Chapter 17
ZHAIRE
Zhaire found himself pacing outside the throne room, slick with sweat that stank of liquor and stale sex. Barred. The bastard had barred him from entering.
He turned and walked back the way he’d come, all the while never averting his gaze from the two guards standing in front of the throne rooms double doors. One swallowed nervously. The other’s eye twitched. Zhaire noted the sweat beading on their upper lips.
They knew that he could drop them both in seconds.
It was only his profound respect for the prestigious position of royal guard that he’d restrained himself at all from simply disarming them and forcing his way inside.
But this was urgent. He turned again, walking back the way he’d just come. He slowed as he passed the double doors. The muscle in his jaw jumped. He would break soon—no amount of respect would hold him back much longer.
He was accustomed to this kind of treatment—and up until last week, the humiliation of being barred from his own father’s throne room wouldn’t have fazed him at all.
He would have simply dropped on the floor and waited, amusing himself by chatting with the two guards to pass the time.
Did his father’s twisted games hurt? At one time, yes.
But thick skin was a requirement when in the unique position of being the only bastard son of a king that despised him.
Last week he’d been content with his place in the world.
He’d had a brother that was worth every bit of admiration the realm gave him. A fair commander who was more of a father to him than his had ever been. His Horde, who he’d bled for, killed for, would die for, and they would do the same for him.
And he’d still had his fucking dignity.
So why shouldn’t he have been content?
He was not the one carrying the weight of the entire realm.
This was Kiel’s weight to bear—it couldn’t have been hard, the High Seer’s visions, all portents and signs, had pointed to Kiel’s victory from the moment of his conception.
Kiel had spent his life preparing to save the realm one day.
He spent his days learning from the greatest minds in the realm, poring over sacred texts that only he and the High Seer were allowed to read, and training with the king, their father, himself in the art of their sacred weapons.
Kiel shouldered the weight gladly, made it look almost easy, fun.
Not even torture would have gotten this information out of Zhaire, but for a very brief stint when he’d had about eleven years to fuck things up, he’d envied Kiel. Not that he would ever begrudged his elder brother; Kiel was worthy of every bit of worship that Zhaire had heaped upon him.
It hadn’t taken Zhaire long to remember that he would much rather busy himself playing at war. Rising through the ranks, perfecting his legions so that they would be ready when Kiel and the Heir called them to the final battle—that was what Zhaire had been born for.
Zhaire had finally gotten to a place where he was almost proud of himself—his accomplishments, victories, and dedication to the realm.
Now, one week in his brother’s boots and he was close to buckling under the weight.
One week … he’d thought he’d had so much time.
Truthfully, and it was blasphemy to even think it …
but he’d thought he’d have forever. Long before Kiel’s death, Zhaire had suspected the prophecy had skipped the cycle entirely.
Two decades had passed without even a whisper, a rumor that the Cycle Heir had been born.
And when he’d lost Kiel … The Desolate Winter firstborn heir to the Obsidian Throne had never perished before the Cycle Heir before. It was unprecedented. Losing Kiel had all but cemented it for him—the prophecy had skipped them.
So, after the funeral, when High Seer Lem had hailed him by messenger, urging Zhaire to make an appearance and begin his studies, he’d ignored the summons, choosing to spend every day with Rook, Ivara, and Azmera at a fucking gambling hall.
He’d burned Lem’s summons for a laugh, dedicated another toast to Kiel’s memory, then placed a bet with Azmera on who could bed the prettiest female in the hall.
He was a fuck up.
He halted his pacing in front of the door, pressed his thumb and finger to his eyes. He could’ve spent the week preparing for her arrival, and instead, he’d chosen to lose himself to grief and self-pity like an undisciplined child.
Kiel would have spent every waking day with the seer preparing for her arrival—shit, he practically had spent every waking day with him.
Already, he’d failed to take Kiel’s place.
Finally, the door opened, and, as if sensing Zhaire’s shameful thoughts, the High Seer himself appeared through the opening, grave disappointment radiating from his bald head. “His Highness permits—”
Zhaire didn’t let the seer finish before he burst past him into the throne room. “I’ve seen the Heir,” he exclaimed. “She arrived in Zenaida this morning.”
He paused momentarily when he saw that the entire council was gathered—and had, by the looks of the empty plates and stacks of paper, just concluded their session.
Even Daife was there, a grave look on his face, where he stood rigidly behind his seat, as though he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
Hands that were weapons in and of themselves.
Daife was a mastermind when it came to combat and war strategy, but he despised being summoned to the palace, having to deal with the pomp and theater of court.
Zhaire supposed he’d inherited this from the commander.
How long had they been here? He would’ve had to be summoned from the barracks in Vroman—Daife was Ishean, he didn’t possess magic and couldn’t travel by Veilway. It would’ve taken him hours to arrive.
Of course, Zhaire had been excluded from attending the council meeting—allowing him to come might have sent the wrong message—that the king valued his presence or opinion.
And then it hit him, Daife’s expression was grave—not surprised.
His announcement of her arrival wasn’t news. They knew already. Had known. For how long?
Zhaire suppressed a bitter laugh. Had he really thought anything would have changed?
They were busy scheming, none thinking that he should be consulted or even informed that she would arrive in Zenaida today.
Not even Daife, who wouldn’t even look at him, had broken this to him.
He should’ve prepared for this outcome.
“Sober up, Zhaire. We know.” King Andreh, Zhaire’s father, replied. His frigid voice washed over him like a glacial waterfall. “Prepare to meet with her in a few days’ time.”
Zhaire almost choked.
Days?
Unprepared. He was woefully unprepared.
He would fail them in this; he would fail everyone he knew and loved; he would doom the entire realm to another five hundred years of starvation and entrapment in the underworld.
His father continued, “Our seers inform us that the Zenaidans aren’t aware of who she is, and neither is she.
They only know that she is one of hundreds of potential Heirs.
They have sequestered them all in an academy, training this group of humans, hoping the Heir’s power will manifest, that she will reveal herself.
You must meet with her before they discover who she is. ”
“It’s too soon—”
“Quiet, boy.” The king’s eyes shone with rage and grief.
“You will take up your brother’s torch as none other may—you will convince her to come willingly, to take her rightful place, to raise the legions of the valiant dead, to defeat the Zenaidan filth.
” He leaned forward in his throne. “You will bring me victory.”
Zhaire felt a sudden, wild, reckless rage. Kiel had planned for this, trained for this. He would’ve convinced her in a heartbeat. Kiel would have done the impossible, fulfilled the Veiled Realm’s role in her prophecy.
But Zhaire was not Kiel. His father pretending that he was, that he could be Kiel, that way would never work.
But there was something else he could try, something that came to him just now.
It was madness, the idea, and he maybe should ignore it, though it needled within him, a seedling shooting into a vine, choking his apprehension; it wrapped around his uncertainty and shattered it, because now that he thought of it, he realized that this just might be the only thing that would save the realm.
“Permit me to speak, Father, please.”
Saying “please” to his father was a testament to just how desperate he felt, to just how much Zhaire cared for his realm.
Seer Lem interjected. “Your Majesty, we do not have time for the prince’s folly. He hasn’t even deigned to visit the archives, to learn—”
“I permit him to speak.” The king waved Zhaire on.
Zhaire tried to hide his surprise. He rushed ahead before he could rein himself in or fully knew what he was even going to say.
“If I try to take Kiel’s place … I will fail.
We risk her discovery. All will be lost. But …
I have strengths that Kiel did not.” Someone snorted.
Zhaire swallowed. He knew that sounded mad, even to himself.
“I have trained my entire life to be a soldier. Let me be a soldier.”
The king’s silver brow furrowed, met in the middle. “Elaborate.”
“She must die. I will be the one to take her life.”
The king sputtered in his shock as cries of “Sacrilege!” and “Blasphemy” rose from the council.
In Zhaire’s twenty-five years, he had disappointed his father more times than he could count—but, he thought, this might be only the second time that he’d ever surprised him.
The first was just recently, when he’d accidentally been at fault for the death of his brother, who shouldn’t have been able to die.
Zhaire stilled his features, refusing to recant his words.
A painful grip on his shoulder. Daife, his commander, who’d always had his best interests at heart. Who’d spent Zhaire’s entire life shaping him into the soldier he was now. “Zhai, son, say this is a jest. Don’t let the drink land you in the dungeons.”