Chapter 63 Unrest
Chapter sixty-three
Unrest
-Maris-
The morning broke in smothered silence.
Grey light spilled through the castle’s high windows, soft and cold as ash.
Maris hadn’t slept, not really. She’d drifted in and out of shallow dreams, Alarik’s steady breathing anchoring her to the earth.
He’d fallen asleep in the chair, arms folded across his chest, brow furrowed even in rest. She hadn’t had the heart to wake him.
But now, hours later, the peace felt… thin.
Fractured.
She sat alone on the window bench in her silk gown, arms wrapped around herself, watching the storm-bent sea. The waves grew rougher each morning. Wilder. The kind that didn’t just crash they tore. As if ushering in the war of gods bringing it closer with the passing days.
A knock echoed through the room.
She turned, heart lurching, only to find Thauren already pushing open the heavy door. He looked like he hadn’t slept either. His dark bronze hair was wind-whipped, eyes storm-glass pale. A fresh gash curved just beneath his jaw, and his armor still the scent of salt and blood.
Maris stiffened. “What is it?”
Thauren stepped inside. No ceremony. No delay. “It’s starting Maris.”
The words landed like stone in her chest.
“Veil activity’s no longer isolated to the continent,” he said. “Last night, a scout ship returned from the southern coast of Virellia. Or what’s left of it.”
Alarik stirred awake in the chair, blinking slowly before sitting upright.
“Gone?” Maris whispered.
“Razed. The villages we’ve fortified along the western cliffs have all reported the same: creatures forming from mist, shadows creeping across the waves. Entire fleets have vanished without a trace. Village people being ripped from their dwellings.”
“But,” she struggled to find logic, even as her instincts churned. “I thought we’d have more time.”
“As did I,” Thauren said grimly. “But we were wrong. She’s bleeding nightmares into the world now, pushing the Veil to collapse, forcing our end.”
Alarik rose now fully awake and came to her side. “We will be overrun at any moment.”
Thauren nodded once. “It’s not a breach anymore. It’s an invasion.”
The room fell cold.
For a moment, all Maris could envision was her end.
She turned away, facing the window again.
“Nowhere is safe,” Thauren said behind her. “Not Calanthe. Not Nythra. Not Eryndor. Not even Virellia’s strongholds. We’ll hold council within the hour, but I wanted you to know first. Everyone will be watching for your reaction.”
Maris closed her eyes.
She needed to steady herself.
Maris couldn’t sit and wait for the meeting. Not with Thauren’s warning still burning under her skin.
Nowhere is safe.
The phrase looped endlessly in her thoughts, unrelenting as the storm outside.
She snatched up her leathers and sword gifted by Kael and left the chambers.
She found Serenya in the southern training ring, already stretching beneath the ironwood arbor. Rain misted through the high arches, silver threads weaved through her hair as she rose, startled.
“Gods,” Serenya said with a soft grin, “you look like you’ve seen the end of the world.”
Maris managed a crooked smile. “Maybe I have.”
Serenya didn’t ask. She simply raised her blade and stepped back into stance.
The metal felt at home in Maris’s hand, weight and promise, sharp enough to silence the fear screaming in her ribs. She took her place without a word, and together they began to move.
Strike. Parry. Sweep. Twist.
Their footwork found rhythm. Their breath matched. Every motion bled out what words could not.
Rain slicked their faces. Leathers creaked with effort. The courtyard echoed with the whisper of steel and the pounding of heartbeats.
“You’re heavier with your strikes,” Serenya said as their blades locked. “Good. The fear is making you ruthless.”
Maris grunted. “It’s not fear.”
Serenya arched her brow.
“…Okay, maybe it’s a little fear,” Maris muttered, ducking under a swing and pivoting behind her.
Before Serenya could answer, a pair of deep voices broke into the mist.
“Well, well,” Corin drawled from the stairwell. “Looks like the god-queen is getting cocky.”
Maris didn’t flinch as her blade caught Serenya’s. “I’m coping.”
“That’s what they all say before I knock them flat,” Riven added, stepping beside Corin, arms flexing, one silver brow lifted in challenge.
Serenya grinned and pulled back, breathless. “We spar in peace no longer, I take it?”
“Peace is overrated,” Corin said, striding into the circle. He pulled his sword free with a low hum of steel and gave Maris a crooked smirk. “Besides… she needs to learn how to fight with distractions.”
“Distractions?” Maris echoed, squinting.
He winked. “Like me.”
Riven rolled his eyes and followed, blade already in hand. “Don’t worry, Maris. I’ll cut him down for you.”
It was chaos from the first strike.
Corin came in with a brutal overhead swing.
Maris deflected, staggered, and twisted under his reach only to meet Riven’s blade next, sharp and clean, his movements like poetry carved in iron.
Serenya ducked back into the fray, her blade a blur between all of them, blocking Corin from overextending and sweeping Maris’s feet just for the hell of it.
They were grinning.
All of them.
Even Maris.
Laughter cracked through the courtyard, sharp and honest. Steel met steel. Rain beaded off their shoulders. Her pulse was pounding, not from dread, but from life.
She felt like herself.
“You three are terrifying,” she gasped between parries.
“We’re just warming up,” Riven said, sidestepping a strike.
“Speak for yourself,” Serenya panted. “I already regret not eating breakfast.”
Corin barked a laugh. “You’ll regret more than that when Maris kicks your ass.”
They circled again, sweat mixing with rain, blades flashing under the gray light.
And for that one stolen moment, before the council, before the war, there were no gods. No curses. No impossible choices.
-Kael-
The council chamber smelled of wet stone and old power. A fire roared in the hearth, half-smothered by damp wood, and the heavy scent of smoke clung to the air.
Around the long carved table, nobles and generals sat hunched and grim, brows drawn tight as maps sprawled across the polished wood. The unrest across the sea. Ports falling silent. Disappearances of ships, and villagers. Veil activity spotted where once there had only been waves.
Kael stared at the ink-stained parchment in front of him, but the words blurred.
Alarik sat three chairs down, golden hair damp from the mist, a hand pressed to his chin as he studied a war report. He looked the perfect image of a thoughtful king. Diplomatic. Controlled.
Maris sat across from him. A wet strain of hair stuck to her face, wearing rain soaked leathers, she ran in straight from the training yard.
She was followed by Serenya, Corin, and Riven all fresh from sparring.
She looked nowhere in particular, more than aware of the number of eyes on her.
They all waited for any sign of weakness.
He couldn’t help but stare at her, he’d gone to check on her last night, but was told by a guard that King Alarik was already within her chamber.
A voice pulled him back from his thoughts.
“Focus,” Thauren muttered beside him, voice a threat.
Kael blinked hard, jaw tightening. “I’m focused.”
“You’re brooding,” Thauren corrected. “And people are starting to notice, remember my promise to drown you in the sea?.”
Kael ground his teeth, eyes flicking back to the maps. “I don’t need a lecture.”
Thauren stayed silent after that, a quiet triumph shaded his expression.
When the meeting adjourned, nobles filed out with murmured bows and rustling cloaks, Thauren caught Kael’s elbow before he could storm after them. The firelight glinted off the Storm-crowned’s armor, his eyes unreadable.
“If you’re going to lead this war with a clear head,” Thauren said, “you need to let go of what you think happened last night.”
Kael bristled. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know exactly what I saw.”
Kael’s gaze sharpened.
“I went to deliver the news about the spreading Veil,” Thauren said. “I found Alarik in Maris’s chamber.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Thauren went on, calm and steady. “He was in a chair, fully clothed, Kael. Asleep. Not her bed. Sitting like a sentry. She was staring out at the waves when I entered, still in her gown.”
Kael breathed a sigh of relief.
Thauren nodded.
Kael turned away, throat tight.
“I’m not saying it didn’t mean something,” Thauren added. “I’m saying, maybe it meant something different than what you feared when you went by her rooms last night.”
Kael exhaled slowly, the rage and guilt a tangled knot in his chest.
Grief for the way she used to look at him, when it was just she and him. For the version of them that existed before gods and war and betrayals carved lines between their hearts.
Thauren clapped a hand to Kael’s shoulder, firm and grounding as he drifted out to follow the others.
-Maris-
The knock came just before midnight, a request to meet in the war room, yet again.
She dressed hurriedly and rushed to the tower.
A scout entered, soaked to the bone, his face pale beneath his hood. Dark blood shaded muck covered his boots, chest heaving as every pair of eyes around the table turned to him at once.
He didn’t wait to be addressed. Just said the words:
“House Liraeth is gone.”
The silence that followed was worse than a scream.
Kael stiffened in his seat. Alarik cursed under his breath. Thauren leaned forward, knuckles whitening on the edge of the table.
Maris didn’t move.
The scout continued, voice trembling. “The stronghold is dark. No torches. No patrols. We sent ravens, and the last rider never made it back. It’s like they’ve vanished into the Veil itself.”
Or worse, Maris thought. Aligned.
With them. With Eiren.
Kael’s voice was low and sharp. “You’re sure?”
The scout nodded. “Yes, my king.”
Thunder cracked outside the high windows. Somewhere across the sea, more terrors were being born.
Alarik leaned forward. “House Liraeth holds most of the coast. If they’ve defected,”
“They’ll open the way for a siege,” Thauren said grimly. “An army could march right through.”
“They could already be marching now,” Kael snapped.
The room erupted.
Nobles rose to their feet. Accusations flew.
Old wounds reopened. Names were shouted, fingers pointed.
Calanthe accused of hiding secrets. Nythra accused of hiding Maris away.
Virellia pressed for immediate action. Someone demanded Maris explain what had really happened when she’d awakened the sigil.
Her name rang out like a challenge.
And she rose, chair flying backward.
“Enough.” She commanded.
The word was not loud. It didn’t need to be.
It carried.
The chamber fell into stunned silence.
She walked to the edge of the map, her fingertips brushing over the inky outlines of their kingdoms, their coastlines, the slowly bleeding edge of the Veil. Her voice was even, clear, a thunderclap in calm.
“You will regain control, or be stripped of voice.”
She looked up, eyes glowing silver, meeting the glare of each noble, one by one. Her sigil glowing.
“I am the Veil Breaker. I don’t care who your ancestors were, or what lines your blood claims. You answer to me. The only line that matters now . . . is the one we draw between this world and Eiren.”
Murmurs rippled.
But no one interrupted.
“We don’t have time for mistrust. For fractures. You want to survive? Then fall in line. I will not let her tear this world apart while we bicker in a tower of stone.”
She stepped back.
No crown on her head.
No blade in her hand.
And yet . . . not a single soul in the room dared to challenge her.
Not Kael.
Not Alarik.
And all she could think, as she felt the fire build in her soul was:
Let the bitch come.