Chapter 16 #2
I look at him. Really look. See the man who killed my parents, who stole my childhood, who built an empire of lies on the graves of everyone who stood in his way.
See a man who’s never loved anything except power. Who can’t even imagine that someone might tell the truth simply because it’s true. Who’s spent so long manipulating others that he can’t recognize genuine devotion when it’s standing right in front of him.
“I’m sorry for you.” The words surprise us both. “You spent your entire life playing games, building schemes, accumulating power. And in the end, you can’t even understand why you lost.”
“I lost because your archivist got lucky. Found documents that should have been destroyed. If I’d been more careful—”
“You lost because you never realized that truth is stronger than fear.” I straighten, raise my hammer.
“You lost because you built your power on lies, and lies crumble eventually. You lost because my father raised a son who could be better than his enemies, even when his enemies spent years trying to make him worse.”
“Your father was a fool.”
“My father was a king.” I meet his yellow gaze one final time. “And so am I.”
The hammer falls.
It takes three blows.
The first crushes his chest, cracking ribs, driving the air from his lungs in a wet gasp. The second shatters his shoulder, obsidian pulverizing bone. The third—the third finds his skull, and the serpent stops speaking forever.
I stand over the body, breathing hard, blood dripping from wounds I’ve stopped feeling. The crypts are silent except for my ragged gasps and the distant rumble of the volcano beneath us. The torches flicker in their sconces, casting shadows that dance across the faces of dead kings.
It’s done.
Kreth burned in the forges. Dura died in the Throne Hall. Juk lies broken at my feet, his blood spreading across obsidian stone, his schemes finally ended.
The Triumvirate is destroyed. The throne is mine.
I feel hollow. Empty. As if killing Juk emptied something inside me that I didn’t know I was carrying.
My father’s tomb watches from across the chamber.
The carved face on the lid is stern, regal—nothing like the warm, laughing man I remember from childhood.
The man who taught me to ride, who showed me the secret passages of the Keep, who believed I could be a good king even when I wasn’t sure I wanted to be one at all.
I walk to the tomb. Each step sends fresh pain through my wounds. My vision blurs—blood loss, exhaustion, the head wound finally catching up with me.
I press my palm against the cold stone of my father’s sarcophagus.
“It’s done.” My voice echoes in the empty chamber. “They’re all dead. Kreth, Dura, Juk—all of them. The people who killed you and mother. The people who stole our kingdom.”
The stone doesn’t answer. The dead never do.
“I don’t know if I’m the king you wanted me to be.
” The words come hard, dragged up from somewhere deep.
“I’ve killed. I’ve schemed. I’ve done things that would have disappointed you.
But there’s a woman—a human woman—who believes I can be better.
Who showed me that truth can be a weapon.
Who looked at everything I was becoming and refused to look away. ”
I lean my forehead against the cool obsidian.
“I love her, father. I didn’t think I could love anyone anymore. Thought the Regents had killed that part of me along with everything else. But she—”
I can’t finish. The words tangle in my throat, too raw, too true.
A sound. Footsteps in the passage behind me. I turn, hammer raised, ready for whatever new threat emerges from the darkness.
Gravik.
The old captain’s face is ashen, his eyes wild with something I’ve never seen from him before. Panic. Pure, undisguised panic.
“My king.” His voice breaks. “It’s the archivist.”
The world stops.
“She was attacked. During the chaos. A loyalist—one of Juk’s men—he got to her before we could stop him.”
I don’t hear the rest. Don’t need to. Something in my chest transforms into ice—cold, sharp, terrible. A fear more profound than anything Juk’s conspiracy ever made me feel.
No. No, no, no—
I run.
The passages blur past me. Steps I’ve walked a thousand times become obstacles, my wounded body fighting every stride. Blood trails behind me, my own and Juk’s, mixing on ancient stone.
I don’t care about the wounds. Don’t care about the crown waiting for me above. Don’t care about the kingdom I just won or the enemies I just destroyed.
Fable.
Her name is a drumbeat in my skull, keeping time with my hammering heart. The woman who believed in me when I’d stopped believing in myself. Who stood in a room full of enemies and spoke truth to power. Who stayed when every sensible reason said to run.
If she’s dead—if Juk’s loyalist succeeded—if I lost her while chasing vengeance through the tombs of dead kings—
I burst from the crypts into the Throne Hall.
The battle is over. Warriors kneel in surrender, weapons piled in the center of the floor.
Nobles cluster in groups, whispering, casting nervous glances at the obsidian throne that sits empty at the hall’s far end.
Vaela is directing cleanup, her voice sharp with commands.
Everything I fought for, everything I bled for, spread out before me in a tableau of victory.
I don’t see any of it.
“Fable.” The word tears from my throat. “Where is she?”
Vaela turns. Her expression flickers—something complicated, something I don’t have time to read. She points toward a side chamber, where healers have set up a makeshift triage station.
I run.
The chamber is crowded with wounded warriors, the air thick with the smell of blood and medicinal herbs. Healers move between cots, tending injuries, speaking in low urgent voices.
And there—in the corner—a cot surrounded by more healers than any of the others—
A face pale as mountain snow. Eyes closed.
Fable.
I reach her side before I’m aware of moving. Drop to my knees on the stone floor, reach for her hand, feel my heart crack open at how cold her fingers are.
“Is she—” I can’t finish the question. Can’t give voice to the fear.
The healer looks up. An old orc woman, hands red with blood, eyes tired but steady. “The blade caught her in the side. Not deep—one of the warriors pulled her clear before the loyalist could finish. She’s lost blood, but the wound is clean. She’ll live.”
She’ll live.
The relief crashes through me like a wave, buckling something in my chest that I didn’t know was holding. I bow my head, press my forehead against her cold fingers, and let myself break.
“Zorath.” A whisper. Fable’s voice, thin and thready but unmistakably hers. Her fingers twitch in my grip. “You came back.”
“I promised.” The words come out broken, rough with emotion I’ve never let anyone see.
Her eyes open. Foggy with pain, but alive. Looking at me with something that makes the ice in my chest crack and shatter.
“The throne.” Her voice is barely audible. “Did you—”
“Juk is dead. The Triumvirate is destroyed. It’s over.” I press her hand against my face, feel the warmth slowly returning to her skin. “I’m king, Fable. And the first thing I’m going to do with my crown is make sure you never have to risk your life for truth again.”
Her laugh is weak, more breath than sound. “That sounds like something a king would say.”
“I had a good teacher.”
The healers are trying to work around me, trying to tend her wounds, but I can’t make myself move. Can’t let go of her hand. She almost died. While I was killing Juk, while I was ending the conspiracy that murdered my parents, she was bleeding out on the Throne Hall floor.
“You’re wounded.” Her free hand rises, trembling, to touch my face. “You’re covered in blood.”
“Most of it isn’t mine.”
“Some of it is.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I turn my head, press a kiss against her palm. “None of it matters. Just you. Just this.”
“Zorath—”
“When you’re recovered.” The words tumble out, urgent and unplanned. “When the coronation is done and the kingdom is stable and we’re not both bleeding in a war zone—there are things I need to say. Things I should have said before the battle.”
Her fingers curl against my cheek. Weak, but warm. Alive.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“I’m counting on it.”
The healers finally push me back, insisting that I let them work, that I seek treatment for my own injuries. I don’t want to go. Every step away from her cot feels like abandoning her all over again.
But Gravik is there, guiding me toward another healer, and Vaela is asking questions about the transition of power, and somewhere above us the sun is rising on a kingdom that finally belongs to its rightful king.
The throne is mine.
And so, gods willing, is she.