Chapter 65
Chapter Sixty-Five
Nienna
“Iam perfectly capable of walking on my own.” I hissed, though my knees wavered and my weight sagged against the arm braced at my waist.
“Of course you are,” Claydon assured, steady as oak as he guided his wife across the room. “You’re only doing this for our benefit.”
Kallias lounged in a chair, ankle crossed over his knee, boot swaying once before going still. A folded letter rested in his hand. He tried to hide his smirk, shifting to press his fingers over his mouth as if the parchment required deep study.
The healer ignored my protest and bore most of my weight as I limped toward the cushioned chair across from Gayle.
Each step tugged at the stitches buried in my thigh.
Gayle’sol lowered herself into her own seat, fully capable of walking unassisted.
I had watched her bustle through my chambers that morning, brisk and nimble, dusting shelves and snapping linens straight.
Still, she took the excuse to lean into her husband’s side, milking the journey for affection.
I would have bitten Kallias if he’d tried the same.
Which was likely why he stayed planted across the room, safely beyond striking distance.
Pain settled deep in my back once I sank into the chair.
The seam along my thigh pulled tight, a hot line beneath the bandage.
A servant arrived with a carved game board, its surface divided into colored squares worn smooth by years of use.
Gayle hummed under her breath, a lilting tune that drifted through the space as she opened a small velvet pouch.
Tiny goat figurines spilled into her palm with a soft clatter, their painted horns chipped from past battles.
There were countless matters waiting for me. Stacks of orders. Reports sealed in wax. Messages that required my signature. Yet when Gayle asked me to play, citing her own mental well-being with theatrical gravity, refusal felt cruel.
“Manuella had her kids today,” Clay stated as he lowered himself into the seat beside Kallias.
He rolled his sleeves with a habitual tug, exposing healing scabs and fresh bandages that crossed his forearms. The worst of the Velli brutality had faded to angry pink ridges. His collar stood buttoned to his throat, stiff linen guarding wounds still too vulnerable to be seen.
I knew that shame.
The smaller cuts didn’t trouble me, and the healers promised they might fade without a trace. It was the memory—the way they’d been delivered, and the intimacy and burning humiliation attached to it.
The long gash along my thigh prickled as if aware of my thoughts, the skin there tight and unforgiving.
From beneath my lashes, I stole a glance at Kallias, who’d given a brief nod at Clay’s announcement.
He’d spoken little of my injuries. Less of Tallon’s death.
Two days since our return, and those hours dragged him from chamber to council to courtyard.
Fatigue shadowed him, but he was in fine health.
He ran the kingdom, directing the purge of the Velli from Sol—but I was the fragile queen tucked away to mend.
Some fractures, though, I’d never recover from.
“Are those the riding goats?” Kallias asked, gaze still on the letter, voice mild.
“Battle goats,” Clay corrected at once. “And no. Certainly not. Manuella is a long-haired Kuh’lir. You should see her coat. Black as midnight. Thick. Glossy. It catches moonlight and throws back a violet sheen that hardly seems natural.”
A laugh pressed against my teeth, but I smothered it. Gayle arranged the goats across the board, serene as ever, accustomed to her husband waxing poetic over livestock as though reciting epic verse.
“And there is a market for black rugs?” Kallias folded the letter at last and looked up. “It would hide dirt better, perhaps.”
The man recoiled, affront blazing across his features. “Manuella descends from the Win’or line, sired out of Fe’rur! Her coat is softer than rose petals! Smoother than freshly cut slate! Rugs?”
Kallias regarded him with saintly patience. “Not rugs.”
“Absurd,” Clay muttered, easing back into his chair, though offense still flickered in his posture. He cast one last wounded look at his king. “Sweaters.”
Kallias stared at me as I ate my toast slicked with jam, the berries sharp and sweet on my tongue. He had been seated there too long. Too silent. Thoughts swirled behind his eyes like storm clouds gathering over open water, yet his mouth remained closed.
His presence filled the chamber. Heat from the hearth drifted low along the floor, but his focus weighed heavier than the fire’s warmth. Air thickened, dense enough to press against my ribs.
“What is it?” I wiped the stickiness from my fingers with a linen cloth and faced him fully. “You’ve been mulling it over since you arrived.”
His brows drew together. The corners of his mouth dipped, and a muscle ticked beneath the dark scruff lining his jaw as he tilted his head. “I settle Fyrn’s fate today.”
My heart stumbled. Betrayal cut first, then anger chased it, hot and bright. “You’re not waiting for a trial.” Not a question.
“I have burned known Vellos to the ground without negotiation.” His nose curled, barely restrained contempt seeping through the cracks in his composure. “Her destiny lies with them. The gods have held their trial and deemed her guilty.”
“Her sentence?” The word hardly carried sound. Nothing would satisfy. No punishment could balance what she’d done. No human hand could carve justice deep enough.
He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, fingers laced tight. “I don’t want to ask this of you. You need rest.” His gaze dipped to my belly, lingered, then returned to my face. “But it is your right. Her life rests in your hands.”
Dragonfire flared in my thoughts. I could see it. Feel the furnace in my lungs.
The end I had wanted for Tallon. The death that claimed Deimos Daggerteeth.
Somehow that felt too kind. Flame would be merciful.
She needed to live out her years knowing what she could have had, suffering. Let regret fester and memory gnaw at her until she met a brutal end.
Yet Clay’s steady hands came to mind. Gayle’s soft humming over her goats. And their daughter… bound to a stake. Could I hurt them in the name of selfish vengeance?
“I can sentence her,” Kallias said, drawing his feet beneath him as if my hesitation was an answer.
“What of Gayle and Clay?” The question halted him mid-movement. “Will they be there?”
He shook his head once. “I would not ask that of them. They shoulder enough blame as it is.”
My eyes closed, and my fingertips drifted to the bandages at my neck. The linen rasped under my touch, rough against healing skin.
“Take me to her.”
His gaze sharpened, piercing through me. “You’re in no condition to be walking through Sol delivering punishment.”
Shame coiled low in my stomach. The wrappings at my throat marked my suffering, my weakness. Proof that I hadn’t been strong enough. He was right. My legs still trembled after crossing a room.
“You can make it to the gates.” Understanding softened his tone, warmth weaving through it. He knew the shape of my innermost thoughts without hearing them. “She will be brought to the manor gates. You may pass sentence there.”
Relief flickered, thin but steady. A compromise. Not dismissal. Not confinement.
A weak smile tugged at my mouth. “Thank you.” My gaze fell to my hands, tracing the faint tremor still living in them.
For a moment he remained where he was, watching me as if committing something to memory. Then he stood and crossed the room. His lips brushed my forehead in a chaste kiss, restrained and reverent.
Without another word, he left.
My hand trembled, fingers tightening around Kallias’ arm. He held me steady, solid beneath my shaking, ready to lift me into his arms if the moment demanded it—if the crowd, if Fyrn, tested me too far.
She looked wretched. Blonde hair, matted and knotted, streaks of dirt and blood tangled in its length.
Her dress hung in tatters, clinging to her thin frame and smeared with grime.
Pale skin, so sharp against my own bruised and battered body, made her seem almost fragile—though she was no child.
A prisoner, yes, but at the hands of a king, not a monster.
No. She had invited that vile beast to her bed once. That choice defined her still.
“Fyrn, daughter of Claydon and Gayle’sol, you are here at the behest of the King and Queen of Radaan for your crimes against our kingdom.
” Kallias’ voice thundered, carrying over the whipping wind, sweeping through banners snapping along the mountainside.
The sound tumbled down the crags, spilling into the city below.
Her blue eyes flicked to mine. She didn’t plead. Instead, there was an ember of rebellion in her stare, defiance and resignation. Kneeling there in ragged silk, she barely resembled the friend I once knew, the girl who laughed with me in the gardens.
“Your sentence lies with your queen. Plead your fate.” Kallias offered her the slimmest mercy, a last thread of dignity.
She met my gaze, lips pressed tight. No words would come, no apology, no attempt at charm. She knew.
I let silence stretch, a brief tether between her and me, before speaking.
“Fyrn, you are removed from Sol, from the line of your ancestors.” Each word required effort, a pressure binding my lungs as I pushed them into the wind.
The soldiers listened without strain; the words carried my authority.
She needed to see me strong—the queen she would never become.
“You are banished from Radaan, cursed to live in the kingdom you chose to ally yourself with.”
Surprise flared in her eyes. Still, she said nothing.
“Vellos is burning. Dragonfire has devoured its bones, scorched the nation to rubble. You shall be escorted over the mountains, left to the ruins of your choosing. Should you dare set foot on the Craggs, no quarter will be given.”