25. Shattered
H aving now known calm, having now known what it meant to be in control through the release of the very same, Kael’s shadows were more unsettled than ever. He’d not lost his grip—his center—in this way in a very long time, and his court was grateful for it. Now, as he hid away in the pitch-dark of his chamber, the pain he bore was unimaginable.
He couldn’t eat, couldn’t rest. Couldn’t think. Every breath was an agonizing endeavor.
Raif tried to talk him down. Methild attempted to care for him. Werryn sought to bring him before the altar, to pray to the Low One to ease his struggle. None were successful.
Their hushed tones carried through his thick doors, murmured prayers and whispered discussions about what could be done as though their king was unable to hear. But he heard everything, felt everything. And he knew there was nothing to be done.
In his solitude, Kael’s mind raced, his thoughts an array of shattered fragments. He thought of Aisling, the Red Woman, who had loosened his iron-clad control. How she’d saved him only to damn him. This was her fault.
As his vision blurred, he was once again confronted by his past, the relentless thirst for power that had driven him to this point. This was his fault.
The rub of his clothes against his ruined skin was excruciating. The brush of the damp air, even more so. There was no abiding the pain he was now stricken with. Wracked with torment, it was all he could do not to collapse to his knees and curl up on the floor.
Ever the warrior, he fought against the darkness that threatened to swallow him whole with every fiber of his being. But this time, he thought he might not be pulled back from this familiar precipice. If he was lucky, they’d let him fall. His magic could take what was left of him.
Maybe they’d all be better for it.