Chapter 17 #2
When we passed the final tent, my heart lurched. Devastation devoured the plains. Smoke curled, blotting the sky. Fires raced across the dry wheat, hungry and unrelenting.
And in the center, Kallias burned brighter than any dragonfire.
A beacon of otherworldly light, dragons arcing around him but never too close. Gyrak circled like a vulture, chasing Tsunami away again and again.
Screams of dying men clawed at my ears, piercing my tortured soul. Groans and whimpers trailed past, prayers to gods for reunion with loved ones.
The battle dragged deep into the night. Kallias’ light anchored me, bolstering me at the plain’s edge.
He retreated once, never returning to camp.
Armor and spear were sent after him. Blue Dyre fell from the sky, his sapphire scales causing the blessing to flicker.
Before I had time to worry, Elmo swooped, chasing him off.
It shattered me. Somehow, my dragons fractured his light, weakened it. In the Spire it was broken, as if his god struggled to reach him, or he lacked the full blessing. Now, in the chaos of beasts, it faltered.
Were they cursed? He never would have sent for them, never married me or named me queen, if any curses lay between Radaanian gods and dragonkind.
Did his gods disapprove of me?
He’d been so certain Elohios blessed our union. The light had been proof. So why did it falter now?
The night dragged on. Freya draped a fur over my shoulders to ward off the cold as the battle slowed near dawn. Final pockets of resistance fell away, and my vision blurred as the Golden Warrior of Elohios finally emerged from the haze and returned to me.
His spear dipped toward the earth, armor dulled by soot and gore. Grime masked his features, silver hair matted with sweat and blood.
Greaves followed several paces behind, gait uneven, scowl sharp enough to warn away anyone who strayed too close. Black armor hid much of the filth, but his face bore the same marks of war.
Wind snapped my crimson-stained dress as I stood. Kallias met my gaze and blinked. Those sky-blue eyes that once burned bright now seemed so dull, worn thin by exhaustion and pain.
“My tent,” he rasped. His voice scraped raw from shouting and thirst.
When he slowed to approach me, I shook my head and turned, leading him back into camp.
Freya was dispatched for food and water.
Soldiers drifted past through trampled grass, boots dragging, offering weary bows.
Respect filled their eyes, earned by a king who fought beside them—but their loss hung heavier.
A hush pressed over, grief settling in shared silence for the kin who would not return.
The tent flaps fell closed behind us.
Kallias’ gauntlet lifted my jaw, tilting my head to inspect the gash. I caught his breastplate to steady myself as he tugged my collar aside, eyes fixed on the bandage.
“Surface wound,” he murmured, more for himself than anyone else.
Greaves groaned low as he reached for the buckles of Kallias’ armor.
“I’m well.” I straightened and swatted the guard’s hand away. “You sit.”
His dark gaze locked on mine, something dangerous still moving in those murky depths. The battlefield had not released him yet.
Freya rushed in with water, crowding the entrance. Her mouth fell open, then pressed tight as she looked to me for direction.
“Help Greaves out of his armor,” I said. “Then send for a healer.”
“This isn’t our first battle,” the guard growled, voice rough as gravel. He sounded more like a bear than a man.
“And now you have me.” My fingers worked at the buckle of Kallias’ vambrace. “You’ll endure for my sake.”
The armor came off in heavy pieces. Beneath it, they looked just as battered. While they washed, Freya fetched the healer.
War stripped the tent of modesty. Greaves’ trousers were removed while his leg was examined, stitches pulled through a gash above his knee. Kallias shed his tunic, kicked off his boots and trousers. My handmaid shielded me as best she could while I changed into a green dress in the cramped space.
It was an odd thing—to have won the battle while the weight of defeat hung in the air. It settled on everyone’s shoulders. Stories spoke of feasts, dancing, songs that carried into dawn. But this?
This was agony.
Greaves redressed, and Freya vanished with the ruined clothing. Kallias donned fresh garments, clean fabric hiding bruises and shallow cuts that mapped his skin. No deep wounds marred him. Nothing like what Tallon had left on me.
I settled the mantle across his shoulders, fingers catching on clasps, smoothing chains into place. His eyes remained closed, breath even as I fastened the yoke.
“Your Majesties—” Fallione said, stepping inside.
Greaves dragged a hand down his face and collapsed into a chair, injured leg stretched out.
“—We can secure Reem.”
Kallias’ eyes snapped open. “Where is Tallon?”
“Breon and his rider, Nakos, tracked him to the city. They lost him in the streets. Scouts report no sign of him in the palace.”
Ire simmered behind my husband’s gaze, intense enough to make me still.
“If I find him,” he said, voice stripped of warmth, “I will kill him.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. That was no threat—it was a promise.
Tallon had sealed his fate the moment he dared to press a blade against my skin. Grace had its limits. And he had crossed them.
Fallione drew a careful breath. “He moved against the sovereign ruler of Radaan. You are within your rights.”
Kallias cupped my uninjured cheek, the split callous rough but warm. His nostrils flared as pain flickered through him. “We march to Reem.”
“I’ll ready the forces.” The advisor slipped away.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
I leaned into his palm. “This battle isn’t over. I will find no rest until it is.”