Chapter 25 #2
Kaelzar’s hand drops from my back. His fingers twitch once, as if resisting the urge to hold on, then curl into a fist. His face closes off in an instant, his expression hardening into a mask of indifference. He moves away abruptly, putting space between us.
Cool air rushes into the absence he leaves behind.
My stomach plummets. I turn, following Eva’s outstretched hand, and see the entourage making their way across the field.
Nobles in fine silks and glittering jewels move in a procession, their laughter carrying on the breeze. At the center is Ryker, his golden hair catching the light as he strides forward with the effortless ease of someone who has never doubted his place in the world.
A sharp, unexplainable panic flares in my chest. I turn back to Kaelzar—
But he’s already stepping into his shadows. They curl around him like smoke, swallowing him whole as he disappears without a word.
A pang of guilt and loss strikes me at once. I don’t want him to leave. But I can’t imagine him staying either. Having both Ryker and Kaelzar here at the same time feels... wrong.
“It’s too late to run, Ray,” Eva hisses, grabbing my arm gently, tugging me back which makes me realize I had started walking after Kaelzar.
“I see that,” I say through my clenched teeth.
My gaze lingers on the spot where Kaelzar had stood, the ache in my chest refusing to fade.
I force myself to focus on Eva, on Ryker, on the approaching court. But even as I smile and let Eva lead me toward the king, a part of me stays behind, lost in the shadows where Kaelzar disappeared.
The clearing hums with life. Servants dart between silk-draped tables, their hands quick and efficient, while courtiers laugh and mingle, waiting for the opulent tents to be erected.
The morning air is thick with the heady smell of blooming flowers and freshly baked bread, but even amidst the clamor, a single commanding voice cuts through.
“Lady Troubelle,” Ryker says.
I freeze as he approaches, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight, his strides purposeful. He is the center of gravity in this courtly chaos, but his focus is on me.
He is the king, flanked by consuls and nobles, yet he crosses the distance, leaving behind the pomp and spectacle of his station and takes my hand. His hand is warm and steady, but I hesitate. This isn’t how a king should behave with someone like me.
Ryker lifts my hand as if it still holds weight. His lips brush the blackened tips of my fingers, and the world stutters to a halt. Gasps ripple through the crowd, silencing the hum of conversation.
The weight of their stares crashes down on me, the court’s collective shock mirroring the turmoil in my chest. My hand stiffens in his grasp, and when I finally find my voice, it escapes in a brittle whisper. “What are you doing?”
Ryker’s lips curve into a smirk, but his eyes soften with quiet longing. “What I should have done long ago.”
Before I can respond, Consul Montague clears his throat.
“Your Majesty,” he begins, his tone dripping with exasperation, “am I to hope that this impromptu gathering in a fly-infested clearing is not merely an excuse to impose our presence on the Witch Goddess’s Champion?
One who, I might add, has gone to great lengths to avoid us? ”
His torso is strangely compact, thrown further off balance by limbs that stretch far too long, like the legs of a cave-dwelling spider bred in darkness. With the way he’s glaring down at me, I half expect him to spit venom or spin a web around me.
A memory of Zyrel saving this consul resurfaces suddenly, brushing against my awareness like something slick and living beneath lake water, gliding unseen until it touches bare skin.
Ryker straightens, releasing my hand and his expression turns cold and imperious.
“Alistair, you’re free to hope for whatever you please.” His voice carries a sharp edge, but when he turns back to me, his tone softens, his words meant only for me.
“It also happens to be Lady Troubelle’s birthday. You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”
I shake my head, but the ache blooms in my chest because Ryker remembered, and Kaelzar didn’t.
In minutes, the quiet simplicity of the clearing is transformed.
Silk-draped tents and banquet tables groaning with food replace the unadorned space I had grown used to.
The courtiers move like glittering waves around Ryker, their silks and jewels catching the sunlight, their laughter ringing out like bells.
Even as Ryker disappears into the crowd, their whispers find me, slipping past laughter, the clink of goblets, the rustle of silk. Their conspiratorial voices cling to the edges of the clearing like fog, quiet but impossible to ignore.
Sheryndale.
The name alone seems to chill the air. Some say the kingdom never even screamed, its people lulled into an unnatural sleep, its walls left unguarded as Lothagrom’s forces marched in without resistance.
My chest tightens as the murmurs circle closer. If a whole kingdom, as small as it was, could fall so silently, what hope do the rest of us have if Lothagrom turns its gaze on Calcatra?
Next to me, I catch Eva’s expression tightening as someone mentions our weakened frontlines, where her husband currently is, and how vulnerable we’ve become now that none of our soldiers carry Borrowglasses, no longer able to wield godsmagic.
Eva excuses herself with polite grace, but I see the worry behind her smile.
It hits me then with unsettling clarity: the presence of the gods has never been only about faith or comfort.
Their watchful eyes, fed by our prayers, are a shield as much as a doctrine.
Religion may give people something to believe in, something to look up to, but in Calcatra, it also keeps us safe.
And until a new ruling God is chosen, that safety is fractured. No matter how gilded the temple halls or how brightly the priests smile, none of us can truly breathe easy.
My gaze flicks toward the other Champions scattered among the gathering.
Zyrel lounges amidst a cluster of admirers, his black dragon stomping carelessly through fragile blooms. Liona is close by, their Godbeasts watching each other with wary intensity.
Alaric keeps to himself, buried in his cup, his Godbeast long gone, as I’d been told, disappeared to Elysium minutes after he was declared the loser of the second challenge.
Seraphina also stands apart, rigid and resplendent in a gown of molten gold, her expression carefully schooled.
I head toward her with an apple in my hand, watching as her green dragon nips at her arm, earning a sharp reprimand.
“You’ll stay by my side as you must,” Seraphina snaps, her voice carrying across the clearing.
Her dragon huffs and curls into a sunny spot, tucking its head beneath its paws.
I approach cautiously. “Your Godbeast seems frustrated.”
Seraphina barely glances at the apple before snatching it from my hand and tossing it toward her dragon. “Here. Perhaps something sweet will settle you.”
The dragon stomps on the offering with deliberate disdain before curling back up, golden eyes narrowed in defiance.
“Do you know why your dragon is fussy?” I ask, silently imagining what it might be like to have a dragon for a Godbeast instead of Kaelzar. The thought unsettles me so deeply that I catch myself shaking my head, as if to ward it off.
“She’s been nagging me to let her go to explore the kingdom,” Seraphina mutters, irritation barely contained.
My mind latches on to the fact that Seraphina called the dragon she. Not it.
I frown. “You didn’t let her?”
Seraphina turns, her gaze cold as ice. “She’s here to serve me, and here she’ll stay.”
“Even if it makes her miserable?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Seraphina stiffens. Her dragon lifts its head. “Control,” she says sharply, “is how you survive the Trial,” she snaps, her voice like flint. Then she tilts her head, lips curling. “What is it you want, failed queen? A lesson in obedience?”
I ignore the jab, keeping my tone steady. “Zyrel and Liona seem to be getting closer. I thought—”
“You thought what?” Seraphina scoffs, her laughter as sharp as glass. “That I would ever stand beside you?”
But the derision drains from her voice as her eyes catch on something behind me. Her posture straightens. I turn and find Ryker standing there.
“One would think it’d be easy to speak with you,” he says, his voice light but laced with tension. “But I can’t seem to find a moment.” Just like I intended. These private moments with Ryker unsettle me more and more with each time.
All conversation around us ceases, the court’s collective attention snapping to their king.
“What is it you wish to ask, Your Majesty?” I ask, keeping my tone polite but guarded.
“Accompany me to the ball tonight.”
I swallow, torn between the softness in his voice and the ache still lingering in my chest.
I see the court watching, waiting. Their stares press in, expectant, polished smiles barely masking hunger. It should be a simple answer. He’s the king. I’m meant to want this. To want him.
But something in me stills. I remember Kaelzar’s face and despite my frustration with him, I can’t bring myself to accept Ryker’s invitation.
“It’s your birthday, Ray,” he says quietly, his voice softening to a plea. “You’re not spending it alone.”
He means well. And once, that might have been enough. A painful twist grips my heart. A flicker of quiet evenings with Kaelzar flashes through my mind.
“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping back. “I—
Before I can finish my thought, Consul Montague steps forward with a practiced smile, Consul Black at his side. “My daughter would be honored to accompany you, Your Majesty.” His tone is smooth, but his cold gaze lingers a heartbeat longer than necessary.
In the next breath, the pieces begin to fall into place with the sharp clarity.
It was Consul Black who’s been speaking of war and urgency, weaving a narrative that demands a new queen. And now he stands beside Montague with slumped shoulders and a lowered head, not as an equal, but as a subordinate. A servant.
So if the Consul of War and Defense has truly been whispering fears into the court’s ears, stoking panic over our godless frontlines—just as Eva said—then I can’t help but wonder if there's a favor he owes Montague. A debt that binds him.
Was my removal orchestrated, piece by piece, to clear a path for Montague’s daughter to ascend where I was meant to stand?
And as I stare at two consuls, the question doesn’t feel far-fetched anymore.
And if that’s true... were Montague and Black already at Ryker’s side the moment Mael confessed our kiss?
Were they there, murmuring the shaming words, poisonous enough to sway him, turning him from me before I had the chance to speak my truth?
Was he manipulated into avoiding me? Rejecting me?
The conviction that something horrible is amiss builds in my chest like a rising tide, cresting too fast, too violently, to contain. It surges through me before thought can restrain it.
I step forward and seize Ryker’s hand, gripping tightly enough to feel the tremble beneath his skin. My smile breaks through, too vicious to be called polite.
“I would be delighted to join you for the night,” I say, my voice cutting clean through the field.
Ryker, still untouched by the weight of my thoughts and the terrible shape of the conclusions I’ve drawn, squeezes my hand in return. His smile blooms and it strikes with a tenderness so pure it hurts to witness.
Because the smile feels fragile. And I don’t intend to protect it.
Betrayals of this scale leave no part of the heart intact. And when the truth begins to surface, I fear it will be my hand that delivers the blow that breaks what remains of that light within him.