Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Kallias
Istared at Anna, the young woman I knew from Sol.
Moonlight brushed her cheekbones, caught in the loose wisps of hair that had escaped her braid.
She had been such a bright, cheerful child, the daughter of the master cobbler.
Renowned enough to have been around the goats her whole life, yet far enough from court that her absence would barely stir a whisper.
She was no warrior. A small crossbow hung from her saddle, the bow itself polished and neat, more ornament than weapon.
I wondered if she could even strike a target with it.
It was built for close shooting, the kind nobles used for sport in sheltered groves.
Something elegant hands might practice with while servants collected bolts from painted boards.
“How overrun is the manor?” The words tasted of iron. I needed to know exactly what I was asking her to do, what measure of fool’s hope I was fastening to a girl.
“He doesn’t have enough men to hold Sol and keep a firm hand on the manor, and I know it well enough to get around.
” Her reply came fast, almost tripping over itself, as if she feared I would turn her down.
The bravado she carried when we first arrived had drained away, leaving her jaw set tight.
“He sleeps there with the Velli ambassador, the one from Reem. Claydon and Gayle’sol are there too. ”
Alive.
Relief slammed into me like a blade pulled free from between my ribs. Adrenaline followed close on its heels. My heart raced, demanding I seize this plan and run with it, that I tear open the manor gates and drag my friend back into the light.
“And Fyrn’sol? Where is she?”
Anna’s face shuttered. Her shoulders drew in a fraction, chin angling away from me. The night air cooled between us. Why did Fyrn’s name bruise her so easily?
What had she done?
“Lady Fyrn is also in the manor.” Anna shifted in her saddle, leather creaking, clearly uncomfortable. “Though I do not anticipate any aid from her.”
Questions pressed at my tongue, but logic held me back. This was neither the time nor the place for interrogations. I didn’t need to know how they gained entry—only how to infiltrate the place myself and see them out.
“Fair enough. If we lure Tallon and Egath to the city and meet you at the tunnel door, you can manage to open it?”
She nodded, tension easing from her shoulders at the change of subject. “There are only two that guard the door from the inside. I haven’t traversed the tunnels, but I imagine they’re the same.”
“You let us worry about the tunnels.”
If we reached the manor, we could carve our way into Sol. It would not be quick—or clean—but it was possible. Without reclaiming Clay’s home, we were stranded on the plains, staring up at the Andeluith while Tallon ruled from its heights.
“Meet back here tomorrow night—same time. Seliora will tell you the exact moment we will need those doors opened.” I drew a breath that scraped my lungs raw and pushed the ache in my heart aside. “May Elohios light your way.”
“Blessed be.” She flashed a proud smile, quick and young, then nudged her goat forward.
The mottled giant snorted, breath steaming white in the chill.
It chewed its cud as it turned toward the mountain, hooves testing the rock with delicate precision.
Miniature goats burst from beneath its legs, far larger than any kids I had seen, their coats a patchwork of cream and charcoal.
They leapt and pranced behind her, little ears flopping about their heads.
A smile tugged at me despite myself as I watched them pick their way up the mountain.
Anna moved with the animal as though she’d been born in its saddle, her weight an extension of its body.
Barely a pebble slid beneath them. The beasts selected narrow holds no wider than a palm, climbing angles that would break a man’s neck.
I had seen them scale sheer rock before, bodies pressed to stone, breath steady, horns grazing granite.
The kids followed, springing into each place the mother vacated, tiny grunts puffing in the dark.
Nienna grinned after them. Her hood had fallen back, and the fading moon caught in her hair, silvering the blonde strands that cascaded over her shoulder.
For a fragile moment, I could forget what the stakes were; pretend we were only out for a night ride, stumbling upon one of Clay’s herds.
The wind smelled of pine and cold earth. Crickets sang from the brush.
She glanced at me—and her smile thinned. The light in her gaze hardened into resolve. Joy had no place here. Claydon’s survival seemed less like triumph and more like a blade pressed to my spine. A grim reminder of what we would lose if this failed.
And all of it rested on a young girl’s shoulders.
I leaned and guided my horse around, grateful for the broad, steady back beneath me. Greaves stared into the trees, brows drawn tight. His grim hesitation had my body tensing as my horse rolled the bit, foam flecking his lips.
Greaves did not move. He listened, head tilted, breath slow—focus locked on something beyond my grasp.
Seliora eased up beside him, eyes fixed on the thick black of the forest.
“Wolves?” Her whisper barely stirred the air.
“It’s alone.” He grunted, tension easing from his stance. “A bear, perhaps.”
Ice slid down my spine.
We wasted no time turning back down the mountain’s foot. A Cragg bear did not kill for hunger alone. Stories told of gutted carcasses left to rot, of claws raking through flesh for sport. The goats would continue up the rock face, climbing beyond its reach. We would not.
Seliora took the lead as our horses picked their way along the narrow path. I let my mount follow her rhythm, Nienna close behind me, Greaves at our rear. It was the safest position for her.
But here? Out in the open? Safety felt like a lie.
My thoughts drifted back to Anna, to the slim crossbow on her saddle. I had no doubt that she could reach a high window if she used her goat. But could she take a life?
It was easy to kill in defense. Nienna had done it—more than once. Her instinct for survival overrode all conscience and morality. Yet aiming at a man’s heart, knowing the bolt would pierce flesh and bone, required choice. And that crossed a far more demanding line.
Could she do it?
Seliora pulled to a stop, and my hand dropped to my sword hilt.
Silence thickened. Clouds swallowed the moon. The forest shifted from gray to ink. Nienna’s breath came shallow behind me.
Were we merely spooked? Or did something stalk our path through the undergrowth?
Figures burst from the trees without a sound.
Too fast.
I had no time to shout before the creatures were upon us, pale hands clawing at my horse. Seliora drove her heels in and vanished into the forest. Fingers clamped on my saddle, and I swung, steel flashing, wrenching my mount sideways to shake the Velli loose.
A dragon’s scream tore across the distance, raw and furious.
A hand seized my tunic. The creature ducked under my strike and scrambled up my body, breath sour against my throat. I reversed my grip and drove the blade through the side of his neck.
Hot blood surged over my leg, wet and hot. It filled my boot, sticky between my toes. The assailant sagged, and my horse shied from the dead weight. I shoved the corpse off and spun toward Nienna.
Greaves knelt on the ground, sword buried in a Velli’s chest. With a savage motion he tore it free and hacked at the pale throat. He grabbed a fistful of hair and sawed until bone gave way; then he rose, scanning the dark.
Nienna sat rigid on her prancing horse, skin drained of color. Greaves’ small blade trembled in her grasp.
It would not have saved her—not against the Velli.
Shame burned bitter on my tongue. I brought her here. I gave her a tiny dagger and lied to myself, calling it protection.
“Where’s the Harvester?” Greaves barked, the severed head dangling from his grasp.
“Here.” Seliora stepped from the trees, braid torn loose, black hair spilling around her shoulders. Another head swung from her grip.
I dismounted and pointed at Nienna. “Stay. Be ready to run.”
I didn’t wait to see if she’d listen. There hadn’t been time to warn her—it happened too fast. When Velli struck, thought shattered.
I crouched beside the corpse at my feet and shoved its face aside. The skin felt cold, slick with blood. I hooked my fingers into the collar of its black tunic and dragged it down.
Scars melded with fresh scabs. Twin crescent moons punctured the flesh, bite marks from another Velli.
Lower class, then—servants bound to a master. Egath? Tallon? Or another predator now nesting in Sol? The bites marked submission, rank etched into skin. Fewer scars meant greater power. Egath bore none. His throat had been smooth.
Two heads thudded at my boots. Their marks split by severed flesh. Lifeless eyes rolled toward me, and my lip curled.
“They’re lessers. They brought their servants over.” Greaves wiped his blade on a patch of moss.
I filed the knowledge away. “Move out.” I straightened, not wanting to linger. The forest felt crowded. More could lurk nearby. These could be part of a larger scouting party, and I didn’t want to be here with Nienna at my side if reinforcements came.
“My horse took off.”
Greaves met my gaze as he sheathed his sword. The path lay empty behind him.
“Seliora, ride with Nienna.” Their lighter weight would strain the animal less, but worry squeezed my chest all the same. “If we’re attacked again, you release the queen.” My voice left no room for argument. “And Nienna, by the gods, run next time.”
The Harvester swung up behind her, one arm locking around my wife’s waist, the other hand resting on her sword. Steel whispered as it shifted in its scabbard.
A flicker of defiance, a false bravado, crossed Nienna’s face as her brow pinched. “Perhaps that’s what they wanted,” she muttered, urging her skittish horse behind mine.
She was right. Flight would paint a target on her back.
I never should’ve brought her along.
My jaw throbbed from clenching it. I turned my horse and placed the women between me and Greaves. My heels pressed in, and the animal surged forward, hooves drumming the earth. Cold wind cut against my face as we raced toward camp.
I needed her safe.
Only her dragons could promise that.
We made it back safely before the sun rose.
Dawn had not yet touched the sky, and the camp lay heavy beneath a quilt of shadow.
Low snores drifted between the tents. Banked embers pulsed faintly in dug-out pits, breathing out the last of their warmth.
Most of the soldiers were still draped on their bedrolls, boots lined in pairs outside canvas flaps, helmets tipped on their sides like forgotten bowls.
We left our horses with the other mounts before making our way through the narrow paths.
Inside our tent, the flaps dropped shut behind Greaves with a dull thud.
I felt Nienna’s quiet like an itch between my shoulder blades.
It prickled beneath my skin, persistent, impossible to ignore.
I crossed to the basin and splashed water on my face.
The cold shocked my senses, rivulets tracking down my neck.
I shoved guilt and frustration down where they could not be seen. Later—I would deal with it later.
I yanked off my tunic, tossing it aside where it struck the ground with a damp slap. I scrubbed at my forearm with wet fingers, the scent of iron rising sharp and sour.
Velli blood was thicker than a man’s. Gummy. It clung to the creases of my knuckles, packed beneath my nails. Even as it dried, it left a tacky sheen. My hands looked dipped in lacquer. I grabbed a linen cloth and dragged it across my skin, letting the weave catch and pull at the residue.
“More water,” I said with a grunt, glancing at Greaves. The basin had already turned cloudy red. This would not be enough for him.
I stripped the rest of the way, trousers hitting the ground in a heap. They joined the tunic by the entrance, stiff with gore. I dragged the damp cloth down my thigh, tracing the smeared crimson path.
I hated this part. The aftermath. The proof.
I never wanted to be this man, slick with the blood of my enemies.
Yet to become the man I longed to be, I had to fight for it. Peace would not come to me. I had to carve it out.
Nienna hadn’t moved.
She stood near the cot, still as a statue, hands slack at her sides, shoulders held rigid. Firelight from the small lantern threw a thin glow over her face. Her skin looked pale against the dark canvas walls.
I wiped the last of the blood from my torso. The water in the basin had turned bright red, flecks of blackened clots drifting across its surface. I ignored it and dried myself with a clean cloth.
Fresh trousers waited at the foot of the cot. I pulled them on, fastening the ties with fingers that still felt unclean. A fresh tunic followed, the linen cool and unmarked.
My boots.
I stared at them where they sat beside the basin, soaked with darkened blood. Those had been my good pair. Supple leather, molded to my feet over years. Now ruined.
Frustration flared, and not just from the inconvenience. It wasn’t about the boots. It was about the risk. The narrow margin between life and death.
I reached for my spare pair.
The cot creaked under my weight as I sat and pulled them on, fastening the buckles tight.
Only hours ago, I made love to Nienna on this bed.
Her breath had warmed my throat. Her nails had pressed crescents into my shoulders.
I had compromised, let her coax me into believing I could give in to her demands.
I caught her gaze across the small space.
Nothing in her expression was hidden, heavy as wheat ready for harvest: the set of her jaw, the tightness of her lips, the wrinkle between her brows.
She saw the fracture between us as clearly as I did.
I had yielded, surrendered to her, knowing the danger.
I allowed her to persuade me against my better judgment, and the night nearly claimed her for it.
My body stilled, gaze locked with hers.
I did not look away. I let her see the tension in my face, the grind of my teeth, the weight in my glare. Words would only inflame the wound.
It would not happen again.