Chapter Eight
Nienna
“He’s so… big!” a feminine voice exclaimed.
Pride warred with exasperation as I stared at Gyrak in the blazing morning light. He stretched to his full height, neck arched, chuffing in pleasure at the noblewoman’s remark.
“Argos is bigger,” I muttered under my breath.
He whipped his head toward the clouds, jaws snapping in irritation.
He definitely heard me.
Kallias spoke with Baldur’mon while Fallione lingered behind us, deep in conversation with a cluster of riders. Horses across Mon stood saddled. Every able-bodied man old enough to wield a sword sat astride one. This was a show of force, and the forming ranks understood it.
Greaves sat astride a black stallion. Fallione had explained that the color mattered for appearance’s sake. I wore white, riding a mare to match—true gray or simply so old she’d faded into it. She matched Kallias’ stallion perfectly.
Excitement tangled with quiet dread. Younger faces, likely untouched by battle, grinned and clapped each other on the shoulder. Veterans who had served under Kallias moved in silence, checking girths and straps with practiced hands. Their looks passed between one another before settling on me.
I caught the gaze of a broad-shouldered man as he mounted. He didn’t blink, holding my stare with a challenge that dared me to look away.
I lifted my chin and glared right back.
So they blamed me. Those loyal to Kallias saw me as his weakness. He left Radaan for me. While Draconia painted him as the villain of our story, Radaan whispered that I was the fault line beneath it all.
I could bear their anger.
A shadow swallowed the light, and silence rippled through the massive crowd. Gyrak lowered his head until his lips hovered above the man I’d been staring down. When he glanced up, hauling hard on his horse’s reins, the dragon bared fangs thicker than his legs.
Released from the challenge, I blinked against the sting in my eyes and turned toward my husband, hiding my smirk.
“What’s he doing?” Kallias muttered.
His horse shifted, unease rolling through its frame. Nervous nickers broke the quiet, answered by low murmurs meant to soothe, while Gyrak huffed and basked in it.
“Making sure they remember he’s the biggest,” I said, laughter slipping free.
The aged mare beneath me pinned her ears but paid no mind to a predator larger than a house.
“Prince Ronan is blessed to ride such a magnificent creature.” Honey coated Beatrice’mon’s words.
The mayor’s wife would remain in Mon, holding the city together while we ventured east. At least she wouldn’t swoon over my brother. No, her fascination belonged to his dragon. Marginally better.
Gyrak pulled back, intimidation complete.
“Beatrice, it’s time,” Baldur called as Fallione broke from his group and rode up beside us.
“It was a pleasure, Your Majesty,” she said to me, bowing as far as horseback allowed.
“Likewise.” I offered an easy smile. “Your company has been a pleasure. I would welcome a visit in Reem.”
She laughed as her gaze drifted to Gyrak. “If there is anything left.”
The joy soured in my stomach, though my grin held. Reem was beautiful—I prayed we wouldn’t need to watch it burn. A certain traitor or two, perhaps. The suggestion that my dragons would tear it apart felt crude, edged with an uncomfortable hint of prophecy.
“Return to me, Baldur.” She pressed her fingertips to her lips, then to her heart. “May Veridis bring you back.”
Kallias edged closer, golden armor scattering light across the field of men. He hefted his spear and settled it against the saddle. His gaze searched my face, a crease forming between his brows until I smiled.
“Just shy of two thousand,” he murmured. “Enough to give Lon pause.”
“How long will the march take?” I asked.
Behind us, the men Fallione had addressed began breaking into segments, voices urging order, hands tightening reins.
“Four days, hard ride.” His jaw tightened as he squinted up at the sun.
A lone rider could halve that and still give Lon time to prepare. Not that preparation would save them. Gyrak could fly ahead, but that risked warning them sooner than keeping pace with the militia.
When Kallias looked back at me, the thought sat plainly on his face. He’d weighed it too, but there was no way around it.
This was our path.
“We are ready, my king,” Fallione announced.
Radaan’s monarch did not hide among his army. He didn’t shrink from conflict. He drew a steady breath and urged his horse forward to lead. Kallias never asked his men to go where he would not. He was brave. Certain. His faith—in purpose and gods alike—inspired the soldiers who followed.
Warmth spread through me at the sight of him, knowing he was mine. I held back a smile as I waited beside Fallione, watching Radaan’s king ride ahead.
Gyrak kept his distance, tongue flicking out to test the air. The rumble and jangle of men and horses fell quiet, anticipation tightening every spine. My pulse hammered against my ribs, keen with expectation.
And fear that it might not be answered.
Kallias rode out a stone’s throw ahead, head tipping toward the cloudless sky.
He drove his spear upward, and light erupted from him.
The fractured glimmer that marked him in Draconia became a pale mockery of the brilliance pouring from his skin now.
Golden armor caught and threw the radiance, the blaze swelling until it rivaled the sun itself.
Behind me, soldiers burst into battle cries. Gyrak snapped his head up at the thunderous roar, pupils flaring with sharp curiosity.
Fallione shouted something lost to the din, then motioned me forward with a hard sweep of his arm.
I urged my mare into a jog, drawn toward the miracle of Elohios made flesh.
A marvel. Kallias denied having any magic, and Father never sensed it in him.
Yet there he sat, a fragment of the ether beyond, on solid ground.
With his face angled skyward, his eyes drifted shut, a quiet smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
I raised an arm to shield myself, light pressing against my skin with a force I couldn’t endure. Knowing he was mine felt strange in that moment, seeing him altered so completely.
“Don’t look directly at him.” Greaves kept his voice low, meant only for me. “You’ll go blind.”
He rode close by my side, ignoring his king entirely, focus fixed on the open plains ahead.
Without warning, Kallias surged forward, his horse breaking into a swift jog that forced the ranks to scramble after him. A laugh slipped free as I bent low over my mare’s neck, fear burned away by exhilaration, chasing the King of Radaan.
I hissed and lowered myself with care onto the padded stool. The seat was simple, built to fold and carry, like everything we’d brought. Our tent stood larger than the others scattered across the dark plain, though only by a little. Practical, not indulgent.
“I fear our backsides may be blistered,” Freya said, wobbling toward me.
“I don’t fear it—I know it.” The words slipped out on a breath. Flying Gyrak for days never bothered me, but a horse found every tender place and worried it raw.
She groaned and offered a tray of cold bread and cheese. A small salad dotted with flowers caught my eye, and I nudged a delicate petal with my finger.
“They’re spicy, like pepper.” She crab-walked behind me and began tugging pins free from my hair. “The men set up camp, then went flower picking. I laughed until they started eating them.”
A smirk tugged at my mouth as I popped an orange blossom onto my tongue. Earthy at first. Dry. Then a prickle of heat rolled across my taste buds, sharp as cracked peppercorns.
“I’m so glad Edith didn’t come,” Freya said, fingers working through my tangles. “She wouldn’t have survived that.”
I laughed, tearing off a piece of bread. “Something tells me if I asked, she would’ve arrived absurdly prepared.”
My old handmaid waited in Mon for my word.
Freya was young enough to endure the pace, though even she hadn’t ridden so long before.
Kallias warned us we’d ride hard, and I’d believed him.
But I hadn’t expected a relentless trot from dawn to dusk.
The endless rise and fall battered my bones, nothing like the smooth drift of a dragon gliding along coastal updrafts.
“She would have demanded a carriage or produced a pillow,” Freya said.
I finished the cold meal, grateful for it despite craving warmth. No fires tonight. Nothing that might slow our charge toward Lon. We carried only what we couldn’t do without.
She took the empty tray and eyed the thin furs on the ground. “Up. I need to see the damage.”
Standing felt impossible.
With a scoff, she slid her hands beneath my arms and hauled me upright. I bit back a string of curses as my trousers dragged against tender skin, pain flashing hot and bright.
Her fingers flew to my laces, loosening the white fabric.
Kallias ducked into the tent, with Greaves close behind.
Freya gasped, and I clutched my dress to my chest.
“Could you not announce yourself?” she snapped, then clapped a hand over her mouth, then waved a frantic hand at Greaves. “That was meant for your guard, Your Majesty!”
The man in black gave my state a single, neutral glance before turning to Kallias, waiting.
Lanternlight skimmed Kallias’ armor, the divine glow gone now, tucked away beneath skin and bone. “I will care for her.”
Freya’s lips pressed thin as she stared at Greaves like he was the true offense.
“Go,” I said. “I’ll check on you later.”
On stiff, wobbling strides, she headed for the exit. “I can manage, Your Majesty.”
She was the only other woman in camp, and far too stubborn to admit she might need help with those blisters.
Greaves waited until she stepped outside, then tied the tent closed. He didn’t meet my gaze again as he began unfastening his king’s armor.
“Are you well?” Kallias asked. Concern sharpened his features beneath the lone lantern.
“Saddle sore.” I tugged my dress higher against my chest. “I’ve lived through worse.”
He moved with infuriating ease, all too comfortable after the pace he’d set. A reminder that he was used to this. Horses. War. I knew halls and council chambers, soft chairs, and dragonback.
“I imagine it beats three days on a dragon,” he said, wrestling with a gauntlet.
A sharp laugh escaped me. “Hardly. You sit nearly flat. Properly seated, you leave with aching muscles at worst.”
His brows lifted as he bent to set his armor in careful order. “That’s not how I remember it.”
“You rode without a saddle.” I shook my head. “That changes everything.”
“I imagine preparation matters,” he said.
With a wince, I sank back onto the stool and waited while Greaves finished his work. The process stretched on. Methodical. Kallias assisted where he could, the two moving with quiet familiarity.
When the last gleaming plate lay stacked, the guard produced a small tin and passed it to his king. “I’ll be outside.”
Kallias nodded. “It won’t take long.”
“Kal, the fabric is thin.”
I blinked, confused, and my husband fixed his guard with a flat stare. The barest curve touched his mouth before Greaves slipped out.
Kallias helped me stand. “Let me see.”
“I assume that’s for the blisters?” I whispered as my dress slid to the floor.
He crouched, eased the garment over my boots, shook it out, and folded it neatly. “Soft,” he said, eyes tracing my bare skin, “but not fragile.”
I gathered my hair and lifted it from my back, giving him an unobstructed view of everything he’d sacrificed until Reem was his again.
A twitch crossed his eye before he masked it. He drew my trousers down over my hips, hands rough, warm, achingly familiar.
Mine.
He guided me onto the furs, then studied the inside of my thighs. “I know these legs,” he said, voice sinking into that low, husky register I felt everywhere. “No open wounds.”
Cool salve met overheated, tortured skin, stark against the heat of his palms. He worked with care, measured and gentle in his administration. I lay still, breath shallow, offering only the occasional hiss when he found a tender place.
“Sleep like this.” His voice caught, desire locked tight behind his jaw. “Give your skin a break from any friction.”
That last word lingered, heavy with everything we craved.
As if crossing a line of no return, he pulled a thick blanket over my naked body. His breath deepened, and his gaze darkened with all the things he refused himself.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He shut his eyes and drew his hands away, fists clenched. “I’ll be back.”
Something inside me dipped at the promise and the distance in it. I wanted him beside me until dawn.
He rose, loosened his tunic, and took his sword from the lone chest at the foot of the furs. One last look, a rough swallow, then the flap flew open.
“Claus, guard the queen. Greaves, with me.”