Chapter 37
The Terrible Metaphor
Later that night, the warmth between us lingers even after our bodies go quiet, his body heavy against mine, his breath slowing where it brushes my neck.
My fingers trace lightly along his back, feeling the heat that never quite leaves him, the quiet intensity that lives beneath his skin, even at rest.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
“I saw the undead,” I say finally, my voice quieter than I intend. “How easily they killed. How did you handle all of them alone, even as a Siakar?”
He shifts slightly beside me, one arm still draped across my waist. “Siakars are strong,” he says. “That helped.” There is a pause, something heavier moving beneath the surface of his words. “But… I was able to use fire on them.”
I push myself up onto my elbows, looking at him. “How?”
He exhales, glancing away for a moment before returning his attention to me. “Do you remember when I brought up the firebird during our first meeting?”
“Yes,” I say carefully. “The terrible metaphor.”
A quiet laugh leaves him, softer than I expect. “Yes. Well… it was not entirely out of nowhere.”
I settle back slightly, watching him now.
“As you know, firebirds are rare creatures,” he continues.
“Yes, and they throw their young into volcanoes,” I mutter.
He ignores that. “They are not just creatures. They are… weapons. Or they were. Many have forgotten. There has not been a true Fyrekin in a long time.”
“A Fyrekin?” I repeat.
“It is a leader,” he says, choosing the words with care, “someone who can wield them. There is said to be a kingdom full of them. Hidden. Nearly impossible to find. They are ruled by a Fyrekin and a council. The council exists to ensure that whoever holds that power is worthy of it.”
I study him more closely now. “What does this have to do with you breathing fire?”
He is quiet for a moment before answering. “My father’s father was of that line,” he says. “Eventually my grandfather died. My father wanted the Fyrekin power. Obsessively. The ability to control them, to command that kind of force.”
Something in his tone shifts, darker now. “He killed his own brother to secure it,” he continues. “Believing it would guarantee the council’s choice.”
I inhale sharply.
“They refused him,” Colsar says. “They deemed him unfit. And when he knelt before them, they told him their choice was… me.”
I sit up fully now. “What?”
“I know.” His voice remains calm, but there is something beneath it. “I was a child. I did not understand what it meant. Only that he was furious, and that the declaration made him hate me more than he already did.”
He looks away briefly.
“He tried to force their hand. Tried to make them choose Sevrin. Even Teorin. Anyone but me. But they would not.”
“And so he sent you to war,” I say quietly.
He nods once. “Fourteen. Unprepared. It was meant to end me.”
My chest tightens as I picture it, the cold, the isolation, the expectation of death.
“The creatures then were different,” he says. “Dangerous, but vulnerable to fire. I was injured more times than I can count. Left alone in the cold more than once.”
His hand tightens slightly where it rests against me.
“And then one of them came in the bloody aftermath,” he says. “A member of the council. I was bleeding in the snow, and there were more creatures coming. I thought I was dying. That I was imagining it.”
I do not interrupt.
“He told me that when I needed them, they would come. That I had been chosen, regardless of what my father did. And then he said, until I was ready… here is a gift.”
I exhale slowly.
“Since then,” Colsar continues, “I have been able to breathe fire in my siakar form. It is what kept me alive.”
“And you never told me,” I say tersely.
“I do not use it often,” he replies. “I do not know what it might trigger. Whether using it will call them. Whether it means something I cannot take back.”
His eyes return to mine.
“You think they would come for you and demand your leadership,” I say.
“I used to worry about that, yes," he answers quietly.
“And now?”
He is silent for a moment. “Now,” he says, “if calling them means protecting you, protecting our children, ending what is coming… then I will become whatever they need me to be.”
We are both quiet after that.
“We should talk about Teorin,” I say.
His jaw tightens slightly. “You already told me enough,” he says. “It matches what has always been known. He is selfish, conniving, and cruel."
“What does he want?” I press. “Were you ever close?”
“No,” he says. “I was rarely at the palace. When I was, he was not. He was never welcome there.”
His expression shifts slightly, something more thoughtful now.
“My understanding is that my father never ended things with his mother,” he continues. “I remember my own mother accusing him of going to Thrykis to play house.”
“And you think there was more to it?"
“I think my father did nothing without purpose,” Colsar says. “And he was not sentimental enough to devote himself to something without gain.”
“And Teorin?”
“I do not know him well enough to predict him,” he admits. “But I know this.”
His voice lowers. “He cannot bond with you.”
I still slightly.
“I do not care what kind of bond it is,” he continues. “I do not care what it would mean politically or magically. He cannot have that connection to you.”
I shift over him, settling against him, my hands resting against his chest. “You are the only man I want.”
Something in him eases at that. “I know,” he says.
He exhales, then adds, “His target is likely Sevrin. And Rathmor.”
“Why?”
“I do not know,” he admits. “Before, I would not have cared.”
“But now.”
“Now,” he says, “it matters. Safety. The children. Succession.”
I draw in a slow breath.
“You are the rightful heir,” I say. “And your brother is tied to Yvara, who will destroy everything she touches. If we ignore this, we risk leaving our children in the hands of both of them.”
His hand moves slowly along my side, grounding, thoughtful.
“Our children are not ordinary,” I continue. “If one of them is born a feeder… this becomes unavoidable.”
He nods slightly.
“Make no mistake, Asharin. Sevrin will pay for what he has done. And that throne will not remain his. I have not spoken about it because I am focused on keeping you and the children safe. But everything he has done to you, he will pay back tenfold, I promise you.”
“I know, my love,” I say quietly, kissing the top of his head. “We will make our vengeance plans after the children arrive.”
He leans forward, pressing a slow kiss against my stomach before resting his forehead there.
“They are moving a lot,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“I missed so much.”
I run my fingers through his hair. “You did not miss what matters. And they will not remember.”
He lets out a quiet breath. “I wonder what the other twin is.”
“Me too,” I say. “Aunt Jularin never said. And since the children are intunars, I wonder if they sensed something when she probed them. Something that made them hide the other twin’s identity. And their ability.”
A thought passes between us.
“I do not think I trust anyone here,” I add quietly. “Not beyond Uralish. And Syle.”
His hand shifts against me, warmer now, firmer, his attention lowering as his mouth traces a slow path along my stomach, pausing where the curve has begun to change, where something new and undeniable lives beneath my skin.
“Maybe our children are already protecting themselves,” he murmurs, his voice roughened, closer now, less distant.
“Maybe,” I answer, though the word dissolves as his mouth moves again, lower this time, the sensation pulling through me in a steady, tightening line that makes it difficult to hold onto anything else.
He does not rush. There is nothing careless in the way he touches me, nothing impatient, only intention, each movement chosen, drawn out just enough that I feel every shift of his hands, every change in pressure, every place where his attention lingers longer than it needs to.
My fingers slip into his hair, tightening without thought as my breath loses its rhythm, my body answering him before I can gather myself back into anything resembling control.
“Colsar—” I start, though the word comes out unsteady, more breath than sound.
His hand closes more firmly at my hip, holding me where I am, anchoring me as I shift against him, the contact pulling something more intense from me this time, something I cannot soften or hide.
He understands without asking. My head tilts back, my body giving in to the slow build he creates, the earlier conversation still present somewhere at the edges but slipping further away with each passing second, replaced by the heat of him, the certainty of him, the way he draws me fully into the moment without effort.
For a brief stretch of time, everything else falls away. The palace, the court, the tension waiting beyond these walls, all of it recedes, leaving only the quiet, consuming awareness of his hands, his mouth, the steady pull of something that belongs entirely to us.
Whatever comes next will come.
But this—
this is ours.
The next morning, Hyverin comes to see me.
He does not linger. His hand closes around my wrist, reading what lies beneath the surface with a brief pause that belongs to calculation rather than uncertainty.
"Two weeks," he says. "If the body follows its natural course."
My breath stills.
"The child is ready. The lungs are developed. There is no weakness here."
"It has not been—" I begin.
"The child is not fully human," he cuts in, his tone unchanged. "It does not follow a typical gestational pattern." Something unreadable passes through his expression. "Should the unexpected occur, know that the child will survive it."
A small pause. "There is no cause for concern."
Then he is gone.
The door closes and neither of us moves.
Colsar looks at me. "Does he know there are twins?”
"Aunt Jularin says yes," I reply, keeping my voice low. "But that he is too loyal to say it aloud. For fear of being overheard."
Colsar nods once. His expression shifts, and I know exactly what he is doing. Two weeks. The wards. The road to Shalvar. Everything that stands between where we are and somewhere safe enough to bring children into the world.
Two weeks is not enough time.