Chapter 12 #2
Something shifts inside me. Not relief—not exactly. More like the release of pressure that’s been building for years. My father’s murderer is dead. The man who arranged my mother’s accident is dead. One piece of the Triumvirate has been fed to the mountain.
The forge workers are still watching.
I turn to face them, blood-covered and swaying slightly from exhaustion and blood loss. Common folk, every one of them—men and women who’ve worked these forges for generations, who’ve seen kings come and go, who’ve learned to survive by keeping their heads down and their opinions to themselves.
One of them drops to his knees. Then another. Then a third.
They’re kneeling. Not to Kreth’s memory. Not to the puppet king installed above. To me.
My throat is tight. My vision is blurring at the edges, the wounds across my body finally demanding what they’re owed.
I open my mouth to speak.
Fable’s voice comes instead.
FABLE
I arrive in time to see the execution.
The climb through the forge levels nearly killed me—narrow passages, brutal heat, the constant fear that I’d round a corner and find Kreth’s warriors rather than Zorath’s.
But Gravik left breadcrumbs, subtle marks that only someone looking for them would notice, and I followed them up through stone that tried to cook me alive with every step.
Now I stand at the edge of the forge chamber, watching the man I’ve fallen for throw his father’s murderer into liquid fire.
The screaming is terrible. I knew it would be—I’ve read accounts of volcanic executions, the clinical descriptions scholars use to distance themselves from the horror.
But reading about it and hearing it are different things.
My stomach lurches. My hands shake against the heated stone of the doorway.
Part of me is glad.
The thought doesn’t have time to settle. The forge workers are kneeling—dozens of them, common folk acknowledging their king without being asked. Zorath stands at the platform’s edge, blood-covered, swaying, clearly on the edge of collapse. He hasn’t seen me yet.
I cross the chamber.
The heat is overwhelming, each step an effort against an invisible weight trying to push me back.
Sweat soaks through the borrowed clothes I’m wearing, evaporates, soaks through again.
My lungs burn with every breath of superheated air.
But I keep moving, keep watching him, keep closing the distance between us.
He turns when I’m ten feet away. His body goes rigid—not from pain, though he must be drowning in it. From fear. The look in his eyes is unmistakable.
He’s afraid of what I’ll think.
Afraid that I’ll look at him the way the court looks at him. As a monster. A killer. Something to fear rather than love.
I close the remaining distance. Take his bloody hand in mine. Feel the heat of him beneath the cooling blood, the slight tremor of muscles pushed past their limits.
“One down.” I lace my fingers through his, ignoring the sticky warmth coating both our palms. “Two to go.”
Something breaks in his expression. The fear crumbles, replaced by something raw and vulnerable and desperately relieved. His free hand rises to cup my face—blood and all, smearing red across my cheekbone—and he rests his forehead against mine.
“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice is rough, wrecked. “The heat—”
“I’m exactly where I should be.”
We stand there for a moment that stretches into eternity.
Forehead to forehead, breathing each other’s air, his blood drying on my skin.
The forge workers are still kneeling. The lava still churns below the execution platform.
And I’m holding the hand of a man who just killed someone in front of me and feeling nothing but fierce, protective love.
Love.
The word surfaces unbidden. I try to push it aside, to examine it later when we’re not surrounded by smoke and blood, but it refuses to budge. It sits in my chest like a coal from these very forges—hot, bright, impossible to ignore.
I love him.
I love this scarred, damaged, dangerous prince who’s spent years becoming a weapon because he didn’t know how to be anything else.
Who’s learning, slowly and painfully, that there are other ways to rule.
Who just executed a man with all the formal weight of royal authority rather than tearing him apart in blind rage.
“My prince.”
The voice breaks the moment. Thalzar approaches through the kneeling workers, his ancient face unreadable, his gaze moving from Zorath to me and back again. If the old forgemaster has opinions about finding his prince blood-covered and holding hands with a human woman, he keeps them to himself.
“Your father came to me once.” Thalzar stops a few feet away, close enough to speak without shouting over the forge’s constant roar. “Years ago, before you were born. He asked what makes a good king.”
Zorath straightens slightly, though he doesn’t release my hand. “What did you tell him?”
“Mercy. And a hammer. Knowing when to use each one.” Thalzar’s weathered face shifts into what looks like respect.
“Kreth expected you to tear him apart. The nobles expected you to tear him apart. Even your own warriors expected it. But you gave him a trial. Formal charges. The chance to confess before witnesses.” A pause.
“You gave him what he never gave your father. What he never would have given you.”
“He didn’t deserve it.”
“No. But that’s what made it matter.” Thalzar looks at the kneeling forge workers, the common folk who’ve been invisible in noble politics for generations.
“They’ll remember this night. They’ll tell their children.
The prince who had every reason for rage and chose law instead.
” His gaze returns to Zorath. “You knew, my prince. Tonight, you knew.”
The words hang in the heated air. Zorath’s hand tightens on mine—not painful, just present. An anchor. I squeeze back.
“The weapon stores.” Zorath’s voice has steadied, the prince emerging from behind the exhausted man. “Did Kreth succeed?”
“He pushed one cart into the fire before you arrived. We lost perhaps a tenth of our reserves.” Thalzar gestures toward the far side of the chamber, where racks of weapons gleam in the lava-light. “The rest remains. Enough to arm your forces for the assault.”
“Good.” Zorath wavers slightly, and I tighten my grip on his hand. He’s lost too much blood. Pushed too hard. The adrenaline that’s been keeping him upright is starting to fade. “The Triumvirate—what’s left of it—will know what happened here. They’ll know we’re coming.”
“They’ve known since they crowned their puppet.” Thalzar’s tone is dry. “Fear doesn’t change because you give it a name.”
I step closer to Zorath, sliding my free arm around his waist in what could be support or could be something more intimate.
Both, probably. He leans into the contact—subtle, just a fraction of his weight shifting toward me, but I feel it.
Feel him accept the help without the pride that would have refused it days ago.
“Can you walk?” I keep my voice low, meant only for him.
“I can do whatever needs doing.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His mouth quirks—not quite a smile, but close. “I can walk. Might need help with stairs.”
“Then let’s get you somewhere they can treat those wounds.” I look at Gravik, who’s been hovering at a respectful distance, his weathered face creased with concern. “Is the path back to the refuge clear?”
“Should be. Kreth’s men were his last loyal supporters in the forge levels.” Gravik steps forward, positioning himself at Zorath’s other side. “My prince, if you’ll permit—”
“I can walk.” But Zorath doesn’t shake off either of us. Just starts moving, one foot in front of the other, leaning on me more than he probably realizes.
We make slow progress through the forge chamber, past the kneeling workers who rise as we pass, past the cooling pools of blood and the scattered remains of Kreth’s final guards.
Thalzar walks ahead, clearing a path, his presence parting the crowd of smiths and laborers who’ve gathered to see their new king.
The word spreads faster than we move. By the time we reach the main passages, people are lining the route—forge workers, servants who’ve fled the upper levels, a handful of nobles who made it to the Depths before the fires cut off escape.
They watch in silence as we pass. Some bow.
Some kneel. Most just stare, trying to reconcile the blood-covered prince with whatever stories they’ve heard.
“They’re looking at you like you’re already king,” I murmur.
“Not me.” Zorath’s voice is quiet, meant only for my ears. “Us.”
The word sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with temperature. Us. Not the prince and his human ally. Not the heir and the archivist. Us.
“You’re delirious from blood loss.”
“Probably.” But he doesn’t take it back.
We reach the refuge chamber eventually—the natural cavern where survivors have been sheltering since the fire drove us from the upper Keep. Vaela meets us at the entrance, her sharp eyes cataloguing Zorath’s wounds with visible concern.
“Kreth?” One word, demanding a full report.
“Dead.” Zorath lets Gravik and me guide him to a bench carved into the stone wall. “Fed to the mountain. Confessed first, in front of witnesses.”
Vaela’s eyebrows rise slightly. “A formal execution. How…unexpected.”
“Unexpected seems to be the theme tonight.” Zorath’s head falls back against the stone as healers converge, their hands already reaching for his wounds. “Juk and Dura?”
“Still in the Throne Hall with their puppet. They know about the fire in the forges—probably know about Kreth by now.” Vaela’s gaze flicks to me, assessing. “The archivist was with you for the execution?”
“I arrived at the end.”
“Convenient timing.”
“Deliberate timing.” I don’t flinch from her scrutiny. “I needed to see.”
Vaela’s mouth pulls to one side—not approval, exactly, but perhaps grudging respect. She looks at my hand, still intertwined with Zorath’s despite the healers working around us. Looks at the blood drying on my face where he touched me. Draws conclusions.
“We attack at dawn.” Vaela turns her attention back to Zorath. “The forge workers’ support changes things. If the common folk believe you’re their king—”
“They do.” Thalzar has followed us into the refuge, his ancient frame settling onto a bench across from Zorath.
“I’ve worked these forges for longer than most orcs live.
I know how word travels down here. By sunrise, every servant and smith in Ashkar Keep will know what happened tonight.
The prince who executed a Regent with law instead of rage.
The king who had every reason for rage and chose something harder. ”
“That’s not nothing.” Vaela’s political mind is clearly working, turning angles and advantages. “Dura’s warriors might hesitate to fight against someone the common folk support. And Juk—”
“Juk will run.” Zorath’s voice is flat, certain. “He’s a schemer, not a fighter. The moment he realizes he’s lost, he’ll try to escape. Save himself to plot revenge another day.”
“Then we make sure he can’t escape.”
The planning continues, but my attention drifts. Zorath’s hand is still in mine. The healers work around our joined fingers without comment, stitching wounds, applying poultices that smell of herbs and something sharper. He doesn’t let go. Neither do I.
Something has shifted between us. Not just the physical intimacy—though gods know that changed things, too. But this. The blood on my hands. The execution I watched without flinching. The love I finally admitted to myself in the heat of the forges.
He squeezes my fingers. Subtle, barely noticeable, just pressure and release.
I squeeze back.
Later—after the wounds are dressed, after the plans are finalized, after Vaela and Gravik and Thalzar have left to prepare for what comes at dawn—we’re alone in the healing alcove.
The crystal lights have been dimmed. The refuge chamber beyond is quiet with the restless sleep of people waiting for war.
“You saw.” His voice is soft, rough with exhaustion and something else. “What I did to him.”
“I saw what he deserved.”
“That’s not—” He stops. Tries again. “I wanted to tear him apart. Everything in me demanded I destroy him. Make it hurt. Make it last.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.” His free hand cups my face, traces the dried blood he left on my cheek earlier. “Because I heard your voice. In my head, telling me to be the king my father believed I could be. You weren’t even there, and you still—” He breaks off, throat working.
“Still what?”
“Made me better.” The words come out rough, almost unwilling. “You make me better, Fable. Make me want to be worthy of the faith you keep putting in me.”
I lean forward, press my lips to his. Gentle, because he’s wounded. Thorough, because I need him to understand.
“You were already worthy.” I rest my forehead against his, breathing him in—blood and smoke and the particular warmth that seems to radiate from his core. “I just helped you see it.”
“Stay with me.” His eyes find mine in the dim light. “Tonight. Not for—” A pause, the ghost of a smile. “I’m not sure I could manage a repeat of earlier even if you wanted one. But stay. Just…be here.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d be.”
I shift onto the narrow bed beside him, careful of his wounds, fitting myself against his side. His arm wraps around me, pulls me close despite the pain it must cause. We lie there in the dim light, listening to each other breathe, feeling the steady thrum of the volcano beneath us.
War comes at dawn. The Throne Hall waits. Juk and Dura and their puppet king stand between Zorath and everything he’s been fighting for.
But that’s tomorrow.
Tonight, we rest. Heal. Hold onto each other in the darkness.
Tonight, that’s enough.