Chapter Five
Kallias
“Climbing.” Ronan grumbled behind me as we scaled the narrow path in the early morning darkness.
How humiliating it must have been for him, a Dragon Rider who belonged to the skies, to be subjected to scaling a cliff on foot.
The brutal ascent reminded me of the endless stairs in the Spire. The damp pathway cut upward through earthen walls, slick with moss that made each step more treacherous.
My boot snagged on a root, and a grunt tore from my throat as I caught myself, palms sinking into wet dirt. My body stayed nearly vertical; the trail pitched so steep it felt more wall than ground.
The only confidence I had that this was the correct route came from the signs of wear. Thin, sporadic grass pressed flat beneath our boots. The faint indentation of a wolf’s paw. This path would lead to the clifftop. From there, we would head northeast to Wellmoor.
Ronan hissed behind me, the sound paired with frantic scrambling.
We would arrive dirty and worn, lending credence to our story of men heading east for work.
The sun crested the horizon by the time we reached the top. My thighs screamed, and my back protested every step of the climb.
Light caught the dew clinging to thick green grass; the plain before us an emerald sea. Above it, a cloudless sky stretched blue and vast, stark against the riot of life below.
A small herd of five deer lifted their heads at our appearance, snorting and stamping their hooves.
Elohios, but it was home.
Deep longing twisted within, a sharp craving for the comforts of Reem. My palace. Routine. Structure I understood.
Ronan stood beside me, breath muffled as he tried to hide the toll the climb had taken.
The deer spooked and bolted, tails flaring white as they fled.
I squinted against the glare, picking out unnatural shapes in the distance: small homesteads too far to see clearly. A prayer slipped from my lips to Elohios that the families would steer clear of the bay, if only for today.
After giving Ronan time to secure his ridiculous pack stuffed with leathers, I started toward the main road leading to the city in the distance.
I wanted to reach that worn stretch before anyone spotted us.
While our claim of spending the night in the bay might fool strangers, natives would catch the lie and press for answers.
We made good time in silence, Ronan keeping pace.
Sweat traced a slow path down my spine as the day’s heat settled in, urging me to shrug off my cloak.
The mantle’s weight grew heavier with each step.
I needed to see my people, to hear from their own mouths the state of my kingdom.
Guilt gnawed at any scrap of hope, a reminder that this happened because I left, because I deceived Radaan concerning Nienna.
This was my penance.
Wellmoor rose from a sea of verdant land, an island of stone. Houses dotted the landscape, small farms stretching outward from its protection, the reason for building them so far beyond the walls, long forgotten.
My hood stayed pulled low, casting my features in shadow as we moved through the outlying villages at a brisk pace. Ronan left his face uncovered, taking in the surroundings with a guarded set to his posture that discouraged conversation.
Radaanians wouldn’t know him. They might not recognize me either—but I would not risk it.
A boy raced past us, buckets of milk swinging, cream sloshing onto the dirt.
“Slow down, Joab!” a woman called, her hands busy plucking herbs from the garden beside her house.
Soft humming reached my ears. I glanced back to spot a girl leading a docile goat along the road. She smiled, dipping her head for a better look at my face, but I turned away at once.
I was hiding from my people.
Shame burned up my throat, disgust rising thick and bitter.
No guards watched the entrance to the city gates, not this far west, and passing through proved as easy as expected.
These walls stood against wolves and bears, nothing more.
Here, war felt distant. Vellos remained a name carried on the wind, not a threat pressing at the door.
The strain showed in the absence of men drafted away, but the women and children never faltered in the fields.
It was one thing I allowed myself to take pride in.
These hard-working folk would fight to keep their families from ever knowing the horror of battle.
Moments later, buildings pressed closer, the streets narrowing. Bottles rattled in a cart as a woman delivered milk door to door, her hair twisted into a careless knot, her dress clean despite the wear.
“Where are the men?” Ronan muttered, scanning the tightening lanes as we moved deeper into the city.
I blinked. The absence felt too familiar. “Dead.”
Women held this place together, running the shops and tending the homes. Wellmoor carried more male presence than most, sheltered by distance from the Craggs, but the war had still taken its due.
Tallon could never conjure the loyalty I earned during those years of fighting. He also bore none of the weight that came from watching so many lives bleed away.
A wooden sign creaked overhead, naming the weary establishment The Twisted Serpent. Not inviting, but I shifted course anyway, following a woman inside.
Ronan caught the door just behind me, close at my heels.
The main room opened wide, a roaring hearth dominating the space.
A cook stood by the fire, stirring a pot.
Sweet, grain-heavy steam filled the air.
Porridge for the morning meal. A lanky boy lounged at a nearby table, tipping his chair back as we entered.
He balanced on two legs, trying to peer beneath my hood.
A dagger hung at his side, marking him as the guard of this fine establishment.
The woman we followed slowed near the hearth, keeping us in her periphery as she approached the cook. A basket of freshly cut herbs swung from her arm. They whispered together, eyes tracking me and Ronan as we took a small table along the far wall.
I tugged my hood lower, ignoring the flash of my signet ring turned inward. The Draconis prince pulled out the chair across from me, angling his body toward the entrance.
A younger woman, barely out of her teens, worked behind the bar, wiping down glasses with steady focus. We were the only patrons. She trusted the older women to keep watch.
Pride stirred, warm and welcome. The men might have been taken, but my people endured.
They fed one another. Clothed their children.
They survived. No fear haunted their faces, none of the hollow look born of persecution.
Tallon’s malice had not reached this far, or his hold on Radaan remained too weak to matter.
“What can I get ye?” the cook asked, approaching and wiping her hands on the deep folds of her apron. Lines carved her face, the mark of years spent beneath an unforgiving sun.
“Porridge and mead.” I dropped my voice low. The chance anyone this far from the capital recognized it was slim, but I would not risk it.
“And ye?” Her gaze slid to Ronan, narrowing as it lingered on the pale rings around his eyes.
No hiding the tan lines left by his goggles. Though common Radaanians wouldn’t know their meaning.
“The same.” He hummed, already dismissing her as his attention shifted to the boy.
She sniffed. “And will ye be needin’ a room for the night?”
My pulse quickened. She scented us like a hound, weighing the offer of a bath. Two men fresh from the road would welcome hot water.
A crack in our pretense.
“No. Just a meal, then we’ll be on our way.” I shifted in my seat, letting my shoulders sag with an ease I didn’t feel. “We’re only passing through. Headed for Lon, looking for work.”
Her face hardened, glare sharpening. “Of what sort?”
My thoughts scrambled to keep pace with her demand. “Anything that puts a roof over our heads and food in our bellies.”
“And did ye get spared the draft? Not fight with our good and righteous–”
“Sab!” The boy slammed his chair legs to the floor, twisting toward the cook as if ready to leap up and force her to swallow the words.
“This here is my inn,” she snapped, eyes locked on me, “and I’ll not have slander against King Kallias under my roof.”
She didn’t see the young ones as a threat. I remained unknown. She measured me, gauging how I might react to her defiance, to her loyalty for Radaan’s rightful monarch.
If only she knew who stood before her.
“Better slander than treason,” the girl from the bar hissed. “Kind sirs, we uphold the laws ‘round these parts.” She moved fast, catching the cook’s arm and casting a glance toward the door.
She feared being overheard.
By whom?
“I’ll fetch their bowls,” the young bartender murmured. “You handle the mead.” Her tight smile failed to soften her eyes as she tugged the cook away.
“I mean it,” the innkeeper spat. “If ye’r looking to join the prince, keep movin’. I’ve no use for yer coin, and Wellmoor has no interest in housin’ folk like ye.”
She let herself be pulled toward the bar, her voice dropping to a hush too low for me to catch.
Ronan’s gaze snagged mine, his brows lifting with quiet approval.
Some loyalty remained. Whether she spoke for all of Wellmoor was uncertain, but the boldness of her words spoke of a city not yet broken.
He adjusted his pack, settling it between his boots, then leaned back and closed his eyes. The man knew exactly how dangerous he looked. I couldn’t afford that same luxury. Whether it was the fear of recognition or the absence of a dragon answering my call, I stayed alert.
Which meant I saw the boy slip out of the inn.
The girl noticed too, and all color leeched from her face, but she kept moving, hurrying to ladle porridge into bowls and bring them to our table.
“Careful. It’s hot.” She passed a bowl to me, then turned to my companion as the scent of food drew him upright. “You’d best eat quickly. Erik will be back with friends.”