50. Cato
Cato
A few days have gone by in a blur of planning, strategy sessions, and preparation. The Vaelor and her advisors decide that traveling in secret is the smartest play. No one outside her tight inner circle know she’s leaving.
Hycis will hold command while she’s gone, backed by two other trusted council members.
One of her best strategic generals—a no-nonsense Khileon named Baelith—will come with us, along with an escort of six elite personal guards.
Half will continue through the rift with the main group, while the other three will set up a temporary camp for her return.
I’m surprised when Rhael gets added to the party at the last minute. Ailynor says he’s there for diplomatic support, but I’m not convinced it isn’t a favor to his father. Hycis stays stoic through the announcement, though his eyes flick to his son more than usual.
Rhael tries to remain serious, and his braid is tight and neat today instead of wispy and loose.
A nervous smile tugs on his lips as he wiggles in his seat.
He thanks the Vaelor, starting into a speech about how excited he is for the opportunity.
The brown-nosing continues until I glaze over, finally snapping back to attention when we move on to planning.
The castle buzzes with activity from dawn until well after dark. Maps cover every table in the war room, supply lists get revised daily, and the late-night discussions stretch on as everyone tries to wrap their heads around a world none of them have ever seen.
When we describe the other side, they listen closely to the power imbalances and dwindling resources.
Those problems hit close to home for them.
But the moment we mention the weather, they become downright dismissive.
The idea of oppressive heat and sticky humidity sounds as ridiculous to them as lethal cold sounded to me.
“Heat?” one of the guards mutters in a planning meeting, arms crossed. “We’ve survived eternal winter. How bad can a little warmth be?”
Ailynor, to her credit, listens carefully.
She asks questions about the climate and terrain, then brings in the royal tailor to speak with us about clothing needs.
Taryn spends the afternoon reviewing fabrics and styles, and together, they come up with a design for breathable tunics and loose pants, along with scaled-down armor that won’t cook them alive under the sun.
Cameron and I break apart with the quartermaster, creating a list of supplies the group may need for the trip. Extra canteens, preserved food, weapons—everything gets double-checked.
In the quieter moments with just our crew, the conversations turn less strategic. After we’re dismissed for the day, we gather in the courtyard for some fresh air.
“What do you think will happen when she sees it?” Lillith asks.
“Which part?” Cameron asks. “The dying world, or the way their people turned the whole planet into a prison?”
Lillith huffs and shrugs. “All of it.”
Ronan rubs the back of his neck, looking exhausted. “Everything depends on her reaction to Sovran.”
“Because that’s not terrifying,” I mutter.
Ronan shoots me a glare but lets it slide. “If she believes him and sees the world as something worth saving, we might have a real chance. But if she thinks it’s too far gone, or decides it’s someone else’s problem…”
“She won’t,” Aryn says, his hand resting on my knee. “Not after learning what’s at stake, and certainly not after meeting you, Ronan. This is personal for her now.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Ronan agrees tersely, “but she could just as easily argue that we could take refuge in her city and stay safe while the rest burns.”
I shake my head. “Something tells me she’s not the type to leave others behind to suffer. That’s how she came to power in the first place, right? Fighting for the little guys?”
“Yeah,” he agrees.
“We just have to get her there,” I say. “The rest… we’ll figure it out when we’re standing in the middle of it.”
Aryn makes a strained noise beside me. “Saving the future without a real plan. Winging it with the fate of two worlds on the line.”
I grin and bump his shoulder. “It’s what we did when we came here. None of this was planned.”
His eyes soften as they drop to where my mark sits under my skin, but Cameron speaks up, his expression more serious than usual. “She’s a warrior,” he says. “Once she sees what’s at stake with her own eyes, she’ll commit. She fucking has to.”
He doesn’t say the rest out loud.
She has to… because we need her to.
Because she’s the only fighting chance we have at saving our worlds.
My hand squeezes Aryn’s.
Of saving this.
The morning we leave is chaotic, with guards preparing their sylvaren and castle hands stocking the wagons. As we lead Nymir out for her tack, I notice two figures wrapped around each other in the shadowed corner of the stable.
Brihn and Galdren step out a few minutes later, lips kiss-swollen and clothes hastily straightened. As Galdren walks away, Brihn's face stays stoic like his father, but the mask slips. He thinks no one else is paying attention, and there’s no hiding the longing in his eyes.
Another stubborn Dreven, putting duty before his own heart.
We set off shortly after daybreak, riding through a side gate to keep from attracting attention.
Our group is double what it was on the trip here.
Brihn and his guards ride with us, but once we reach the mountain fork, they’ll split off and head home.
It’ll leave only us and the Vaelor’s crew to make the final push to the rift.
It’s real—I know it is—but it still doesn’t quite feel that way. Too much hope is a dangerous thing, so I keep my focus on what’s right in front of me.
Ailynor leads beside her general, regal somehow even when riding, with her guards forming a loose protective ring.
Rhael rides near the middle, eyes wide as the capital gates close behind us.
The rest of us settle into our usual spots, and Aryn and I share Nymir again.
Brihn stays close, though he’s quieter than usual.
We make solid progress over the next couple of days. A snowstorm rolls in on the second night, and by the time we reach the fork leading toward Maelithryne, several fresh inches cover the ground.
The mood grows heavier as we stop. From here, Brihn and his warriors will return home, and Aryn will be separated from his family once more.
Everyone dismounts for a break while the group prepares for goodbye. Brihn moves through the circle, offering hugs, handshakes, and backslaps, but when he reaches Aryn, his forced smile falters.
“Come here,” Aryn rasps, dragging his son into a fierce embrace.
The pain in his face nearly splits me in half, and I watch helplessly as my mate grips Brihn tightly, their foreheads pressed together.
Aryn’s words become too quiet for me to catch, but I don’t have to hear them to know they’re filled with raw pain and infinite love.
Brihn’s shoulders shake once as he clings to his father like this might be the last time.
When they finally separate, Brihn’s eyes are wet. He turns to me and pulls me into a hug that surprises me with its strength, then draws a shaky breath against my shoulder.
“Take care of him,” he says quietly, voice thick. “His heart has been broken too many times already. Guard it above all else. Please. He deserves this happiness.”
My throat tightens as I hug him back just as hard. “I will, I promise. I love him. I’m not going anywhere.”
Brihn pulls back, eyes glistening as he looks between us. He reaches into his coat pocket, and Aryn’s breath catches when he opens his palm. Two signet rings rest there—nearly identical to the one Aryn once wore around his neck, except these are polished and new instead of worn by time.
“The old ways say a family only has one head,” Brihn says as he presses one ring into Aryn’s hand, “but I disagree. I’ve carried that title for years, and I wear it with pride. But I won’t take it from you. Not after everything you’ve done.”
Aryn laughs weakly, turning the ring in the light to study the carvings. “We can share it, son.”
“I’ll protect our people here, and you do it there,” Brihn says. “Just promise me something.”
“Anything.”
Brihn forces a bittersweet smile, fighting a wobble in his bottom lip. “When you’re the heroes of the worlds, don’t forget to come visit every once in a while.”
“You couldn’t keep me away if you tried,” Aryn promises, pulling him into another long hug. “We will see each other again. I know it.”
Brihn’s tears flow freely as he pulls back, swiping at them with the back of his hand before turning to me. He holds up the second ring and places it in my palm, closing my fingers around it.
“For you, Cato,” he says, voice cracking. “To welcome you to the family. You’re one of us now.”
Family.
My eyes sting as I look down at the ring. “Thank you,” I manage, voice rough. “For everything.”
With one last look and a few quiet words, Brihn and his people turn toward Maelithryne. We watch them go until they’re nearly swallowed by the ridge, the falling snow erasing their tracks. They pause, mere specks in the distance, but they throw their hands up in one final wave.
And then they’re gone.
Aryn stays silent for a long moment, staring after them. I reach over and take his hand, squeezing gently. He squeezes back, but I can feel the ache running through him.
“We’ll come back,” I say softly, tugging him into a hug.
He rests his head on my shoulder and presses a gentle kiss over the scar from his bite. “Promise?” he whispers.
For a moment, I don’t answer. Aryn doesn’t want empty reassurances or insincere words just to make him feel better.
But this isn’t that.
Elyra is my home now, too.
I know it with the same certainty I know the shape of my own bones, the same way I know the steady rhythm of Aryn’s heartbeat against mine in the quiet hours of the night.
This world has carved itself into me—its cold, its wonders, its pain, and its impossible beauty.
No matter what waits for us on the other side of the rift, a part of me will always belong here.
With him.
“I promise.”