Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Synod is not a home. It’s a place that worships strength. Somehow, the austerity of it makes it easier to bury my many fears.
Every stone, every structure, every piece of furniture, has a clear function.
The tables and chairs are made of a heavy, dark wood, built to withstand decades of use.
The occasional stone bench rests against the walls, the surfaces smooth, worn down from generations of warriors sitting there, awaiting orders or judgment.
The walls, too, are bare. There aren’t even banners of the royal crest like you see from the overlords.
Archon Lyathin walks ahead of me with swift, sure steps, never turning to ensure I’m still following him.
He doesn’t wear medals or shiny insignia like the soldiers.
His robes are perfectly hemmed to touch the toes of his black boots without dragging on the floor.
His hair is impeccably groomed, pulled back in an austere braid that trails down his back.
We turn a corner in the winding, vaulted halls to find Ryot standing at the far end of this corridor.
When his eyes fall on me, his entire demeanor shifts.
His expression twists with fury, his jaw clenching.
My breath catches as the smell of him seeps into my senses—cinnamon, sharp and warm, mixed with the tang of salt; underneath it all is the worn richness of leather.
Ryot goes from reclining against a wall to striding away so abruptly he nearly runs into Archon Lyathin as he passes us.
“You’ll be late,” Archon Lyathin calls out, but Ryot doesn’t pause, doesn’t turn around, doesn’t acknowledge the higher-ranking man at all. He just leaves.
When he’s gone, when he’s turned the corner on his storm cloud of fury, I heave out a relieved breath. There’s something about him … but I push it from my mind. Like grief, there’s no place in my mind or heart for that kind of distraction.
I enter the council chambers with bare, cold feet.
I’m still clothed in a simple white tunic a servant had me change into yesterday.
It’s a man’s tunic, and the hem hits at my calves like a dress would.
I have the sleeves rolled up so my hands aren’t encumbered by the fabric.
I don’t wrap my arms around myself, despite the chill in the air.
I don’t want them to know I’m cold.
Lyathin continues forward, taking a seat at a long, unadorned table.
Other men—I’m assuming the other archons—are already seated, their expressions ranging from open curiosity to outright dislike.
I force myself to walk evenly, deliberately, though my skin prickles under their scrutiny.
No one gestures for me to sit, so I stand before their table with my shoulders squared.
Archon Lyathin folds his hands before him, but he doesn’t speak. I want to ask what we’re waiting for. I want to ask about my brothers, about the battle yesterday, about the Kher’zenn. I want to ask about my fate, about my people, about why I’m here.
But I won’t be the first one to break this silence.
The door behind me slams open, and I startle, spinning on my heels—my feet scrape against the stone, and a hint of blood floods the chamber.
A small procession enters, and here … here is pomp and luxury and everything I expected from Faraengard.
A man enters first, dressed in full regalia, his lush black cape trailing behind him as he strides forward.
He’d be an impressive man, even without the black crown on his head or the long sword hanging at his waist. He moves with a boldness that’s been instilled in him from the cradle.
There’s no one who could walk into a room like that except a king.
A cluster of attendants scurries around him, placing cushions on the stone benches before he sits.
Princess Rissa enters next. She, too, is dressed in regal robes, though hers are white today.
She’s taller than I am, but the four men stationed around her dwarf her, nonetheless.
She takes a seat next to the man I’m very sure is King Agis.
Neither of them looks at me; they look through me.
The ache for my weapons turns into a gnawing hunger.
My hands twitch at my sides, my fingers curl against empty air.
I’m exposed, stripped bare in a way that has nothing to do with the thin fabric of my tunic or the cold stone beneath my feet.
That gnawing emptiness grows sharper, still, until it’s not only hunger. It’s not even need.
It’s rage.
Irielle’s tears streak down her face as the flames lick closer, and my brother’s heart shatters again when the flames finally reach her. Alden’s death, which repeats in my dreams, crashes into me now, relentless. My mother’s screams echo, sharp and raw, as does my father’s protective roar.
I hate that the dead— my dead—live on in my mind, only to die again and again.
My eyes rake over the king and his heir, perched atop their plush, overstuffed cushions. It’s their fault.
I would end them both, right here, if I’d kept the fork.
Tap. Shuffle. Tap. Shuffle.
That sound is maybe the only thing that could have pulled my gaze from the spectacle of the Faraengardian royal family, and I turn to find the Elder.
He walks with confidence, too, but it’s not one he was born with.
It’s a quiet, almost sad, kind of confidence.
He wasn’t raised this way; he earned it, and the difference is striking.
The Elder walks up the center of the room.
The quiet is so complete that the tap tap of his cane on the stone floor echoes throughout the chamber.
He sits, heavily, at the long table in front of the room, in the center, with two archons on either side of him.
Archon Lyathin steeples his fingers together, his focus on me. “Now we can begin—” he starts, but he’s cut off when the door slams open again.
This time, I know who it is before I ever turn around, picking up on the cinnamon and salt in the air.
Ryot storms into the room, carrying a small bundle, his gaze tracking around the room—taking in the king and his cohort; the council and the Elder; and, finally, me.
“You’re late,” Archon Lyathin says.
“Well, unless you want to delay this,” Ryot answers, as his long legs eat up the ground without hesitation. “You’ll have to punish me later.”
One of the archons, one with an eye rendered useless by Kher’zenn rot, smiles at Ryot. He appreciates his audacity. Archon Lyathin, though, is not amused.
“What was so important that you felt justified in making the Synod Council, the Elder and the King of Faraengard wait for your presence? That you felt it was appropriate to interrupt the proceedings?” Lyathin asks him.
Ryot tosses the bundle he’s holding to me. I catch it out of sheer reflex.
“Since when do we call an assembly and not allow the summoned to even dress themselves or put on a pair of fucking shoes,” Ryot growls out. Like they’re one, all four of the archons sitting at that long table drop their gaze to my feet.
A flush crawls up Archon Lyathin’s face. It’s the first time I’ve seen him unsettled. He opens his mouth to speak, but the Elder raises his hand, signaling for silence.
“We’ll wait,” he tells me, and nods toward the bag I’ve clutched in my hands.
The weight of their stares linger, but I’m not embarrassed.
I’m just … confused. Because this is Ryot.
The same man who tore me from my brothers, who forced me here, who set himself against everything I love, everything I stand for.
And yet, in the last day, he’s also saved my life and now stands here, fist clenched, fury rippling through him—not for himself, but for me.
Because his leaders have treated me as something that’s not even worthy of shoes.
I don’t know what to do with that.
The silence stretches, so that when I dig into the canvas bag, the rustling of the contents is crisp and clear. When I pull out a leather coat trimmed with a thick, well-worn fur—rough and heavy and smelling of salt and cinnamon—my pulse gives an uneven stutter.
I slide my arms through the sleeves. It’s too big, the fabric swallowing me whole, and the weight of the well-worn leather settles over my shoulders like a shield.
One I never asked for, but which I appreciate all the same.
I look up, and my gaze collides with his.
His fury is still there, but now there’s also a satisfied glint in his eyes.
I dig into the bag again, pulling free an oversized pair of wool socks.
My bare skin shifts against the cold stone one last time before I slip them on, the warmth and softness a comforting barrier.
My fingers tighten around the edges of the coat, and I keep my gaze steady as I glance back at him.
His expression is unreadable, his jaw tight.
I don’t thank him. I don’t owe him that, but I do acknowledge him. A single nod, sharp and brief. He doesn’t press for gratitude. He simply exhales, tension easing from his shoulders by the barest fraction, and then turns, taking a seat on one of the stone benches opposite the king.
“Leina Haverlyn,” Archon Lyathin starts. Aside from when the Elder interrupts, Lyathin seems to be the one in charge.
I square my shoulders and face them.
“We have many questions for you.” He gestures to a simple, wooden chair in the center of the room. “Be seated.”