Chapter 12 #2
At the sight of blood and injury, Lunara transformed. Already calling power forward, she leapt up out of her seat. “You daft old beast,” she scolded, rounding the table. “Look what you’ve done to yourself. Honestly.”
Caius clenched his jaw when she took his hand, lids fluttering closed as light glowed between them. The gash in his palm knit back together, even while her own hands felt as though they were crumbling apart into flaming dust—worse, since she’d already taken a hit with Baldrir earlier this morning.
Stars above. The familiar, wretched stench of the black ooze all over him didn’t help either.
Last year, she would’ve counted Caius as a friend, of sorts.
She’d never publicly claim it due to his status as an Imperial, but she’d bonded with him and Thaddeus while they’d worked together to make Meliora as comfortable as possible.
He’d told her stories and shown her nothing but gratitude, and it had been easy between them with their shared goal.
It would seem that her sort-of-friend had gotten bitter in the time since she’d seen him, a dark cloud sitting on his shoulders and following him around.
It broke her heart.
When he was finally put back together, Lunara took a shaky step away, fighting tears for too many reasons to count. She moved to sit, but—
Why is everyone staring at you?
She thought back, realizing too late that she should’ve reigned her words better and not spoken to an Imperial Son like he was a petulant child in front of them. But, for just a moment, they’d been back at her cottage and close as anything, and she’d slipped.
Then, Caius flexed his mended hand, sighing and flashing the perfectly unmarred flesh of his palm, and Lunara realized what she’d just done.
Tits. Fuck. Arse. Run.
Lunara was perilously close to fainting. A vehement denial might work. Better than fleeing, at least. Right? Perhaps she could try and turn it around. Maybe laugh it off.
For the love of the Sisters, do not draw more attention to yourself by cackling.
“Ach, Lunara, I… Thank you, lass.” He turned to the table at large and offered them his apologies as well, but only Thaddeus was paying any attention to him.
The father and son pair were used to her power, but the others…
Hedda leaned in to Faldir and whispered something in his ear. Lyriat was nodding with pursed lips, his eyes bouncing between Caius’s hand and hers.
“Witchling…” Magnus started, but didn’t finish. He just cocked his head to the side, as if he wasn’t quite sure which thought—or accusation—to go with first.
You knew this would happen. They’ve seen, and now they’re going to tell the Council. Araxis.
“I—”
A clatter by the portal saved Lunara from having to explain, and she could have kissed whoever it was.
First, a petite Demon appeared, scroll clenched her fist. One of the Wolflords from before followed a second later, also bearing his own roll of parchment as they raced across the distance.
“Apologies, Your Highness,” she said to Brand, handing hers over. “It was pandemonium, and I didn’t realize the Westrealm’s High Ambassador had slipped by me. I made sure to bring this back, so no other eyes would see it.”
“Don’t let it worry you, Frida. You’ve done well. Go, find Aldiat and your rest.”
With a nod, she left, dodging the other messenger.
Caius stood as the male approached. “Speak, lad.”
“A letter arrived from Glynmor, Your Highness. The Chieftains sent me straight back to bring it to you.”
Caius accepted the folded paper with a nod and pulled the twine from around it.
“Did you just say Glynmor?” Brand breathed.
“Aye.” Caius tossed the string, clearly only half listening as he read the letter’s contents. “What of it?”
Another silent look passed between Brand and Lyriat, another nod from the king.
“Baldrir was tasked by his assailant with delivering a message. Someone named Glynmor was mentioned therein.”
Magnus snorted. “Glynmor isn’t a person. It’s a place.”
Lyriat snapped his fingers. “I knew I’d heard it. Just a sentence or two in a correspondence with the Chieftains some while back.”
“Aye. A newer village on the southern border, only a couple years old. Bit too close to the Thodelemaia Dread Chasm for my taste, but the fertility of the land there is unparalleled.”
“My thanks for the agricultural aside, Mag.” Brand rolled his eyes. “If it’s a place, then why would it be referred to as she?”
“While you’re at it, perhaps all of you Wolflords can explain how this happened in Thodelebor, with one of its villages mentioned in the aftermath, and I’m still meant to believe the Westrealm is innocent of wrongdoing.”
“Fiery arse.” Caius rolled his eyes at the Demon King, tsk’ing. “You’re young, so I’ll forgive your thick skull. Take a moment and then try to tell me which Realm Ruler is actually stupid enough to make it this easy to figure out.”
Lyriat stared at him, his nostrils flaring. “You think someone is setting you up.”
“Aye. It’s been a long time, but it sure as shite isn’t the first time.”
“It makes sense,” Brand said. “Especially if it isn’t one of the realms, but one of the anti-Imperialist factions. What better way to distract us than pitting us against one another while they make their moves?”
The king sighed. “And I’m sitting here falling for it.”
“Perhaps,” Caius said. “Perhaps not. It’s wise to be wary until you figure it out. That’s what makes you a good king.”
There was a moment’s quiet, finally broken by Magnus. “This is lovely and all, but I don’t suppose you’d care to share this message? Might help in the helping, aye?”
The others all leaned in as Brand recited, “‘Glynmor thinks she’s safe and well, tucked tight in her field of green. But what do you and her flesh have in common? I know what I hope it will be.’”
Lunara’s gut churned at hearing it again. Those puzzling words that said both something and absolutely nothing, all at once. The cadence just like a certain—
Oh my shitting stars. The Voice.
She forced her features into a blank mask, refusing to let any of the chaotic emotions bolting through her to show.
How in the realms could you have forgotten that it spoke to you just last night? Extensively!
What if it was the same being? Though, Baldrir had leaned towards his captor being male, and her visitor was decidedly not. Still, it would mean that it was real. Not the creation of a slipping mind, but—
No. Lunara couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t stomach it. She could only slow her breathing into something resembling normal and try not to lose her breakfast all over Lyriat’s polished floor.
Realm matters, politics, factions—none of it had anything to do with her. She didn’t owe them one of her most closely held secrets on the off chance it was related.
“Well that’s fucking uncanny.” Caius slapped the note onto the tabletop and pointed at it. “Because this is a letter asking for my influence in securing your services there.”
“What?”
“Read it for yourself, lad.”
Brand snatched up the piece of parchment, Hedda and Faldir on their feet in an instant and scanning the contents over his shoulder.
Hedda’s face twisted with disbelief. “They want the Fourth Imperial Son to come and dig ditches?”
“I believe it says a ditch,” Caius said.
She scrunched her brow and reread the message.
“And stone walls along the chasm edge!” she screeched, reaching around Brand to jab her finger into the paper
Magnus ran a hand through his blond hair. “Glynmor is a trial, to see if we can cultivate more places. The Westrealm is struggling to keep up with demand, so we’ve started to spread out into the land that had been left for the birds and beasties to thrive.”
Faldir’s face pinched. “What does that have to do with walls and ditches?”
“The walls are for the children, to keep them safe. Glynmor is less than a mile from the drop there. The ditch is to reroute part of the nearby Westriver and get a supply of water to the high fields behind the village—fields that grow your bloody damned food, you sour wee shite.”
“And how do you know that?” Faldir crossed his arms, brow arching. “There are no specifics here.”
“Glynmor was his idea. He’s the one who designed the plans and stages,” Caius said, his voice thoughtful. “I’m surprised he’s never mentioned it.”
The statement had Brand’s head snapping up in his brother’s direction.
“Ach, calm yourself.” Magnus waved him away. “I didn’t say anything because I wanted to see if it would all work out first. I did not know they’d already arranged to ask for your help.”
“If it’s your project, why would they put it to Caius and not you?”
Magnus gestured at Caius. “High Ambassador.” He pointed to himself. “Ambassador Apparent. Think you can work that out on your own, Fal, or do you need it explained in shorter sentences and smaller words?”
Trails of light flashed over Faldir’s skin as he snarled. He took a step forward, but drew up short when Lyriat raised a silencing hand.
“Regardless,” he said with a pointed look at Faldir, “I am failing to understand how this relates to the message from Baldrir.”
Caius huffed. “The message sounds like the riddled ramblings of a lunatic. I wouldn’t pay it too much heed.”
Hedda pulled herself up straight. “It is unwise to ignore such things.” Her voice was hard, unyielding. “Especially under the circumstances.”
“Perhaps I should clarify.” Caius took his seat again and stole Magnus’s ale. “Bring however many you think are needed to stay safe. Guard your backs and be alert. But you shouldn’t worry about it.”
Hedda scoffed, shaking her head at him like he was a hopeless fool.
“Ach, lass. I swear, all of you make me feel old as the fucking land itself.” Caius looked genuinely exhausted when he flopped back and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t tell me you actually think this is the first strife Bordoroth has ever seen.”
“What are you trying to say?” Hedda hissed, her horns curling.
“That you’re practically wee bairns, and I’m being woefully reminded of it.
Listen”—He rested his elbows on the tabletop and pinned her with a sympathetic look—“this sort of thing has been going on for longer than our books have history for, and will continue to go on long after we’re all dead in the ground.
Our lot in life is to handle it as it comes while seeing to our duties, aye?
I’m sorry for Baldrir. I’m damned fucking sick over Fausta.
But, in some ways, sadly, it just is what it is and life has to move on. ”
Hedda crossed her arms and looked away, jaw ticking.
“You don’t…” All eyes went to Thaddeus, slumped back in his chair and legs sprawled before him. “You don’t think this is to do with the Prophecy, do you?”
Lunara couldn’t help the frisson of fear that ran through her, even while the others chuckled—all except Caius.
In a moment of superstitious weakness, they’d once speculated about that very thing while his mate slowly wasted away in the next room. Useless nonsense, in the end, but they’d been exhausted and running out of more optimistic theories.
Which was probably why Caius was looking at her when he softly said, “Nay, lad. This is the same old shite. We’ll all know without a kernel of doubt if the Shadow Prophecy ever actually comes into play.”