Chapter Five #3
My thoughts collided, each one louder than the last. Tallon had allowed the Velli to cross the Craggs—welcomed it, no doubt.
My people would never accept that, not in their lifetimes, never mind the weeks I’d been gone.
Darius and Claydon’sol were only two among many veteran nobles.
Their blood ran too hot; their hatred too fierce.
It had only ever been tempered by my insistence on peace for their children’s sake.
That alone would never grant Vellos passage into Radaan.
Unease crept in, a tug beneath my ribs urging me to look back. My jaw set as a breeze swept the aisle, stirring the market and tugging at my cloak. When Elohios whispered, I listened.
I clapped Ronan’s shoulder and veered into a narrow alley between stalls.
Within a breath, I pressed into a dark doorway rank with rot.
Ronan flattened beside me, pack lowered without a sound.
He drew a dagger and flexed his left hand loose.
My breathing stayed measured. The hilt of my sword warmed my palm as I listened past the market’s clamor.
Heavy boots struck dirt at a jog. Metal chimed, blades brushing armor.
Our pursuer stopped at the alley’s mouth.
His shadow stretched across the littered ground, reaching for us without revealing its owner.
With teeth clenched, I fixed on that form, daring him forward.
Only a trained fighter would pause, waiting to see if prey still ran or hid in the dark.
Ronan leaned close, shoulder pressed to mine as we waited. My breath caught, a faint ringing filling my ears. We sat in stalemate, neither of us willing to make the first move.
Ronan’s hand snapped up, fingers flicking farther down the alley. The crash that followed prompted the warrior forward.
The black-clad fighter hugged the far wall, glancing our way as he jogged past. Just as he twisted to face us, I was already moving.
My sword sang as I drew it, sending the blade toward his neck. He ducked, snapping up a metal vambrace to knock it aside before charging straight at me.
Ronan hit him from behind, dagger pressed to his throat. The assailant lashed out, a boot slamming into my chest, using the leverage to hurl Ronan back against the stone wall.
Fast. Well trained.
He used the space Ronan’s fall gave him, drawing two long knives as he shrugged free and charged me again, his black hood flying loose.
Steel clashed. My body slipped into the familiar rhythm, the dance of blades as natural as breath. Survival took over.
Somewhere in the skirmish my cloak fell open, gold flashing against my chest. His gaze dipped, and recognition flared just as Ronan’s hand struck the back of his exposed neck.
An agonized cry was bitten off into a muffled curse as the man dropped to his knees, blades clattering against the dirt. We cut off his escape, swords trained on his bowed head.
My focus locked on the dark ink curling along his skin, markings peeking from beneath his cloak.
“Thresher of Nyryn,” I hissed, fury coiled tight in my chest. “Have you nothing better to do?”
“Locating the true king of Radaan is the highest calling.” His voice stayed level, as though the fight had been little more than a warm-up.
His declaration rang with truth. Threshers did not exaggerate devotion.
He lifted his face, dark hair falling loose as his eyes traced the chains of my mantle.
“My brothers are spread across the kingdom, awaiting your return.”
“And who do you answer to?” I ground out. “The Bastard Prince, or the Chosen of Elohios? Choose carefully. Nyryn does not forgive falsehoods.”
Legends named Nyryn and Elohios as two sides of the same coin. Justice and vengeance. Honor and pride. Nyryn might have aided my crossing of the sea, despite my loyalty sworn elsewhere.
“I answer only to the Golden Warrior,” he said. “King of the Plentiful Plains. Chosen of Elohios to bear the Mantle of Radaan.” He pressed his palms to the earth and bowed, forehead to the dirt.
Ronan’s mouth tightened. I inclined my head a fraction and sheathed my sword. “Rise, Thresher. I have need of you.”
He stood in one smooth motion, sliding his knives away, his attention lingering on my chest. I rolled my shoulders, drawing the fabric closed, hiding the gleam of gold once more.
“We should speak where fewer ears listen.” He waited for my nod. “There is an inn where privacy may be had.”
“We have much to discuss. Lead on.”
He pulled his hood back up and moved toward the main road.
“Quite the greeting from your own men,” Ronan muttered.
“I would expect nothing less.”
Threshers answered only to the mantle or their god. If these were Tallon’s Black Guard, then I had little to fear. Nyryn cared for his own.
Ronan took the rear as we trailed the man into the flow of untroubled citizens.
To them we were strangers, though the Thresher earned wary looks.
Their presence in Reem steadied me. They lived in shadow until summoned, dark ink etched into skin as covenant and oath.
To the common folk, they appeared strange.
Broad shoulders. Blades carried with intent.
He moved through the crowd like a panther among mice.
We kept our hoods low, drawing curious looks as we followed in his wake. Before long he veered through winding passages, walls closing in until the space pressed tight, a reminder of the narrow roads of Draconia. He paused at a door and opened it without hesitation, slipping inside.
Trust in his title did not dull my caution.
I clocked the bins of refuse, scraps of food, chamber pots filled and waiting.
The back entrance to an inn. Ronan cast me a wary glance before following.
We squeezed past stacked crates and into a darkened room.
I squinted, fingers tightening on my sword when the Dragon Rider chose that moment to reveal his magic.
Flame bloomed above his palm with a hushed whisper.
The unnatural light caught the Thresher mid-motion, lantern unlit, flint in hand.
His eyes glittered in the flicker as he pocketed the stone and lifted the iron lamp.
With a smirk, Draconia’s prince obliged.
A spark leapt from his hovering flame, kissed the exposed wick, and settled there, flaring to life.
The Thresher glanced at me, weighing my tolerance for such light. In answer, I took the small table’s chair.
Light was light, regardless of its source.
Ronan closed his fist, snuffing the flame, and Nyryn’s man turned the lamp higher, revealing crates and barrels lining the walls. A storage room, one I hoped the staff rarely visited.
“We will not be interrupted,” he said, taking the last seat.
Ronan scoffed and shut the door, leaning back against it.
“What is your name?” I asked, drawing my hood down as I leaned forward.
He mirrored the motion, revealing closely cropped hair and dark eyes. “Claus of Nyryn.” A brief bow followed. “We Threshers are scattered among the Black Guard, searching for you.”
“So, Tallon has seeded his own loyalists within your ranks,” I said, watching for his agreement. “What happens when they find me?”
“They have orders to contain you and return you to Reem.” His jaw tightened. “Our numbers are dwarfed, and the prince uses that advantage to keep the Threshers in check.”
“Foolish,” I muttered.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Our priests commanded us to work alongside them to locate the true king. Once found, we are not to bind him.”
“And what did they command you do with the King of Radaan?”
“Protect him.” Claus remained perfectly still, voice stripped of inflection. “We were to find you and aid you in reclaiming your kingdom.”
I leaned back, holding the relief tight in my chest. Expected, yet no less steadying. Tallon believed he controlled these warriors. He did not. They answered to their god and their priests, not a false mantle.
“What is the state of Reem?” I asked. “And how did Darius die?”
Claus’ shoulders drew in a fraction. A shadow crossed his face, dark and promising violence.
Darius had been my war general. Radaan’s shield.
My friend. Chosen of Nyryn, able to command the Threshers with a single word.
Nearly twenty years had passed since I stood beside him amid the ruins of a Craggs village, his wife’s body crushed beneath stone.
I had watched a man’s soul cry out for vengeance and felt Nyryn answer.
Elohios answered my plea with light.
Nyryn answered Darius with shadow.
Ink had spilled across his skin, tendrils blooming along his back, black and living, marking the moment he became something forged for war.
With the power of a god behind him, Darius tore through the next battle.
Steel rang. Bone broke. Velli banners fell into the mud as he carved a path through their forces, shadow answering every strike.
When the field lay quiet, he vanished from command for a time, retreating to wrestle with the magnitude of what Nyryn had etched into his soul.
Yet he returned.
He always did.
He stood at my side as a war general, a constant presence at my shoulder, helping me drive Vellos back again and again. Victory bore his mark as much as mine.
And now he was dead.
“Tallon holds Reem through fear,” Claus said. “He rules with an iron fist. Egath was welcomed into the city as an ally. Velli followed under the mask of friendship.”
Bile climbed my throat. My people faced their oldest enemy because I left them unguarded. Because I misjudged the creature I once called son.
“There were few at first,” Claus continued.
“Less than fifty Velli the last time I stood within the Golden Palace. Enough to paralyze dissent and make obedience feel safer than resistance.” He drew a slow breath.
“After you left, Tallon announced a ball. Darius confined him to his rooms, but the prince planned without ever stepping outside them. He waited. He watched. Invitations went out to every district heir.”
Cold spread through my veins. It was as I feared. Hostages. Children bound in silk and music, a way to leash their parents, to be used as leverage to hold the city.
“And they came,” Claus said. “Each district sent their heirs. Some too young to travel without escort. Parents joined them.”
I saw the Neers in my mind. Their son, Icarus, barely past his second year. Too small to be summoned to any courtly affair. His father had fought beside me, lost an arm in Radaan’s defense.
“On the night of the celebration, Tallon struck.” The Thresher swallowed, fists clenched until his knuckles blanched. “Egath used blood magic to break Darius. Six of Nyryn’s men fell before they reached the ballroom.”
Silence pressed in.
Claus studied me, a careful crease forming between his brows. “A single Velli could not have overcome so many Threshers.”
He knew.
Either he had witnessed the prince wield Velli magic, or the truth had sharpened itself in his mind. Worse still was what that implied. Tallon had not only learned blood magic, he had mastered it enough to wield it openly.
How long had Egath shaped him while I stood blind?
“It was a tragic night for Radaan,” Claus said. “Stone can be scrubbed clean, but the weight of that blood will haunt the next generation.”
My eyes drifted shut as pain tore through my chest, sharp and suffocating.
Regret settled heavy as lead. I should have been here.
I should have shielded them. These were not only my people, they were the future rulers of my kingdom.
The violence I fought to keep from them had found them all the same.
Only the quiet breath of the flame filled the room as I reined myself in. My mourning could wait. My grief for innocence lost would have its due later.
Right now, Radaan required her king. She needed me to be wise and careful—to take the usurper and remove him like a weed in a flowerbed. Toss him aside to be gathered and burned.
My only hope was that the lives cut short would feed the flowers of our youth, making our future peace all the sweeter.
“Then?” My voice scraped raw, but when my eyes opened, I let Claus see the fury banked beneath my skin.
“He forged a mantle of steel and silver,” he continued. “A mockery. He claimed divine calling after your departure and took the throne for himself. Those who resisted were slain. A week, and Radaan was his.”
“And Claydon’sol?” I forced breath into my lungs. I had to know he was still alive, that I had an ally within Reem’s walls, that I would endure his endless lectures about goats once again.
“Alive, last I heard,” Claus said. “He plays his part, though Tallon does not trust him.”
“He’s wise not to.” The compliment tasted foul in my mouth. The wretched creature did not deserve it. “Claydon would pull the city from under him without him ever noticing if the opportunity presented itself.”
Claus shook his head, sadness tugging at his expression. “I’ve not heard from my brothers in some time. Beyond this, I know little.”
I needed to speak with Fallione. Together we could shape a plan that shielded the people and drew Tallon into the open.
“Thank you.” I stood, hand settling on Claus’ shoulder. “I fear this is only the beginning. But I have returned to reclaim Radaan and serve her citizens.”
He rose and folded into a bow. “You wear the yoke well, my king.”
Ronan gasped.
His eyes widened, shoulders locking tight, hands clenched as if bracing against a blow.
“What is it?” I snapped, Claus moving instinctively in front of me.
The Draconia’s prince stared into the distance, body trembling with restraint. His magic. That strange bond with his dragon–
I shoved past the Thresher and seized Ronan by the tunic, slamming him against the door. “What’s happened?”
A blink, and his focus snapped back, tension draining from his frame. He sucked in a breath and gripped my forearm.
“They have Nienna.”