Chapter 65 Godkiller’s Tomb
Chapter sixty-five
Godkiller’s Tomb
-Alarik-
Six days he had been told.
That’s all they had.
Six days until a goddess would rise in full strength. Six days to find the only weapon that could bind her long enough for Maris to end her. And if they failed, if even one thing went wrong, they wouldn’t live to see the seventh.
Alarik stood at the edge of the courtyard as the sun climbed over the cliffs of Nerium, casting gold across the wet stones.
The air was cold for summer, sharp with the tang of salt and storm.
Behind him, the castle stirred with motion, hooves being shod, weapons being readied, orders barked low and fast.
They were all moving like soldiers now.
Even the gods had no time left to play fate.
Maris’s dream had left nothing to interpretation.
The sword, a blade god-forged, bound to her sigil, was hidden beyond the borderlands, veiled by the same divine magic that had shielded her path until now.
Eiren had masked it, hoping it would never be found.
But she had underestimated the will of her siblings.
And she had gravely misjudged the woman they’d made.
The retrieval party had been chosen by noon.
Maris, of course, would go. So would Kael, no one had argued that. Not when he was the most powerful among them — half-shadow and lethal instinct.
Zairon would accompany them — offering his sword and reason. Corin, Riven, and Serenya, as well. A tight unit, each willing to die for the others. Alarik himself would ride beside them all.
He wouldn’t let her leave his sight again.
Thauren had chosen to remain behind in Nerium to position troops along both eastern and western lines. He would command the full host of Nythra, Calanthe, Virellia, and the few humans that had arrived from Eryndor so far, preparing them for Eiren’s assault should the party not return in time.
Alarik exhaled, breath misting the air.
Two days’ ride to the edge of the borderlands, then to a cursed stretch of wilds that remained uncharted, half-consumed. The sword lay somewhere in its heart, pulsing with god-power, waiting for the one who could claim it.
And waiting, no doubt, with whatever horrors Eiren had planted to guard it.
Behind him, footsteps echoed on the stone.
Maris.
He didn’t need to turn to know it was her. Her presence had grown sharper in recent days like her skin hummed with magic, the very ground shifted when she walked. She wasn’t trying to hide anymore.
The gods’ weapon. And if they didn’t find that sword . . . a future martyr, too.
She was therer beofre him, clad in fitted black leathers, hair braided back, a crown of bone resting in a bag at her side, her sigil faintly glowing beneath her cloak. Ready.
Even if her eyes were rimmed with sleeplessness.
Even if she still looked at him like she feared what would come next.
He could smell Kael on her skin, but he refused to acknowledge it. Silently accepting.
He offered her a small nod. “The horses are ready. We ride in ten.”
Her gaze lingered on his face a second longer than necessary. Then she nodded once, and turned toward the waiting group.
Alarik followed her down the steps.
He didn’t let himself think about what would happen if she fell. If the blade was lost.
There were six days left.
And for the first time in a century, Alarik believed they might actually break the curse.
-Kael-
Kael tightened the strap across his forearm, the leather biting into his skin as he looked across the courtyard at Alarik.
The golden prince of Calanthe stood like a statue in the morning sun, cloak lifting in the sea breeze, one hand resting on the pommel of his curved blade. Everything about him was composed. Regal. Unshaken.
Kael hated that it still got under his skin.
He didn’t want to trust him. Not with Maris. Not with his back. Not with a weapon meant to kill a god. But trust was no longer a luxury. And Maris had made her choice clear in that regard, she trusted both of them.
Kael took a slow breath and approached.
Alarik didn’t flinch as Kael stopped before him. His violet-blue eyes flicked once to Kael’s, annoyance spreading across his face. At their backs, horses were pawing, soldiers adjusting saddles, the travel party making final preparations.
“We need to speak,” Kael said.
Alarik arched a brow. “Now?”
Kael unsheathed a dagger from his belt and flipped it in his palm. “Now.”
Understanding flickered in Alarik’s gaze.
They stepped aside, toward the quiet shadow of an archway.
No guards. No audience. No Maris.
Kael held the dagger between them. “No matter what happens out there, if one of us falls, the other brings her home. We need to make an oat of protection.”
Alarik’s jaw clenched. “You think I’d leave her behind?”
“I think you love her,” Kael said. “But you’ve spent centuries loving beautiful things only for them to be destroyed.”
Alarik didn’t blink. “And you’ve spent centuries fearing power you don’t control. She scared you because you couldn’t cage her.”
Kael didn’t deny it, but choose to ignore the jab.
He sliced the blade across his palm.
Blood welled dark and crimson.
Alarik took the dagger in silence. Dragged the tip through his own skin.
Then they pressed their palms together.
The oath sealed hot and sharp between them,ancient and binding. A promise not to each other. But to her.
“To our queen,” Kael said, voice low.
Alarik’s eyes darkened. “To the one who ends gods.”
Their hands dropped. The blood dried fast in the salt air. And without another word, they turned back to the waiting group.
The sun had just cleared the highest cliffs when they mounted their horses and rode the path toward the borderlands.
-Maris-
She felt the land change beneath them.
The deeper they pressed into the borderlands wilds, the more wrong the world became.
It started an unnatural hush that swallowed birdsong, that made the horses’ hooves sound too loud.
Then the light dimmed, like the clouds above had thickened with something more than mist. The trees grew strange.
Twisted. Silver bark splitting down the center.
Leaves that whispered even when there was no wind.
Maris rode at the front beside Kael and Alarik, her spine straight despite the unease gathering in her chest. Zairon and Serenya flanked behind them, silent and alert.
Next Corin and Riven, eyes scanning every shadow.
Bringing up the rear, a small host of warriors rode. A mix from all four kingdoms.
Two days of this.
Two days into the Withered lands of the border.
Maris gripped the reins tighter, forcing herself to focus. To be what they all expected her to be.
Not a girl swept up by love and fate.
Not a puppet of gods.
But the Veil Breaker.
The wind shifted, and a low groan echoed through the trees like the land itself was warning her away, she couldn’t help but wonder,
What if she wasn’t enough?
What if even this sword wouldn’t be?
What if Eiren had already won?
The fire crackled low that evening, its embers pulsing like the last breath of a dying star. The wilds stretched out before them — vast, windswept, and unkind. The air carried no whisper of singing insects. Just silence and ash-scented wind.
They made camp along a ridge, their tents surrounded by spell-etched wards, layers of old fae and newer nightbound magic braided together in uneasy unity. And still, it didn’t feel safe. Not with the Veil bleeding just beyond the horizon at their backs. Not with the unknown laying before them.
Maris sat with her knees drawn to her chest, cloak wrapped tight around her shoulders, watching sparks drift upward into the night. Her eyes were heavy. Her bones, heavier. But sleep would not come easy.
Not when she knew Eiren waited behind her dreams like a thief in the dark.
Across the fire, Kael and Alarik murmured with the others, final checks of the wards. The three of them had barely spoken more than a few words since dusk, tension coiled between them like a taut bowstring.
It had been Kael who approached her first after dinner, quiet and grim. He’d knelt at her side, hands resting lightly on her thigh, silver eyes unreadable in the firelight.
“We’ve decided,” he said softly, “that we will take turns sleeping at your side tonight. And every night until we are back within Nerium.”
She stared at him, heartbeat fluttering. “Why?”
Alarik stepped in then, his voice lower. “Because if she comes to you in your dreams, Maris . . . if she tries to pull you into her realm again, we need to be able to pull you back.”
“And that means staying close,” Kael added. “Touch keeps your magic grounded.”
Maris looked between them, Kael’s drawn jaw, Alarik’s furrowed brow. Neither looked pleased. Neither looked like this was a suggestion.
The fire popped. Sparks jumped like startled birds.
Maris exhaled, slow. Heavy.
“Fine,” she said, voice thin. “But no arguing over turns. I don’t care who it is.”
They both nodded.
The first was Kael.
She didn’t turn to face him as she laid down on the bedroll.
Didn’t speak when his body sank beside hers, careful not to crowd.
But she felt the warmth of him behind her, distant and aching, like a ghost of a bond that used to be, of the early morning hours they had just shared, tangled within each other.
At some point, in the darkness, a whisper of wind brushed her cheek. Her magic twitched, veering toward the tether that wasn’t a dream but a thread.
A tether to the dark.
A cold presence pressed at the edge of her mind.
She whimpered.
Kael’s hand came to rest against her lower back.
And the presence vanished.
She fell asleep to the rhythm of his breath behind her in guarded stillness.
The second part of the night was Alarik.
He didn’t lie beside her right away. He sat nearby, only after she whispered his name did he come.