Chapter Twenty-Three
Some vows are forged in fire and pain
The strongest call each other home again
The bells still echo through the streets of Azhareth, but the people move without concern… or so it seems. Perhaps the bells are familiar, or perhaps no one is stupid enough to draw attention to themselves by moving swiftly. Probably the latter.
In Azhareth, it seems panic warrants condemnation. The city does not forbid fear. It simply punishes who shows it.
Elyssara knows how to go unnoticed. Knows how to move so that eyes glide past her.
But Kael? His presence is unmistakable. His warrior’s frame is out of place in the working districts of Azhareth’s Inside.
His breaths are too shallow. Too controlled.
Too quiet. And she knows he’s trying to compose himself.
Probably still fighting the Decay that wants to own him.
She can feel it on him still—like smoke clinging to skin after a fire.
“Two blocks,” he mutters under his breath.
He tries to relax again, but the tendons in his neck bulge, his pulse hammers visibly at his throat.
Elyssara reaches for his hand, pulling it into her own. She doesn’t look at him, but she hears the way his breath elongates with her touch. She feels the way he softens just slightly.
They settle into a rhythm, palm to palm, fingers entwined.
“I almost killed a child,” he breathes, his horror palpable.
The words don’t sound like his voice. They sound like a confession dragged from somewhere deeper.
She squeezes his hand. “But you didn’t.”
“If you weren’t there, El…” he trails off, shaking the memories from his mind.
“But I was there. I will always be there. You’re not doing this alone,” she promises, but thoughts intrude her promise. Thoughts of when they are separated. Thoughts of when she can’t reach him. Thoughts of how this ends. Madness. Violence. Death.
But Kael cuts to the left, moving away from the steady stream of people. “We’re here,” he announces, as he stands before a quaint shopfront with a rusted sign: Rhaema’s Weavehouse.
Kael doesn’t hesitate, shoving the door open, ducking under the low frame, and stepping across the threshold.
A woman with silver hair lifts her gaze from a folded bolt of silk, and drags her gaze over Kael. She doesn’t react. Just rakes her eyes over him like she’s measuring him somehow.
“You look like shit,” she declares, with not an ounce of shame.
Kael huffs a laugh. “You look old as fuck,” he retorts with a wicked grin.
The old woman quirks a smile, and moves out from behind the counter, walking on unsteady feet toward Kael.
Elyssara watches in confusion. Who are they to each other?
The woman’s hands grip Kael’s arms, his shoulders—pressing into him as if testing if he’s an illusion. As if she has known men who vanish.
“I assumed you’d forgotten about me with all your royal duties,” she teases, but there’s no edge to it.
“I assumed you were dead of old age,” he counters drily, barely suppressing a smile.
She swats at him indignantly, the corners of her eyes creasing with a barely restrained smile. “Still a little shit, I see.”
There’s something about their interaction that goes beyond history. Their connection is…
“My great aunt Rhaema,” Kael announces, eyes flicking to Elyssara.
Familial.
“Half great aunt, if we’re being precise. I’m the bastard half-sister of Kael’s grandmother,” she corrects, though she doesn’t look perturbed by it. She appears simply to be relaying facts.
Elyssara nods slowly, taking it all in.
“And you are?” Rhaema probes impatiently.
Are all the women in Kael’s family so fucking forthright?
No wonder he does not bend easily.
Kael bites his lip between his teeth.
Elyssara shoots him a glare.
“I’m Elyssara,” she says, keeping her voice measured.
But that’s not adequate for Rhaema. “I need context, dear. Not your name. Who?”
Elyssara flicks her eyes to Kael, and he gives her a small nod.
You can trust her.
So she clears her throat. “Elyssara Dawnmere. Rightful Queen of Dravara.”
Rhaema does not bow when she says it. She stills. Taking in the information. Assessing.
“Oh,” she finally says. “At least you’re not from Nymeris.
Sick of those smug, over-confident assholes,” she snaps, spinning on her heel, and waving them forward without fuss.
“Dravara breeds fighters,” she mutters. “Nymeris breeds talkers. Incessant, dribbling talkers. Intelligence comes in many forms—knowing when to shut up is one of them.”
A sound ripples from Kael’s throat—a suppressed laugh—and he drags his hand through his dark hair.
“Yes,” he whispers conspiratorially to Elyssara, “she’s always like this. This is quite mild, actually.”
Elyssara doesn’t try to hide her smile. She lets it stretch across her face freely, and the tether flares with warmth.
She follows Rhaema through a curtain to a small back room with draped fabrics hanging over every available surface, bolts of silk stacked atop one another, and not a single place to stand comfortably.
Rhaema whips her head around faster than Elyssara thought she was capable. “Now, are we going to talk about whatever this is?” she snaps, wagging her finger between Kael’s eyes.
His ocean-lightning irises are still splintered with onyx.
He shoves her hand out of his face. “Not today. We’re talking about keeping us hidden until the search slows down. Then, we’re talking about breaking into Maireth’s vault.” He keeps his voice steady, measured, but Elyssara doesn’t miss the strain in it.
Rhaema nods, processing the information like a woman who’s done this before. Like a woman well accustomed to a life of secrets.
“So, we’re talking about some light accommodation followed by a little bit of treason? Is that right?” she quips sarcastically.
Kael smirks. “That about sums it up, yeah.”
Rhaema doesn’t speak, only runs her hand down her face, tawny skin weathered by sun and time.
“Frankly,” she says finally, “I’m disappointed. I was hoping for quite a bit of treason today.”
Rhaema moves nonchalantly, shoving aside rolls of fabric from dusty floorboards.
Elyssara’s eyes blow wide, and her face snaps to Kael in shock.
“I’m starting to understand a lot about your bloodline,” Elyssara mutters under her breath.
Kael chuckles, rich and deep, and the sound warms her chest like the first fire of winter.
Rhaema pulls back a door built into the floor, and a hot plume of steam blooms from the opening.
What in the fucking Stars?
“The next Insiders aren’t coming for two days. Then you’ll need to get out,” Rhaema says without pretense. “I’ll have maps and guard rotations for you before you leave. Now, get down, I’ve got a delivery coming soon.”
Kael nods. “Thank you,” he says solemnly.
“Yeah, yeah,” she grouses. “I’m assuming you are the cause of this search. Any liabilities I need to take care of? Supplies?”
This woman is connected.
Kael swallows thickly, and Elyssara knows memories of the fight at the wall have infiltrated his mind. “We left no witnesses, so Kiva and Laryn will be safe. But our weapons are at the wall,” Kael explains, forcing his voice to steady.
“No one of note ventures to the boundary, anyway. I’ll send someone from the network for the weapons,” Rhaema says gruffly.
She waves her hands toward the hidden door impatiently. “Hurry up, now.”
Kael steps through first, testing the integrity of the steps. He holds his hand out for Elyssara, and she takes it. The tether hums in harmony, hungry for his touch, his connection. Their eyes meet in silent conversation. A thousand words passing between them without ever saying a word.
I’ve got you.
I love you.
I’m here.
You’re mine.
We’re safe.
Rhaema folds the door back over without a word, enclosing them in darkness.
The air shifts as the door closes, as if the surface world has exhaled them from its lungs.
Humidity clings to Elyssara like a second skin—thick and oppressive.
Kael doesn’t let go, leading her down until their boots find slick, solid ground. The flicker of distant candlelight offers minimal visibility. Only enough to make out walls, direction, something.
“Where are we?” Elyssara whispers, dropping into a predator’s crouch on instinct.
“A discreet bathhouse for the rebel network to conduct… secret dealings,” Kael answers, his voice thick with implication.
Rhaema works with rebels?
As if sensing her thoughts, Kael adds, “Not everyone supports the district system, the boundary. Rhaema has built a network of people who want to see change—that includes some nobles, Insiders, Outsiders. She’s persuasive… maybe even some royals.”
Elyssara’s mind swims. “A rebellion?”
He tugs on her hand, pulling her toward the guttering light. “Less a rebellion, and more… disruption. Interference.”
They pass through narrow walls carved from rock and earth, damp with moisture. The unmistakable sound of water trickling from height and landing hard on rock finds its way to her. Heavy drips rent the air.
“Sounds like Rhaema doesn’t like to be told what to do,” Elyssara observes, half-distracted by the grit crunching underfoot.
“Doesn’t sound familiar at all,” he quips sarcastically.
She scoffs good naturedly, but her mind is elsewhere—fighting the undeniable feeling of being trapped underground. Her chest tightens. Fear tries its best to claw at her mind. But Kael senses her unease, tugging her forward, pulling her close.
Elyssara follows through the steam, like wading through mist.
“Only a little further,” he promises.
And before Elyssara has the chance to respond, light blooms. A chamber opens like a secret carved from the bones of the earth.
The air is even warmer here, thick with steam and the clean mineral scent of wet stone.
Candlelight glows from shallow divots carved into the rock, their flames trembling in the humidity, casting molten gold across the walls.
The chamber itself is hewn entirely from gray, veined stone, its surface worn smooth by centuries of water and touch.
And at its center—a cascade.
Like a waterfall given shape where it was never meant to exist.