Chapter 34 Smoke Without Flame
Chapter thirty-four
Smoke Without Flame
-Kael-
The bed was warm when Kael stirred, one arm instinctively reaching for the smaller body that should’ve been curled against his chest.
His fingers met only rumpled sheets.
He opened his eyes, the early sun casting pale gold across the silk canopy above him. For a moment, he didn’t panic. A rare, fleeting smile ghosted across his face.
She’d let him sleep in.
A small indulgence. A mortal kindness and one that made something dangerous inside him soften.
He stretched, muscles rippling beneath his bare skin, and ran a hand through his hair. The beginnings of the bond still hummed in his chest, a ribbon of connection, warm and intact. He could feel her. Distantly
Apprehension. He realized and frowned.
Was she nervous? Regretful?
His body tensed as he rose from the bed, dressing quickly in black linen and leather, the kind he wore when he needed to move without thought of appearances. No crown. No jewelry. No mask.
Just purpose.
He moved with shadows rolling at his back through the quiet palace corridors, starting with the obvious.
The training yard.
Valea was there alone when he approached, sharpening a curved blade that gleamed under the rising sun. Her crimson braid was pulled tight, her expression as severe as ever.
She saw the question on his tense face.
“She’s not here,” Valea said before he even asked. “Didn’t come for drills this morning, I thought you two were enjoying your morning — in another type of sparring.”
Kael’s jaw clenched.
He found his way to the gardens next.
He found Serya and Leneth walking slowly under the arches of blooming moonvine, their heads bent together in quiet gossip. They looked up as he approached, instantly falling into silence —both bowing before him.
“Have you seen her?” Kael asked.
Serya shook her head gently. “Not today, my King. Not since the feast.”
“She promised we’d meet by the fountain,” Leneth added, brows furrowed. “I brought her candied lemon drops. They’re her favorite.”
Kael didn’t respond. He was already moving.
He disappeared through shadow to the library tower.
Aldwyn stood among the shelves, blindfolded as always, his hands gliding over a tome of brittle parchment. He paused as Kael’s presence darkened the air.
"Maris." Kael roared.
“She came yesterday for lessons,” the Lorekeeper said. “We spoke of dreams.”
Kael’s voice sharpened. “And today?”
“She hasn’t returned.” Aldwyn tilted his head.
Kael’s spine prickled with cold.
He stormed down the spiral steps without a word.
He went back to their chambers.
Empty.
One of the Wraiths stood at the doorway, its blank face tilted. Silent. Waiting.
Kael snarled, “Where is she?”
But she said nothing.
A hollow sensation began to burn through his chest.
The kitchens. The garden walls. The tower lookout. Every inch of Calyrix scoured.
Still no Maris.
The bond hadn’t snapped into place but it had changed.
Warped.
Like a knife had been slid beneath it, careful and precise.
A knot formed in his throat, slow and terrible. His steps faltered as realization dragged sharp claws through his thoughts. His fingers curled into fists. Shadows began to coil around his arms like smoke drawn to blood.
He stopped in the middle of the corridor, closing his eyes, stretching his magic toward the tether that connected him to her.
He reached.
Maris.
Her name echoed in the hollow of his mind.
No answer. No flicker of warmth. Just the faint echo of apprehension and underneath that something familiar.
Wrong.
Not hers.
Alarik.
Fuck.
He didn’t wait. His body snapped into motion, magic exploding in a roar of shadow and fury that sent the nearby sconces flickering and the walls trembling.
If Alarik had touched her,
If he had taken her from their bed, from the protection of his court, from him,
Kael would tear the Veil down himself and throw the bastard into it and drown Calanthe in his ashes.
“Sound the alarms,” Kael barked the moment he stepped back into the throne corridor. “Summon Corin. Riven. Draeven. The council meets now.”
Kael stood at the head of the obsidian table, arms braced, voice like a blade across the chamber.
“Maris was stolen.”
Gasps. Tension. Serya’s hand found Leneth’s. Valea paled.
Corin’s jaw flexed. “How?”
“I don’t know,” Kael admitted, fury spiking in his chest. “But I will find out.”
A messenger burst in moments later, panting. “Your highness… reports from the city perimeter. Over a dozen massacred. Guards stationed at the south wing tower were slain. Quietly. Efficiently.”
“We have eyes watching the western edge of the border,” Riven said. “If the bastard moves, we’ll catch his shadow.”
Kael shook his head. “No. He's already gone.”
He turned to the scribe. “Prepare a formal correspondence. I want it sent west across the sea to King Thauren of Virellia.”
Gasps again. Even Draeven raised an eyebrow.
“The sea-King?” Valea said cautiously. “You would ally with him now?”
“He owes me a debt,” Kael snapped. “And he wants Alarik’s head more than I do.”
Thauren. The storm-crowned ruler of the island kingdom of Virellia.
Master of fleets, bearer of tempest-forged steel.
And, once upon a time, an almost-brother to Kael.
His kingdom, far out beyond the jagged cliffs of the western coast of Calanthe, where the sea turns black and the wind shireks in pain, an island the maps often forgot or chose to look over.
It rises like a wound from the water: sharp, crooked, cloaked in mist that never lifts.
No birds circle it. No uninvited ships return from its shores. Its land filled with ruthless warriors.
“He will come,” Kael muttered. “And when he does we’ll have two armies at Alarik’s doorstep, one from the western sea, and our marching to the river's edge through the borderlands.”
And Kael would not stop until he had Maris back.
Until she was safe.
Until his enemies bled for daring to touch what was his.