Chapter 33
Plans
The morning does not hold. It fractures quietly as the warmth fades from the chamber. The world outside does not wait for tenderness to finish unfolding. It presses forward, indifferent to what has been reclaimed in the quiet of a single room.
Colsar still sleeps when I rise. One arm remains where it had rested over me, his hand now slack against the sheets as his breath moves slow and deep beneath the bandages that wrap his ribs.
I pause beside the bed, watching him for a moment longer than I should allow myself.
There had been too many mornings where I did not know if I would ever see him again.
I dress in silence.
The fabric settles over my skin in careful layers, the weight of it grounding me as I fasten each tie and smooth each fold into place.
The mirror catches me as I dress, reflecting something more composed than I feel.
A queen.
The word does not sit easily, but it does not slide away either.
Behind me, Colsar stirs. The movement is slight, a shift of breath, a quiet sound that follows it. I glance back just long enough to see his eyes open, unfocused at first, then finding me where I stand.
“You’re leaving,” he says, his voice still rough with sleep.
“For now,” I answer softly.
His eyes move over me, taking in the dress, the way my hair has been pulled back, the distance already forming between the bed and where I stand. “You won’t be gone long.”
It is not a question.
“No,” I say. “Not for long."
Colsar watches me for a moment, something unreadable passing through his expression before it settles into something steadier. “Then I will be here when you return.”
“I know.” I move back to him then, not out of hesitation but because I choose to, leaning down just enough to press a quiet kiss to his forehead, careful of the bandages, careful of the space where pain still lives beneath his skin.
His hand lifts, brushing briefly against my wrist before falling away again.
“Be careful,” he murmurs.
“I will.”
The corridors are already awake. Servants move quickly. Guards stand at their posts with a tension that does not belong to routine, their eyes more focused than they had been the day before.
Word has spread that my husband has returned to me. And with it, the possibility that I may one day control two kingdoms.
I walk through it without slowing, my steps measured, my posture held in a way that feels less like performance and more like necessity. Every glance, every shift in the air around me, carries something unspoken, something that waits to see how I will move within it.
The throne room doors are already open when I arrive. Light spills through the high windows, pale and unyielding, illuminating the long stretch of floor that leads to the dais. It does not feel empty.
It feels expectant.
Petunis stands at the base of the steps, her staff already in hand, her presence already claiming the room. Her attention shifts to me the moment I cross the threshold, her expression unchanged, but something in the way she studies me suggests she is measuring more than my arrival.
“You are on time,” she says.
“I said I would be.”
“That is not the same thing.”
I do not respond.
She inclines her head slightly, as though acknowledging something that does not need to be named. “Good,” she says. “We begin now.”
I step forward, the distance between us closing with each measured step, the weight of the room settling more firmly into place as I approach the dais. The throne rises behind her, unchanged, unmoved, waiting.
“Today,” Petunis continues, turning slightly so that her voice carries across the room as though it were already full, “you will learn to hold power without letting it consume you.”
Her staff taps once against the marble.
“You will learn how to use it without announcing it.”
I learn from Aunt Petunis for a while before I say abruptly. "I am tired and I want to see my husband."
"Your husband will need to undergo the scouring," Petunis says, without turning. "Before he is permitted to move freely within these walls."
"It is not necessary," I say.
She turns then. "The protocol exists for a reason—"
"It is not necessary," I repeat. “And he will move freely wherever he wishes.”
"You may not--"
Before she can finish her protest I answer her calmly. "I am the Queen Heir, Aunt Petunis. So, in fact, I may."
Something moves across her face. Anger. Then something quieter. Harder.
Respect.
When I return to Colsar’s rooms, he isn’t there.
Fear hits fast, tightening in my chest before I can stop it. For a moment, I am certain something has gone wrong. That he has worsened. That I left him too soon.
Then Syle’s voice slips quietly into my mind.
“We’re in the north courtyard. Behind the gazebo.”
Relief hits just as hard. I turn and move quickly, the lingering panic pushing me faster than I intend.
I find them gathered in the sunlight.
Colsar sits on a stone bench, Uralish beside him. Syle leans against the wall behind them, Enovar beside him, the two of them deep in what appears to be a quiet argument about something that does not matter. It is such an ordinary scene that it almost feels unreal after everything.
“Uncle,” I say, nodding to Uralish. “Cousins.”
I do not wait for more. I cross straight to Colsar and sit beside him, my hand already reaching for his arm.
“You should not be up,” I tell him quietly. “You need rest.”
“The fuck he does,” Uralish cuts in. “You healed him. Now he needs his strength back. He needs to run his beast. I’ll take him tonight.”
I glance at Colsar despite myself. He looks… stronger. Not just healed. Changed. His hair has grown longer, falling past his jaw, his shoulders broader than I remember. He has shaved, the sharp lines of his face clearer now, more defined.
More dangerous.
“Why the rush?” I ask.
Uralish’s expression hardens. “Because, Queen heir, you are not going to stay pregnant forever. And if you want your child to live, you need to get out of here before you give birth.”
Syle’s voice follows, quieter but no less firm.
You have avoided this long enough, Asharin. Your husband is here. Now the conversation happens.
“I don’t even know where we would go,” I admit.
Uralish exhales sharply. “You failed to mention your husband rules an entire realm.”
I turn to Colsar. “Is it not overrun with undead?”
“The mountains are,” he says. “But Shalvar itself still stands. The wards hold. The Sovereign’s castle is heavily protected. There’s even an escape passage beneath it. A boat that leads straight to the Western Reach.”
“You would only need to stay long enough to give birth and recover,” Uralish adds. “You’ve gained favor here since the… incident.” His mouth twitches faintly. “The problem is not the people. It’s the fact that your children would be born on Alarnan soil.”
Colsar runs a hand through his hair. "Shalvar isn't the danger," he says quietly. "Getting there is. The undead between here and the mountains alone—"
"The undead are not your greatest concern," Uralish says.
We both look at him.
"There are worse things out there," he says. "And before either of you goes anywhere, you need to understand what you are walking into."
“What do you mean?” I ask, wondering what could possibly be worse than the undead.
He studies us for a long moment before speaking. “When you were in Veynar,” he says, “did either of you ever hear of the Blind Gate?”
“No,” I answer immediately.
Beside me, Colsar hesitates. “Yes. My father mentioned it once or twice. Never in detail. Why?”
Uralish lets out a low, humorless laugh. “They raise rulers and fail to teach them the most basic truths.”
My stomach tightens.
“Speak plainly,” I say.
“The Blind Gate leads to Morrath. It is a land where Feeders have fed for centuries without restraint,” he says. “So much that the humans there have become something else entirely.”
He meets my eyes. “They’re called Morraks.”
The name feels wrong in my mind. Heavy.
“They are what happens when feeding goes too far. Faster than the undead. Stronger. They fly. And they hunt.”
Morrath. Suddenly I remember. “Petunis said that the man who knows what happened to my mother lives there.”
Uralish snorts. “Axar. That fucker may still be alive. He was always obsessed with Ryaran. That is what feeders do, they fixate.” He sighs. “He likely will kill anyone with the last name Rathmor, including you, Asharin.”
“Why?”
“Your husband’s father is the one that trapped him there, preventing him from getting revenge for Ryaran, from killing everyone that stood in his path.”
He shrugs. “So Morrath does have its uses, I suppose.”
My breath stills.
“As for the Morraks, they do not respond to lightcraft. Fire can kill them, but only if you’re fast enough. And they are rarely slow.”
“The Gate was created to contain them,” he continues. “Hundreds of thousands of them. Maybe more.”
Silence settles over us.
“To release them in force,” he says, “requires Yorali deathmagic. And a key.”
I already know.
“Who controls it?” I ask anyway.
“King Sevrin.”
Colsar is on his feet instantly. “Fuck.”
“What?” I demand.
“When I crossed the wards,” he says, “I saw one. It tore through a cluster of undead and vanished.”
Cold spreads through me. “What does that have to do with the wards?”
“It is why no one came for you sooner,” Uralish says, and there is something like regret in his voice. “I stayed away because I believed you were safer here. Happier.”
His gaze darkens. “The others stayed away because of strategy.”
“Why?”
“Morrath lies close to here. If the Morraks are released, they will tear through the Threns and the undead without resistance.”
“And Alarna?”
“Alarna has never been their target,” he says. “We stayed neutral. Veynar has always held that power.”
He exhales. “The Threns fought Veynar for years without understanding what stood behind it. Not just the Morraks already there, but the fact that Sevrin can create more.”
He snorts. “Not to mention, Morrath has more than Morraks. It has feeders who look like you and I, who wield all kinds of power.”
His voice is quiet. “They are trapped there by the rules of the magic. And I bet they wish to leave.”
A chill runs through me.
“That threat does not disappear,” he says. “Not unless Morrath is destroyed… or controlled.”
“That’s why Teorin wants Veynar,” I murmur.
“Yes,” Uralish says. “But do not mistake him. He may not want to destroy it. He may want to wield it.”
He looks to Colsar. “You likely saw a Morrak. Sightings have been increasing.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means Sevrin is stirring,” he says quietly.
“You think he’s looking for me.”
“Yes.”
Colsar’s voice is grim beside me. “And he won’t stop.”
Uralish nods once. “Still… he may be the lesser danger compared to Teorin.”
My head snaps toward him. “What are you saying?”
“You need to go to Veynar.”
Silence.
“And do what?” I ask. I know the answer before he says it. This was never about returning. It was about taking control of something no one else could be trusted to hold.
“Find the key to the Blind Gate,” he says. “And end this before it begins.”
“How?” Colsar demands.
Uralish’s expression is grim. “Take control of Morrath. Or force Sevrin to destroy it. I don’t care which. But if no one does, it will end in ruin.”
Then he looks at me. “And besides… Queen Heir, we both know you want to return to Veynar. Revenge is overdue.”
I glance at Colsar. His hand finds mine, steady and certain. Whatever I choose, he is already with me.
Uralish's attention shifts between us. "I require something from both of you."
Colsar's expression hardens. "What?”
"Blood."
Colsar does not move. I reach for his hand. "I trust him," I say quietly.
He looks at me, then nods once.
Uralish does not waste time. A thin blade appears, two shallow cuts drawn, our hands pressed together briefly before he releases them.
He draws his thumb through the blood where it gathers, marking something unseen, then steps back.
“That will do,” he says.
I exhale slowly. “So we escape Alarna,” I say. “We go to Shalvar…”
“And then,” Uralish finishes, “you march on Veynar.”
He pauses.
“With an army at your back. Just in case.”