here,” she answered curtly, already reaching for the bandages as though to cut off further questions.
Ren’s throat tightened. She lowered her voice, words slipping out before she could hold them back. “But… why? Why stay for me?”
Kaelin’s jaw tensed. Instead of answering, her fingers brushed Ren’s skin as she took her wounded arm in her hands. Her touch was warm and practiced, but her movements were clipped, precise, as if she were holding something back.
Her hands trembled once, just once, before she stilled them with a quiet breath. “You were bleeding all over the place,” Kaelin muttered.
Ren flinched as Kaelin cinched the bandage tighter than necessary. But Kaelin caught herself, hands gentling immediately, her fingers smoothing over the gauze with excruciating care. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her eyes sharp with unspoken fury.
She snarled the next words, lips curled back and teeth bared in barely controlled rage. “There isn’t a soul in this realm who’s going to hurt you while I still draw breath. And if anyone thinks they can—”
She broke off, jaw clenching harder. A muscle ticked in her cheek.
“When I saw you in this bed… when I thought—” She stopped, swallowing hard.
“It gutted me. I felt like my chest had been split in two. I realized something then.” Her gaze flicked up, fierce and unflinching.
“I don’t want to share you, Ren. Not with anyone.
I want you. Just you. And I want you to be mine.
” She drew in a breath, her voice quieter now, but no less intense.
“So say yes, and you’ll be mine, and I’ll be yours.
No courtly games, no distractions. Just us. ”
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Ren’s lips, but her voice lowered, threaded with something quieter. “Just us.”
Kaelin’s fingers lingered for a fraction too long, smoothing the bandage, before she added—half a breath, half a laugh, “I don’t think I’d survive losing you.” Kaelin’s gaze drifted to the crook of Ren’s wrist, where the skin was thinnest. Most vulnerable.