Chapter 19 Wen
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Wen
Three days later, when Mal was finally healed enough to stand without wincing every time he moved, we called a council meeting.
Not just our internal council, but representatives from all the other allied kingdoms as well.
The throne room was packed, bodies crammed in shoulder to shoulder, the air vibrating with anticipation.
Word had spread that something significant was happening, though we’d kept the details carefully vague.
I stood beside Mal’s throne, watching the assembled nobles and rulers file in and find their places. People kept shooting glances at each other, fidgeting with their sleeves, shifting their weight from foot to foot.
I leaned close to Mal and muttered, “This should be interesting.”
“Interesting is one word for it,” he replied just as quietly. His hand found mine briefly, a quick squeeze of support.
The doors at the far end of the throne room opened with a ceremonial boom that echoed off the high ceilings. Every head turned in perfect synchronization. Prince Gregyor walked in, and I had to admire his timing. The man knew how to make an entrance.
Murmurs erupted immediately, spreading through the crowd like wildfire.
Gregyor was every inch the imposing prince, flanked by his own councilors and noblemen, all dressed in Igryside’s royal colors.
His face was impassive, studiously neutral, but that prominent scar running down his face made him appear dangerous.
Intimidating. Like he could be walking into battle instead of a political meeting.
The noise grew louder as people recognized the Igryside crest on his councilors’ clothing. Confusion, alarm, fear. It rippled through the assembled nobles like a wave.
Mal stood from his throne, his presence commanding immediate silence. “Kings and Queens of the allied realms,” he said, his voice carrying to every corner. “I present to you Prince Gregyor of Igryside.”
You could have heard a pin drop. The stillness was absolute, shocked, heavy with disbelief.
King Mortimer Goldridge of Duskmere recovered first, his voice sharp with suspicion. “Igryside? The kingdom that has been hunting portal casters? Hunting Ravenor’s Queen and Prince Heir?”
Mal’s response was calm, measured, unbothered by the accusation in Goldridge’s tone. “Yes. And the kingdom whose king is now dead.”
More gasps. Shocked faces. Someone actually stumbled backward. A few hands went to sword hilts instinctively before their owners realized the absurdity of drawing weapons in the throne room.
Mal explained everything with methodical precision.
The tracking spell to find Tyreen. Finding her in Noctherion woods.
The plan to contact Gregyor through the message portal.
The stealth mission that had gone spectacularly wrong when we walked straight into a trap.
King Igrid’s death at his own son’s hand in this very throne room.
By the end of his recounting, the hall was silent again, but this time with rapt attention rather than shock. Every eye was fixed on either Mal or Gregyor, trying to process this information.
King Valerius Crescentborn of Valoryn said slowly, “You took down a king in days. From first contact to execution.”
I nodded toward Tyreen, who stood with Casimya near the side of the room. “We had help. Exceptional help.”
Tyreen inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the recognition.
Mal continued, his tone formal now, official. “Prince Gregyor will be crowned King in a few days, and he wishes to join our alliance. To ensure lasting peace between our kingdoms. To end the hostilities that have plagued us for too long. We propose a vote.”
I’d expected debate. Arguments. Lengthy discussions about the wisdom of trusting a former enemy. But the vote was surprisingly swift.
One by one, the kingdoms agreed. Valerius Crescentborn voted yes first, firm and decisive.
Mortimer Goldridge from Duskmere followed immediately.
Aurion lifted his hand as if he was in a damn classroom and said his vote was positive.
Even the more skeptical rulers like Kazimir Briarfield from Moonhaven or Kane Aurelius from Ebonvale seemed swayed by Gregyor’s story, by the image of a son who chose his people over his father, who killed his own blood to end suffering.
It was nearly unanimous when King Xander Silvermane of Wynter raised his hand, his expression troubled.
“What about the portals?” he asked.
My hands clenched at my sides before I could stop them.
Mal’s eyebrows rose slightly. “What about them?” he asked carefully.
Silvermane gestured vaguely, his concern evident. “They keep opening. Random locations across all our kingdoms. Some stable, some not. What is causing them? Are we under attack? Is this some residual effect of the war?”
Everyone in the room turned to me. Of course they did. I was the portal caster. I was supposed to have answers.
I straightened my spine and met his gaze directly. “I don’t know.”
Silvermane’s eyes sharpened. “You are the portal caster. Surely you must know something.”
“I’m A portal caster,” I corrected, keeping my voice steady. “But I don’t control every portal that opens. I don’t even feel when they open unless I’m actively searching for them. I’m as confused as you are about these random occurrences.”
“That is not a reassuring answer, Your Majesty,” Silvermane said, his tone pointed.
“It’s the only answer I have,” I replied. “I wish I could tell you more. I wish I understood what was happening. But I don’t. My power is too new, and I still have a long way to go to master it and learn everything I can about it. Lying to you would serve no purpose.”
The assembled rulers weren’t happy with that response.
Unease flickered across faces, worried glances exchanged between nobles.
The truth was, I had no idea what was happening with the rogue portals.
It kept me up at night wondering if I was somehow causing them unconsciously, if my training with Tyreen had destabilized something, if there was some larger threat we weren’t seeing.
But I couldn’t give them answers I didn’t have. And I wasn’t about to invent some to make them feel better.
Mal stepped in smoothly, his voice firm and authoritative. “We will investigate the portal phenomenon. But for now, we have more immediate concerns to address.” He paused for effect. “We are throwing a banquet to celebrate the new alliance. Tonight.”
Aurion, standing off to the side, groaned audibly. “Another banquet? The last one ended in absolute chaos.”
“This one will not,” Mal said confidently. “It will be peaceful. Boring, even.”
I couldn’t help myself. I muttered under my breath, “I will believe that when I see it.”
Mal shot me a look that was half amusement, half warning. I smiled innocently. He wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all me.
The meeting concluded with the formal acceptance of Igryside into the alliance. Documents would be drawn up, treaties signed, but the hard part was done. Gregyor had allies now. Protection. A chance to rebuild his kingdom without the specter of his father’s madness hanging over everything.
As people began to file out of the throne room, voices rising in excited chatter about this dramatic turn of events, Mal pulled me aside into one of the alcoves along the wall.
“Killian asked to stay on Earth for the banquet,” he said without preamble. “With his aunties.”
I blinked, surprised. “Why? Is something wrong?”
Mal’s expression softened. “He said he is not ready to face a multitude of people again. Not after last time.”
The last banquet. Killian’s powers exploding in public when he’d gotten overwhelmed.
The nobles calling him bastard, questioning his parentage because of his magical abilities.
The looks and pointed comments that had followed him for days afterward.
He was only four years old. That kind of cruelty would scar anyone, let alone a child.
“Did he personally request Earth?” I asked, my throat tight. “Or did someone suggest it?”
“He requested it himself,” Mal confirmed. “Said he misses Auntie Krystin’s cookies and wants to help her bake. My mother thinks it is a good idea. Torin will take him through the portal and stay with them.”
“We should let him go,” I said immediately. If Killian didn’t feel ready, we wouldn’t force him. He’d been through enough. “He’ll come back when he’s ready.”
“Agreed,” Mal said, clearly relieved I wasn’t going to argue.
Then his hand found the small of my back, a casual touch that was anything but casual. His fingers pressed in slightly, possessive and promising.
“So we will have the evening to ourselves,” he said, dropping to a lower register.
“At a banquet,” I pointed out, trying and failing to keep steady. “With hundreds of people watching our every move.”
His eyes darkened with promise, that look that meant he was thinking about things that absolutely should not be thought about in the throne room. “After the banquet?” he asked.
I smiled, feeling my own anticipation building. “After the banquet, we can do whatever we want.”
“I am already planning,” he said, his thumb stroking small circles on my back that were absolutely deliberate.
“Is that so?” I asked, the words coming out breathier than I intended. Damn him.
“Several plans,” he confirmed, his eyes locked on mine. “Very detailed plans.”
“Care to share?” I asked, stepping slightly closer despite knowing we were still technically in public view.
“I would rather show you,” he said roughly.
I was already thinking about later, about getting him alone in our chambers, about all those detailed plans he’d mentioned. About exactly how long I’d have to endure small talk and diplomatic pleasantries before I could drag him away.
Aurion walked past us, loud enough to be heard despite his attempt to sound casual. “You are both being inappropriate again. Please control yourselves. There are nobles present.”
Mal didn’t even turn his head, just called after his brother, “Mind your business.”
“Your arousal is everyone’s business when you are broadcasting it to the entire room!” Aurion shot back. “We have noses. We can smell it. Jeez. Have some dignity.”
I buried my face in Mal’s chest, laughing despite my embarrassment. His chest rumbled with his own laughter.
“Your brother is insufferable,” I said into his shirt.
“Completely,” Mal agreed cheerfully. “But he is not wrong.”
“Not helping,” I muttered.
He tilted my chin up, still grinning. “Tonight’s banquet is either going to be wonderfully boring or spectacularly chaotic. I vote for boring,” he said.
“Based on our track record?” I said skeptically. “I’m betting on chaos.”
“Have faith,” he said.
“I have faith,” I replied. “Faith that something will inevitably go wrong because that is how these things work for us.”
He kissed my forehead, gentle and sweet despite the heat still simmering between us. “Then we will handle it. Together.”
“Together,” I agreed.