Chapter 65 Truths
Truths
Imove behind him on the chaise, my legs folded beneath me as I work my hands slowly into his shoulders. His body is still warm, muscle coiled under my palms in ways that speak of restraint rather than exhaustion. The council chamber is too bright for what we are discussing, yet the quiet holds.
“Why is he like that?” I ask softly. “Why does he look at you as if you are about to take something from him?”
Colsar does not evade the question. “Because I can,” he says.
My hands pause briefly before continuing down the length of his back.
“He sits on the throne by declaration,” Colsar continues. “Not because it cannot be challenged.”
I lean forward slightly. “Explain.”
“Sevrin is publicly acknowledged as my mother’s son,” he says. “But he was born to another woman before my father brought him into the royal line. He was legitimized afterward. The law permits it, but it also allows it to be questioned.”
“So he is vulnerable.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“I was born within a recognized marriage.” The words are unadorned. Simple fact.
“So your claim is stronger.”
“It always has been.”
I shift closer, my hands sliding lower, working tension from the base of his spine. “Then why did you let him have it?”
“Because I did not want it,” he replies. “And because our father never intended for me to have it.”
“Because you are a siakar.”
“Half siakar,” he corrects. “Regardless, that was enough to disqualify me in his mind.” His voice loses nothing of its control as he continues.
“My father spent his life using siakars as war animals. He caged them. Sent them into battles no ordinary soldiers would survive. If they returned injured, he abandoned them. When I shifted as a child and he realized what my mother had concealed, I stopped being a son and became a liability.”
My hands slow.
“He sent my mother away out of disgust,” Colsar says. “She allowed it. She pretends even now that I am a complication best left unacknowledged. Sevrin receives her affection freely. I do not.”
“And you?” I ask.
“I was sent north. Campaign after campaign. Cleansing operations in the high passes. He believed I was useful in war and inconvenient at court.”
“And when you were injured?”
“I was left,” he says.
I swallow. “And then?”
“And then I was found.”
“By whom?”
“By Shalvar’s Sovereign.”
The name means nothing to me, but the way he says it makes me think it should.
“The palace in the mountains,” I murmur slowly. “You meant that literally.”
“Yes.”
My fingers tighten slightly in his shoulders.
“He found me half dead,” Colsar continues. “He and the others took me in. They did not cage me. They did not treat me as an animal. They trained me differently. I began leading rescues instead of raids. Pulling siakars out of my father’s war lines and bringing them north.”
“And now?” I ask, my fingers still working into the tight muscle at the base of his neck, feeling how much tension still lives there.
He exhales slowly, then answers without drama. “Now I am their Beast King.”
The effect is immediate. My hands pause for only a moment before I lean forward, pressing my mouth to the side of his throat. I drag my lips there, then bite lightly at the place beneath his ear where I know he is most responsive.
His breath shifts.
“That,” I murmur against his skin, “is unfairly attractive.”
A low sound vibrates through his chest, not laughter exactly, but something darker and pleased. His hand slides back over my thigh, firm, claiming.
“And the Sovereign?” I ask, teeth grazing his ear this time, unable to help myself.
“He is my adopted father,” Colsar replies, his voice rougher now because of what I am doing. “He rules the mountains. I command its armies. If they call for me, I go.”
I hum softly at that, kissing the line of his jaw before sliding behind him again, my palms moving lower across his shoulders.
“They call,” I murmur, fingers dragging lower, “and you answer.”
“Yes.” His hand comes back to catch my wrist, guiding it lower along his chest in quiet instruction.
“So while Sevrin fears losing one throne,” I say, “you already have another.”
“He does not fully understand that,” Colsar says. “He knows I have influence in the mountains. He does not grasp the extent of it.”
“And you,” I whisper, lips brushing his ear again, “are King there.”
His hand catches mine again, guiding it down further, slower this time, as if reminding me that control belongs to him even when I am the one touching. “You like that?” he asks quietly, watching my reaction rather than the movement itself.
I lean forward, my mouth brushing the edge of his ear again, softer now. “Mm. Yes. Very much.”
He moves so that I slide forward onto his lap, bare skin touching his. His hands rest at my hips.
“Especially,” I add, letting my fingers trace the length of his chest, “because I suppose that makes me their Queen.”
The faintest smile touches his mouth. “Ash Queen has a better ring to it than Ash Princess.”
I laugh under my breath, pressing my forehead briefly to his before his hands tighten and slow the movement of my hips.
“Look at me,” he says.
I do.
His expression is not playful now. It is intent. Possessive without apology. “I am completely yours,” he says evenly. “If you want to be Queen of Rathmor, of Shalvar, or of any country you happen to fancy, it is yours.”
“Whatever I want?” I ask, searching his face.
“Whatever you want.” The words are not flirtation, they are oath.
I study him for a moment longer, then answer with the one thing that matters. “I do not want Yvara’s bastard taking what rightfully belongs to our children.”
Something shifts in him at that, a quiet calculation replacing whatever was there before. “There is more,” he says.
“More than Sevrin’s insecurity?”
“Yes,” Colsar says quietly, drawing my hand forward and pressing his mouth briefly against my knuckles. “That was only half of it.”
“We have an older brother.”
I go completely still.
“What?”
“Teorin.”
“You never told me.”
“You never needed to know. Until now.”
I shift closer to him. “Tell me.”
“Teorin was born before either of us. Our father married a Thren woman under their rites, not under Veynar law. When he returned south, he repudiated the union. Under our law, Teorin does not exist as heir. Under Thren law, he is legitimate.”
“And the Thren King?”
“Is his uncle. And calls him prince.”
“So the war…”
“Is not only about borderlands,” Colsar says. “Sevrin believes Teorin is testing him. Weakening him. Waiting for instability.”
He exhales slowly. “It is unclear if we are fighting one war or two. One for the borders, against the Thren King. And another for the Rathmor throne… or whatever it is Teorin ultimately intends to claim.”
A memory surfaces. “The attack in the woods, was that Teorin?”
“That is what Sevrin believes,” he says. “I cannot tell where paranoia ends and reality begins. But one truth is certain: the Threns are a threat.” He pauses. “And with their Alarna alliance uncertain, Teorin may want more than pressure. He may want the Rathmor throne itself.”
“In Rathmor, heirs prove strength,” Colsar says. “Our line is carried by power. Without it, the line is seen as weak. And weakness invites challenge.”
The implication clicks into place. “What if Sevrin cannot produce an heir?”
“Then the line fractures,” Colsar says. “And a fractured line invites challenge.”
I meet his eyes. “From Teorin.”
“From Teorin,” Colsar agrees. He threads a strand of my hair through his fingers. “Or from me, if my wife wishes to rule Veynar.”
I hesitate before saying it. “But my sister is pregnant.”
A low sound escapes him that is almost a laugh.
“Feeders struggle to conceive,” he says. “Without a woman bearing the Mark of Forizan, it is rare.”
“If she becomes queen, she will have the power to destroy me. And any children I bear.”
Something in him goes very still. “She won’t,” he says.
I frown slightly. “You don’t know that.”
His hand closes around my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes. “If that happens, I will take the throne,” he says quietly. “And when I do, no one will touch you or any child of mine.”
He exhales slowly, and this time the sound carries something heavier than strategy. “I don’t know if Sevrin even truly plans to marry her, or if this is some game he is playing.”
“The truth is,” he continues, brushing his fingers along the inside of my wrist, “you may have been exactly what Sevrin wanted from the beginning.”
I go still against him. “What does that mean?”
“He has always been curious about you,” Colsar says. “Long before the wedding was arranged. At balls, when only Yvara attended, he would ask about you. Where you were. Why you did not come. Whether you were as mysterious as the rumors claimed.”
My brow furrows. “You never told me that.”
“I did not think it mattered,” he says. “I thought it idle curiosity.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “I was wrong.”
A quiet unease threads through me. “Before all of this?”
“Yes.”
He looks down at me then, his expression unreadable.
“And your sister,” he continues, “is likely not carrying his child.”
My head lifts sharply. “What?”
“My brother has certain preferences,” Colsar says. “Some of it may be his feeder nature. I am not entirely certain.”
“Speak plainly.”
His jaw tightens slightly before he answers. “He prefers to watch his women take other men into their beds.”
The words sit between us.
“Yvara was already doing so,” he continues evenly. “She had been sleeping with Lord Ivarin. She conceived after one encounter. When she learned the crown was in need of money and troops and that marriage alliances were being considered, she took herbs to remove the pregnancy.”
I stare at him. “You are certain?”
“As certain as one can be when men confess while begging for permission,” Colsar replies. “Lord Ivarin went to Sevrin in distress. Claimed they had slept together once. That she had conceived immediately. He asked to marry her.”
“And Sevrin…”