Chapter 58 | Sephania
Sephania
Against all odds, we’re alive. Everyone ended up on their asses during the rooftop fight high in the clouds, yet only one person stays down forever: Overlord Aramastun Wyvox, the Night Judge.
The Five Ministries are toppled. Ostensibly, Olhav is saved from its tyrannical leaders, and Nuhav is saved from the trickle-down.
I myself spend two entire days abed in the Firehold, healing from my exhaustion and the slice to my leg. Others in the cohort take longer to recover.
Skartovius Ashfen needs a constant influx of blood for three nights to heal the hole in his chest. Turns out Aramastun’s sword missed his heart by an inch, which is the difference between still having an arrogant nobleblood to call my own, and not.
Garroway Kuffich doesn’t need as much blood, but his mind is addled the first few days.
He hardly remembers what happened, which I suppose is normal for a cracked skull.
His dhampir powers heal him slower than the vampires, and he’s laid up for a week.
Eventually, the tiny bones stitch themselves back together.
Vallan Stellos has new scars aplenty to show off.
The close-quarters explosion he caused in midair rippled through him like a hailstorm through leaves, leaving his skin shredded.
Surprisingly, he’s up and better faster than anyone, however, because most of his wounds were surface-level and the healing powers of his vampiric blood works well to sew the fabric of his skin easier than, say, bone and muscle.
Some of the explosive remnants lodged deeper in his body, and he decides to keep them in there as mementos.
Lukain Pierken fares the worst. Like Skar, he needs rapid infusions of blood to keep him from falling into the vampiric form of a coma—a long hibernation that would shut his body down for weeks, months, or years.
Losing a leg is no small thing, especially with the wound constantly bleeding out until we can bring him to the Firehold and cauterize the wound.
I wonder, if Palacia had not shown up, would Lukain be an amputee right now?
Since he protected her out of some latent bloodbond that still exists between the vampirex and the dhampir who turned her.
Then I think how none of us would be alive if not for my interfolk friend.
She’s got some explaining to do, though I’m not even sure she understands her bloodline power.
A few days after the battle, I limp off my gurney and make my way through the Chained Sisters’ infirmary to Garroway, to see how his head is today.
He’s sitting upright, eyes closed. He’s forgotten parts of the battle—since he was only involved in the first part of it—so I explain it to him.
I tell him how we won, how wild it was, and chuckle uncontrollably like a madwoman when illustrating how I came down on Aramastun with my sword through his back.
The pantomiming makes my head spin, so I sit down after a while.
After I’m done, he frowns at me. “Hold on a minute. You’re telling me Palacia saved us?”
“Well. Or Vallan. She presented the opening though, confusing the Night Judge somehow.”
His frown deepens and he sighs. “So that little waif gets the biggest cock and the power to alter minds? And I get . . . a winning personality? Life truly isn’t fair.”
I break out into another bout of laughter and pat him on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t trade you two for the world. Stay jealous, my lovely cub.” I kiss him on the cheek. The top of his bald head is wrapped in a bandage.
“I’m not jealous. I’m envious! There’s a difference!” He winces as he yells, grabbing his head, and then leans back to rest.
I go to Lukain next, a few rooms over. He has three physicians looking over him, examining his missing left leg.
The dhampir is awake, looking surly, and handsome even in his less-than-flattering recovery gown.
His arms are crossed over his chest as he watches the physicians and surgeon poke and prod his thigh stump.
I make a face when I arrive, trying to tamp down the giggles that Garroway left me with. “So, erm, there’s no chance it . . . grows back?”
“Well it’s not a fucking lizard tail, is it?” he grumbles.
I wince, nodding dumbly, ducking my head in shame for my stupid question to a clearly activated man. “I’m sorry, love. I know this isn’t—”
He puts a hand on my knuckles, and my head lifts to his smooth face. “Ideal?” he says, forcing a chuckle. “I would do it again in a heartbeat, little grimmer. Protecting you and the ones you love is part of the job.”
“I don’t love Palacia like I love you.”
“You love her nonetheless. Your actions tell it.” He smiles softly, then cringes from a sudden poke to his missing extremity. “I must say, this is a hell of a thing to happen to a man already worried about feeling less than his brothers.”
I’m ready to cry for him, to recoil, but then he looks up and laughs. It’s a tight sound, pinched with pain, but it causes me to stare deep into his gray-red eyes, lean down, and press my forehead against his.
His hand coils pleasurably behind my neck, holding me close. “The important part is you’re safe and we won. Sacrifices are part of war, Sephania. This is one I’m willing to make. I’ll be all right, I promise.”
I kiss him then. Slow and not with enough tongue to get the physicians concerned or uncomfortable. Then he tells me to check on the others and not worry about him, so I turn to leave.
Halfway down the hall, I hear his loud voice. “Tell the others I’d better not hear a word on the missing leg, or they’ll get a crutch up the ass!”
“Careful, love,” I call back, cupping my mouth. “They might enjoy that!”
Vallan is looking chipper when I arrive in his room. Just kidding, he’s always looking like someone just pissed in his late-night blood sack.
The giant man sits on the edge of his recovery bed, throwing on a tunic over his heavily muscled frame, leaving me to glimpse his scar-riddled body shortly before its sadly hidden away beneath his clothes.
I perch against the frame of the doorway. “Have the doctors said it’s all right for you to be up and about already, my big brute?”
He looks up, grunting. “I don’t listen to physicians. I listen to my own body, and I’m ready, silverblood. Besides, there is much work to do in the world.”
I approach him as he stands and towers over the rest of the world. Wrapping my arms around him, I push the side of my face against his warm chest. “The world can wait, Vallan. A few days, at least.”
“Not so sure about that.”
Staring up at him with pleading eyes, I say, “The Five Ministries are extinguished. They’re gone.”
“Which means someone will rise to take their place if we don’t act swiftly.”
I sigh.
He changes the subject. “How are the others? How is Lukain?”
“Still missing his leg.”
“Unfortunate.” He lets out a small grunt. “Garroway will never let him hear the end of that.”
“Then he might get a cane up the ass.”
“The cub might like that.”
I laugh. Bury my face against him again.
No matter what Vall says, no matter how surly and stoic he seems, this man will always be my giant bear. His overbearing protectiveness is so absolute that he would rather jump on a bomb—literally—than let his friends get hurt.
I approach Skar’s room last, tentatively shuffling in and watching him sleep. Two medics work on him with bags of blood seeping into his veins to replace all the loss of it from the fight. Even days later, the nobleblood’s recovery is slower than I’d hoped.
“Don’t pity me, little temptress,” he mutters. His eyes are closed, yet somehow he felt my presence.
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised about that anymore. All my men are capable of incredible things. “I don’t. I simply worry for you, Skar.”
He lets out a low hum from deep in his chest, then grunts from the pain of doing anything related to his chest right now. “Aramastun Wyvox is dead. So are the other Ministers. This is cause for great celebration.”
“Yes.”
“And your little interfolk vampirex is the savior of us all. Quite good.”
I’m surprised he’s not a little miffed about that, like Garroway jokingly seems to be.
“From what I’ve heard, Pala and Rirth have already begun the celebrations in earnest. They’ve been locked away for days, even though Palacia doesn’t have the excuse of needing medical attention.
” I scoff a shocked laugh. “She was the only one not demolished during the fight.”
“And now she’s demolishing her new Silverknight captain. I would like to do the same to you, if I could fucking breathe right.”
My body heats at his suggestion. “Give it time, love. Soon you’ll be right and raring to go.”
He seems to ignore that, still thinking. “. . . Or do you think it’s Rirth doing the demolishing? Hmm. They both seem to be commanding presences in their own right.”
“Commanding presences in different situations, too,” I add, snickering.
“Inquisitive minds would love to know.”
We smile at each other. I kiss him like I kissed the others, thanking the Truehearts—out of habit, since I don’t believe in them any longer—that they’re all alive.
“And your mother?” he asks once our lips separate.
“She’s with Keffa again. Nursing their wounds. They’ll be all right, those tough old bitches.”
Skar chuckles.
My face crinkles. “You saved Jinneth, Skar. Again. I can never thank you enough.” I inhale a sniffle, trying to stay strong. “I never would have suspected the woman who left me an orphan for twenty years would become so important to me, and such an integral part of my life.”
“Aye, love, but you didn’t know her story at the time. The trials she went through to try and win you back. We can’t know what we don’t know.”
There’s a simplicity to his phrasing, and I have to agree. Skartovius Ashfen has a tendency to speak in absolutes rather than opinion, because all noblebloods are like that. But I find myself agreeing with him more often than not, and I simply smile and kiss him again.
The following days are difficult yet exciting. There’s energy in the air of the Firehold and on Nuhav’s surface that speaks of one thing: a fresh start.
Down in the hold, Antones is dead. The Grimsons and Chained Sisters no longer need to hide from the human lawmen aboveground or the vampires trying to snatch them up. The outcast class is ready to expand to citizenship, and I am ready to push the issue to a vote among the people.
Because that seems to be my role in all this. People turn to me for advise and questions on how to lead the twin cities now that there’s no central leadership in either place.
Rirth looks to me for guidance, which I find surprising since he leads the largest contingent of military the humans have with the Silverknights.
He believes the Silverknight reputation has been tarnished somewhat by its association with the Truehearts, whom Archpriest Cullard severely brought down to the gutter.
The gangs, the merchants, the citizens—they all looked to me during the past months, so it’s no surprise they continue to do so now that relative peace is among us.
The Silverblood tincture became the lever that pushed the wheel, but it was I who drove the carriage, and they aren’t quick to forget that.
Like Vallan said, there’s still a lot of work to do, and much of that lies in Olhav. After the toppling of the Five Ministries, rampant civil war breaks out among the vampires.
The Military Ward’s soldiers haven’t had a leader in many long months, and they’re restless.
They never truly considered Aramastun Wyvox their lord after Barnabac Craxon croaked.
Barnabac’s famed Red Spawn—his legion of thirty-something children—go through the process of killing each other and backstabbing one another to try and get to the top.
Commerce flounders without Liolen Sesk. Trade stops while things pan out, collapsing the Olhavian economy.
Intelligence has been nonexistent since Alacine’s death, and no information floods in or out of the vampiric city.
The Damned go back to their holes and caves, hiding from the world, many of them even more crazed and gods-touched than when Valenthia Yurlyth was alive.
In every corner of Olhav, there’s chaos.
Which makes it easy for Nuhavians to wait it out while they turn on each other and deliciously finish themselves off.
It truly is a new day in the twin cities of the mountain. We’ll go in and regulate Olhav soon enough, I know, once my men are healed.
Before we go through that arduous process, however, I have one more idea to present to my Nuhavian brothers and sisters that should give them reason to celebrate . . .