Chapter 13 #3
Aila turns to me. “Come on, get washed up. The kitchens have been working on a welcome meal. It’s not comparable to the royal feasts you must be used to, but the ale’s strong and the bread’s soft, and I figure that’s enough to count as a celebration.”
I nod, letting out a small laugh. “Sounds perfect.”
I make my way to the small room I called home when I lived here.
It’s unchanged—plain walls, a narrow bed, a low chest for storing gear.
But when I glance out the window, I catch sight of the distant castle beyond the stretch of fields.
Its towers are just visible in the fading light, draped in violet dusk like a wound hidden under fine silk.
Taking in the shadowed windows, I remember Bennett, and my chest tightens. He never lived to see what became of me. Never learned of my betrothal. Never met Dante. Was gone long before Torbin fell.
I close the curtains gently and sniff back the threat of tears.
After washing and changing into dark trousers and a cream blouse, I re-braid my hair and roll up my sleeves.
My dagger rests at my hip, familiar and steady.
It’s the first time in weeks I’ve felt like myself.
No silk gown, no veil stitched in mourning lace.
No heavy-handed king telling me what I can and cannot do.
The regiment’s dining hall is already buzzing by the time I enter.
The sprawl of tables is simple—rough-hewn benches, mismatched cutlery—but the scent of stew and baked bread fills the air.
Roasted root vegetables, salted meats, buttered rolls.
More than I’ve ever seen on the Garrison tables.
Not as decadent as Hedera’s feasts, but a far cry from what we had when Delasurvia was starving.
I slide onto the bench beside Aila, across from Giorgi and Isaac. Mylo and Lorne sit farther down with Uncle Kormak, who only nibbles at a roll and drinks sparingly from a tin cup. His eyes seem far off, as if still watching a battle play out behind his eyelids. He’s here, but only just.
Isaac lifts his mug, his eyes on me. “It’s great to have you back, Commander.”
I give him a nod. “How about just ‘Celeste’?”
“Nah. You’ll always be ‘Commander’ to me.” He chuckles before tossing back his mug, his throat bobbing as he finishes the entire contents in one go. When he’s done, he slams the mug on the table and lets out a long, loud belch.
“Nice one,” Aila says, deadpanning. “Real proud.”
“Shut up,” Isaac says. “You’re the one who can belch the entire Delasurvian motto.”
Giorgi laughs so hard, they almost choke on their ale.
Beside me, Sir Holden approaches, his hair still damp from washing up. He takes the spot to my left and lets out a groan.
“Everything all right, Sir Holden?” I ask, pouring him some ale.
“It’s been a long day, Your Highness.” He takes the ale and gives me a nod.
“You think your days are long,” Isaac begins. “Try being attached at the hip to this guy for most of it.” He juts a thumb at Lorne.
Hearing him, Lorne shakes his head, but there’s a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Why are you so mean to me?”
“Have you met you?” Isaac bursts into laughter before Lorne can respond, but then he shoves Lorne’s shoulder playfully.
Mylo leans closer to Lorne. “Just say the word and I’ll make sure his eyes are so black, they match his boots.”
I shake my head, leaning my elbows on the table and facing Lorne. “I take it you’re finding your place all right with my squad?”
He shrugs, amber eyes glinting in the firelight. “Yeah. Isaac only pulls a prank on me every other day, so things are improving.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” Isaac says. “You know you’re not really part of the squad if you’re not putting up with our shit.”
“I’m honored, then,” Lorne replies, lifting his drink.
Before anyone tosses out another jab, a shadow appears at my side. A young courier, dust still on his boots, holds out a sealed parchment.
“Message for Commander Westergaard,” he says. “Came in not long ago.”
“By nightfeather?” I ask, taking it from him. It’s heavier than a usual scroll—weighted. “It must have been strong to carry something like this.”
“No, Commander,” he says, brow furrowed. “Not by nightfeather. Came by griffon vulture.”
The words still the entire table. Even Mylo looks up. Aila mutters something under her breath, and Giorgi stops chewing.
Griffon vultures are bigger, faster, stronger—and native to Dulcamar. The winged beast is the main symbol on their banners.
I meet my uncle’s eyes across the table. His expression sharpens as I untie the seal.
Inside is a black, leather cord. At its center hangs a narrow strip of metal—long, forked at one end, the surface etched with subtle, curling lines. It looks simple at first, but something about the weight of it in my hand feels… off. As if it hums with purpose I don’t understand.
Beneath the cord is a small scrap of parchment. For the future prince.
I stare at the message, then the pendant, then back again.
“Do you recognize this?” I ask, holding it up for my uncle to see.
His face pales.
“Come, Celeste,” he says, pushing up from the bench with deliberate care. “We should talk. Alone.”
With that, the warmth of home is gone.
Uncle Kormak’s office is dim, dustier than I remember.
A low fire flickers in the hearth, recently stoked, and the scent of old parchment and beeswax polish permeates every corner.
The thick, stone walls muffle the clamor of the Garrison beyond, and here, in this quiet place, the weight of what I’m holding sinks deeper into my palms.
He moves slowly behind the desk, brushing off a few scattered papers, righting a tipped-over inkwell, settling back into the shape of the man he used to be before the fever stole the color from his cheeks and the sharpness from his eyes.
He doesn’t sit. Instead, he turns to face me fully, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable. “Do you remember how your father felt about sirens?”
The question drops like a stone in my chest. I nod once. “Yes.”
But the word scrapes my throat raw.
What I don’t say is that it was something I hated about him.
That I’d overheard his slurs and cold commands.
That I’d seen the way he’d bristle when any mention of Messanya reached the court.
That he’d called their songs deceitful, their bloodline tainted, as if power that took the shape of beauty could never be trusted.
That he’d imprisoned Dante’s mother.
That he most likely had her killed.
Uncle Kormak nods slightly, eyes narrowing on the object in my hand. “That pendant, that collar… it’s a restraint. A kind of shackle, though not in the way you’d expect.”
I study the metal again. I’d thought the shape strange, like the head of a fork. Elegant, almost. Now it feels sinister.
“It was crafted by black market artisans,” he continues.
“Years ago. Axel started using them when he imprisoned the sirens here, in Delasurvia. He couldn’t risk their magic influencing his soldiers, so he had these made.
The metal’s tuned to react to vocal frequency.
When a siren tries to hum or sing to access their glamour, the metal sends a vibrational shock into the throat of the siren and stops their magic. ”
“A vibrational shock?”
“Like a tuning fork against bone. The frequency reverberates through the throat. Violently. It silences them and causes just enough pain to make them think twice before trying again.”
I clench the leather cord tighter between my fingers. “So it’s torture.”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “But masked as precaution. It’s only ever used on prisoners. Because outside of chains and cells, it’s… control. Abuse.”
My skin prickles with heat, a fury rising in my chest that I don’t know where to aim. “I’ve never seen one before.”
He leans on the desk, his voice low. “You wouldn’t have. They’re meant to shame, not warn.”
The weight of the message begins to settle into place.
“It’s a threat,” I say, the words barely above a whisper. “To Dante.”
Uncle Kormak nods once. “Knowing that a griffon vulture delivered it, I can only assume it came from the tsar.”
My stomach twists. “Or Torbin. What if he sent it? What if he’s alive and… this is his way of saying Dante won’t have power over him? That even if Dante becomes a prince, he’ll never win?”
I look down at the pendant. The etched lines shimmer faintly in the firelight—like veins. Like scars.
“He’s toying with us,” I say. Whoever sent this is trying to make me believe that Dante is vulnerable. That his voice—his birthright—can be taken from him.