Chapter 30 A Lover’s Folly
thirty
A Lover’s Folly
Zydar
The numbers didn't lie. They never did.
Eighteen noble houses had pledged their allegiance to our cause.
Seven more wavered on the edge of commitment, their loyalty a commodity to be bought with promises of power once Ylvena fell.
The remaining houses would fight against us, their devotion to the current regime carved in blood and ancient oaths.
I traced my finger across the map, calculating supply lines and strategic positions.
Ylvena's stronghold commanded the mountain passes, but her forces were spread thin across three fronts.
A coordinated strike from the eastern valleys could split her army in half, but only if we moved before the winter storms made the roads impassable.
The rot might have claimed me before then. The thought sliced through my calculations like a blade through parchment, sharp and inevitable. Each day brought new marks, new pain, new reminders that time was a luxury I couldn't afford.
But if I could end this war before I died, if I could secure Miralyte's safety and destroy the woman who had torn apart my realm, then perhaps my last days would be worth something. Perhaps my death could buy the peace that centuries of fighting had failed to achieve.
The eastern houses would need more convincing.
Lord Thaelan controlled the largest army outside Ylvena's personal guard, but his price would be steep.
Territory, titles, possibly a marriage alliance with one of my cousins.
Politics required sacrifice, and I'd learned long ago that honor was a luxury only the dead could afford.
Soft footsteps approached from behind, too light to be guards, too familiar to be anyone else. I didn't turn, but my body responded before my mind caught up, every nerve ending suddenly aware of her presence like lightning recognizing storm clouds.
Warm lips pressed against the curve of my neck, and the war maps beneath my hands might as well have been blank parchment. All strategic thought evaporated under the simple touch of her mouth against my skin.
I spun in my chair, catching her around the waist and pulling her down onto my lap in one fluid motion. She settled against me with a soft laugh, her golden hair catching the candlelight like spun fire.
"Interrupting important war plans?" she asked, but there was something different in her voice. A brittleness that hadn't been there this morning.
"Always." I buried my face in her hair, breathing in the scent that had become more necessary than air. "Though I suspect you're not here to discuss military strategy."
"Actually, I wanted to tell you my plans for tonight." She shifted in my arms, and I felt her tension like a living thing. "I'll be in the library. Researching."
"Researching what?"
"My heritage. What I am. How my blood works." The words came too quickly, practiced and smooth. "There has to be something in the old texts that explains it all."
Every instinct I'd honed through centuries of warfare screamed that something was wrong. The way she held herself, the careful distance in her voice despite her physical closeness. She was lying, but about what?
"Miralyte—"
"Don't worry about me," she continued, cutting off whatever protest I'd been forming. "Don't come looking. I need time to think, to understand what all this means."
I cupped her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my gaze. Those golden eyes that usually held such fire now seemed dimmed, shadowed by secrets I couldn't penetrate.
The thought was so absurd it pulled a dark chuckle from my chest. Here I sat, consumed by strategic planning and military calculations, while my mind wandered to memories of ancient history.
But perhaps that history held lessons worth considering, especially now that Miralyte's true nature had been revealed.
Emystra. The former Sun Queen whose legendary beauty and power had once commanded the worship of entire realms. I remembered the stories told in hushed whispers among the courts, tales of her radiant presence that could bring lesser fae to their knees in reverence.
She had possessed everything. Legions of devoted followers. A harem of the most beautiful fae men and women across all realms, each one desperate for even a moment of her attention. They had worshipped her like a living goddess, their devotion absolute and unquestioning.
And perhaps that was exactly what had driven her to seek the forbidden.
The thought amused me more than it should have. When you could have anyone with a mere glance, when beauty and power bent the knee at your approach, what remained to intrigue you? What could possibly satisfy a creature who had tasted every pleasure the realms could offer?
A mortal who refused to bow.
Wulfric. The human soldier from the Driftlands who had treated her not as a deity to be worshipped, but as a woman to be challenged.
While her courtiers fell over themselves to please her, he had the audacity to argue with her decisions.
While her lovers praised her every word, he dared to speak back with equal fervor.
In a world where everyone said yes, he had been deliciously, thrillingly defiant.
I could understand the appeal, even as I understood the catastrophic consequences. When power isolates you from genuine connection, resistance becomes intoxicating.
So she had given him everything. Not just her body, but her very essence. Her sunfire blood, the source of her immortal power, poured into mortal veins in a desperate attempt to anchor him to eternity. To make him her equal in truth rather than pretense.
The magic had worked, after a fashion. His body had achieved a twisted form of immortality, alive but burning from within, veins of golden light searing him like molten metal beneath his skin. He had become something unnatural, caught between mortal and fae, belonging fully to neither realm.
And that union had torn the fabric of everything.
The careful treaties between realms, the delicate balance of power that had maintained peace for centuries, all of it shattered by one queen's selfish desire for true love.
The Curse of the Rot had been born from that transgression. Corruption that bloomed wherever fae and mortal blood mingled in ways nature never intended.
Now here I sat, marked by that same rot, planning a war while the woman who carried Emystra's bloodline was curled in my lap.
Could I love her without dooming the realm to utter destruction?
Was her victory worth the risk to everyone else?
I leaned forward and brushed my lips across her brow, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my touch.
It didn't matter. Not now, not when I had only weeks or possibly days left. Nothing mattered except her.
History had a way of repeating its most tragic lessons. And as I watched Miralyte rise from my lap with that careful distance in her movements, I wondered if we were already too far down that same cursed path to turn back.
"I should go," she said, stepping away from my chair with movements that were too controlled, too measured. "Let you return to your war planning."
Every instinct screamed at me to stop her, to demand the truth behind whatever lie she was spinning. But I'd learned long ago that forcing answers from someone only drove them deeper into deception.
"Of course," I said instead, keeping my voice neutral. "The library will be quiet this time of night."
She nodded, already moving toward the door. "Don't wait up."
The door closed behind her with a soft click that sounded like finality. I remained at my desk, staring at the war maps that had seemed so crucial moments before. The strategic positions and supply lines blurred together as unease crawled up my spine like ice.
Something was wrong.
Not the obvious wrongness of war preparations or political maneuvering. This was different. Personal. The kind of wrongness that spoke of betrayal or desperation or choices that couldn't be undone.
I tried to focus on the eastern campaign plans, but my mind kept circling back to the brittleness in Miralyte's voice. The careful way she'd avoided meeting my eyes. The practiced quality of her words, as if she'd rehearsed them.
Time stretched like a taut wire. An hour passed, then two. The candles burned lower, wax pooling on the metal holders. Outside, the storm clouds gathered with unnatural speed, responding to my growing anxiety.
Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore.
I left the maps scattered across the desk and headed for the library. If she was truly researching her heritage, she wouldn't mind the interruption. If she was lying, then I needed to know why.
The library stood empty.
Candlelight flickered across vacant chairs and untouched books. No sign of golden hair or quiet breathing. No trace of her presence at all.
My heartbeat thundered against my ribs. She'd lied. Whatever she was doing, wherever she'd gone, it had nothing to do with research or understanding her bloodline.
I found Tomos in the guards' quarters, slumped over a table with his head pillowed on his arms. Empty cups and dice scattered around him spoke of an evening spent trying to forget his duties.
I grabbed his shoulder and shook him awake. "Where is she?"
He blinked up at me, confusion clouding his eyes. "My lord? What—"
"Miralyte." My grip tightened on his shoulder. "Where is she?"
"The library." He tried to sit up straighter, years of training warring with whatever he'd been drinking. "She said she was going to the library."
"She's not there." The words came out harder than I intended. "Where else? Who else has she been seeing?"
Tomos's face went pale. The last traces of drink vanished from his expression as understanding dawned. "I... she met Gryven. Earlier today.."
My blood turned to ice.
Gryven.
I released Tomos so abruptly he nearly fell from his chair. "How long ago?"
"Hours. Maybe three or four. My lord, if something's happened—"