Chapter Twelve
KAEL
Two days of travel to the far south of The Wastes has stripped us down to essentials—food, sleep, and will. We speak little. No one jokes anymore. Even Ronyn and Daelen have run out of clever things to say. The further south we go, the more the Belt tugs at me. A low, hungry pull beneath the skin.
The rich, fertile earth of the Riverian Jungle is thinning. Birdsong and low-hanging vines have given way to nothingness. To the space between the edge of the jungle and the beginning of the curse.
The Decay is close—I can feel it. The same feeling that hums through the air right before lightning severs the skies. A charge.
I know it in the same way I know the feel of a perfectly weighted blade—precisely.
Therion’s clenched fist shoots into the air, signaling us to stop. The group responds instantly—tightening the reins, palming weapons in an instant. The horses blow hard through flared nostrils, stamping at the ground at the swift change in energy, but Nyx is steady under me.
Cresting the ridge, The Decay appears in the distance—a wall of shadow that swallows the horizon, blotting out what little light bleeds through the clouds that plague The Wastes.
It’s not still. The darkness churns, roils, climbs itself in slow, soundless waves, as though some vast, unseen ocean presses against it from the other side.
I’d once thought The Decay was a land you entered and left.
I’d been wrong. It’s a living thing you approach, and it watches you come closer. Waiting.
If we stay too long, The Decay knows—it senses our presence, blocking entry, closing channels, or worse; signaling Maldrak.
We often find Maldrak’s Marked men waiting through The Decay—we’ve been ambushed more times than I can count.
Therion has grown attuned to the feel of them stirring on the other side—sensing, feeling, tasting the energy that no one else can see for any sign of their presence.
“Do we just… walk through like last time?” Seren whispers through the silence. “I’ve been wondering how The Decay actually works.”
“The Decay parts for the Crown—and those who serve it,” I explain. “It’s why Maldrak’s men can’t get out into true Zerynthian territory unless they travel by Gateway of Threads—they’re not in service to the true Crown.” I don’t need to say more. They all know.
Because the true Crown is me.
“So because we were helping you, it let us through?” Seren clarifies.
I nod.
“Well, that was a risky little game, wasn’t it?” Ronyn quips with his signature lop-sided grin. “What if we’d been the bad guys or something?”
“Then The Decay would’ve saved me a job of eliminating you myself,” I say simply.
Seren swallows audibly, and I know I’m being harsh.
“Helped us all trust ya, actually,” Daelen adds lightly, directing his words to Seren, and I’m grateful for the redirection. “We knew you had pure motives.”
Seren’s face sours. She pauses. Weighing her words. Finally, she bites, “At least someone did.”
I hear her, but my eyes are on Therion. He winces at her jab as if he’s been struck. “We need to keep moving—if it senses us here for much longer, it’ll block the pathway through,” Therion states coolly, brushing it off. But I saw it. I’ve been seeing it more and more.
The way he watches her. The way he softens his tone in her presence. Like she’s something breakable. Like she’s his to protect. But I see the way he’s conflicted, too. As if he’s betraying Taali, or breaking an oath. He’s spent ten years alone. He deserves to have this.
“Hold on, so The Decay is a sentient, moving shadow with a fucking mood?” Ronyn jibes, cleaving through my thoughts in a way only he can.
I huff a laugh. “Give or take a few details, yeah.”
Seren’s face relaxes at that. Something about Ronyn disarms everyone around him. He’s a pain in the ass, but if there’s one thing I know; he’s got a big heart for those he loves.
Jax urges her mare forward, riding past the group. “Sometimes volatile and temperamental can be fun in the right context, Ronyn,” she winks at him, biting her bottom lip seductively.
Ronyn’s eyes look as if they’re about to tumble unceremoniously out of his head, and I can’t stop the laugh that spills from me.
“Jaxxy, for fuck’s sake,” Merrik admonishes, rubbing the scruff of his beard, and somehow, the easy banter makes it feel like nothing’s changed between us all.
But when I look around at the bonds forming, I know this truth like the burn of salt in an open wound: we’re each other’s weaknesses now.
Because one blade at their throats, and I’d incinerate everything before me to save them.
“We enter here,” Therion states matter-of-factly, sensing a clear path through the rippling waves of shadow.
The others look unsettled, but here, in the chilling expanse of shadows, I feel at home.
There’s a darkness that lives in all of us—a gnawing, sinister thing that waits for its moment, lurking behind the ribs.
Most people spend their lives pretending it isn’t there, drowning it in light, praying it sleeps quietly, avoiding that which rouses it from its slumber.
But not me. I’ve looked mine in the eye.
Named it. Fed it. Invited it to sit at my table and drink deep.
It doesn’t frighten me. It sharpens me.
And mine? It’s not buried. It’s always sitting just beneath the surface. Because when the day comes that I look Maldrak in the eye, gods fucking help him—no weapon will stop the force of my wrath.
“I’ll go first—meet anything that awaits on the other side,” I announce, unsheathing my twin swords, not waiting for a reply before urging Nyx forward.
The waves of death crawl across my skin, crackling against my flesh like static. Like resonance. Like kin.
I nudge Nyx with my boot, and he moves slowly, alert, through The Decay. Until—
The world flips.
Folds.
Inverts.
The abyss of The Decay swallows me, delivering me straight into the rotted maw of The Wastes.
The air shifts, thick and heavy, but it’s the smell that hits me hardest—damp earth left to rot, rusted iron, and something sweeter, fouler, like fruit gone to maggots. Beneath it all, a mineral tang cuts through my lungs.
The others join me swiftly, recoiling at the scent that lodges in our lungs.
Therion takes the lead again, muscles loose and axe sheathed—no danger.
We settle into a companionable silence again, hours go by without a word, and our journey stretches far into the south.
The further we are from Kryntar Castle, the less inhabited the lands become, and the less likely we are to see any guard presence—or any real presence at all.
Too far from supply drops, healers, aid of any kind.
We’re down to dried rations—with no animals to hunt, and the plant life long since picked over and dead.
We stay far away from any signs of life, camping in a barren clearing nestled between skeletal trees, and rise to the sun barely visible through the thick clouds that hang over The Wastes like a second decay.
I wipe the haze of sleep from my eyes, and press to sit on my bed roll.
Jax, Merrik, Daelen, Rubi, Seren and Ronyn huddle around Therion, who’s holding a tree branch, drawing landmarks and directions into the earth—the only maps allowed in Zerynthia are temporary ones.
“If what Rowan says is accurate, the village is only a few hours south-west of here,” he says, drawing the path there. “We need to loop around it, avoiding eyes if we can, and the old zarethite and gem mines should be here,” he marks an X on his makeshift map.
I work my armor into place, strapping my swords across my back, pulling on my boots. “Jax and Merrik will need to scout ahead,” I command from behind, breaking their focus.
Therion cranes his neck over the group, locking his determined eyes on mine.
“If you’d deigned to grace us with your presence, Your Highness, you’d know the plan has already been discussed,” he bites the words, but I can see the smirk he’s fighting.
“Jax and Merrik scout, Daelen and Ronyn at the rear with bows. The remaining precious few safeguarded in the center,” he snipes with a challenge.
He just fucking called me precious.
Rubi gives a nonchalant shrug, but Seren huffs indignantly at the remark.
I smile back, “Why wake early if you’re already doing all the work, brother?”
Therion looses an easy laugh, shaking his head.
“So, I was thinking,” Ronyn cuts in, “how likely is it that there’s any zarethite actually left in these mines?”
“Pretty fucking unlikely,” I laugh. I know I’m going to regret this, but I say it anyway, “And why, specifically, are you asking?”
“Okay picture this,” he stands dramatically, throwing his arms out in a theatrical flourish.
“Zarethite arrows that are blood-bound to me,” he pulls back his right arm, as if he’s about to loose an arrow.
“Slicing through enemy lines. The first god metal archer in the history of Aevryn. Perfectly weighted for my unerring technique.” He looses the pretend arrow in a show of spectacular dramatics, and Seren gives him a round of applause, golden curls tumbling over her face in hysterical laughter.
I shake my head, but the smile comes, anyway. “Ronyn, I can confirm that if there was any zarethite left, Maldrak would be mining every inch of the Belt for it,” I say, probably breaking his heart with cold, hard facts.
“And the gods have to find you worthy of it, lad. The only god left is the one entombed in the Belt—I’m not sure it should be the first thing you ask Death when he looks you in the eye after being imprisoned for a decade,” Merrik laughs.
Ronyn’s face turns to a petulant pout, “I hate to say it, but… you’re all fucking boring. You have no vision!” He flourishes his hands again for dramatic effect. “Aevryn’s first god metal archer, mark my words.”
“I completely agree with you, brother,” Daelen says, lifting Ronyn’s spirits. But I see the conspiratorial look in his eyes. “You’re right—they are all fucking boring.”
A raucous laughter erupts among the group, and the lightness is a blessing from the Stars themselves.
“It’s just the sort of thing you’d pull off, Ronie,” Rubi remarks with a blasé swish of her hand. “I think you should proposition Death when we get there. What could possibly go wrong?” She stifles a laugh, throwing back the flask that’s permanently in her hand.
Therion narrows his eyes at her, shaking his head in exasperation.
Ronyn’s face turns stern. “All right, all right. If it’s so far-fetched, give me some details. How rare is it? When was the last god metal weapon made?” He presses, desperately trying to sell us on his idea.
Therion looks to me, suddenly at a loss for words.
Ronyn’s eyes follow, landing on me. My armor. My weapons.
When his eyes settle on the twin swords strapped across my back—their hilts standing proudly behind me, and his mouth drops.
He moves slowly towards me, entranced by the onyx gleam of my swords. He stammers, lost for words. Huffing, spluttering, looking around wild-eyed to the group—Jax, Daelen, Rubi and Merrik still and expectant.
“You have two fucking god metal swords!” Ronyn exclaims, pacing and gesticulating wildly.
I can feel the smirk lifting my mouth, and calmly, I confirm, “I have two god metal swords.”
Ronyn splutters again, eyes flicking from the group, back to me, to the group again.
“You have two god metal swords that are blood-bound to you,” he repeats with fervor.
Then, he stills. Mind working, sifting and sorting through the past weeks.
“You let Elyssara use your god metal weapons,” he whispers, still trying to understand.
My chest tightens at the thought of her. My Starbound.
I nod slowly.
“I thought she was a gift from the gods the first moment I felt her presence near mine—but I knew it when she touched my blade and it welcomed her,” I say, voice raw and broken.
Ronyn stills, his throat working with emotion. “I don’t care that she’s got magic of the gods. I care that you let her use a sword that is so sacred to you and your people,” he grits out, barely holding it together.
“I love her,” I say. It’s the only truth I have left to offer him.
He breaks into a run and throws himself at me, gripping me in an embrace that feels like forgiveness. Like understanding. Like finally, he sees what I’ve been saying all along; I fucking love her.
He pushes off me and stretches his hand out. “Brothers?”
I grab his hand, pulling him in for a warrior’s embrace, slapping him on the back. “Brothers,” I confirm.
He spins on his heel, heading back to the group, “Ahhh, I love a bit of brotherly love in the morning, don’t you?” And then he sits down as if nothing happened.
I see why Elyssara loves him. Ronyn’s spirit is what our people have lost—levity, optimism, hope.
“Kael?” Seren asks, and I look to her. “How many other zarethite weapons are there?”
Trust Seren to ask the big questions.
“One,” I say coolly, and shadows lick at my fingers in an instant.
The air stills, and everyone holds their breath. Waiting. Dreading what I’m about to say.
“Maldrak,” I snarl.
Resolve flares bright in Seren’s eyes. “Then we take it back by force,” she says. “And by blood.”
And I know: when we face Death, we’ll be ready.