Chapter Twenty
KAEL
The Gateway spits me into the brittle air of Kryntar, behind a crumbling watchtower on the castle’s edge. The golden threads snap closed behind me, and I stare at the place that should have been mine.
Kryntar Castle.
The home of Zerynthia’s royal family.
The air tastes like dust and memory.
It towers like a crown carved for gods—spires piercing the gray sky, walls of pale stone that once gleamed like moonlight on water.
Even beneath Maldrak’s chokehold, its bones still whisper of magnificence.
Arched windows meant to flood the halls with sunlight.
Balconies carved for music, for laughter, for the voices of a court united in peace.
Great banners once unfurled from the highest turrets, proud symbols of Zerynthia’s strength and prosperity.
But what was once light has been plagued by decay.
The walls, once white, are streaked black as if veins of rot have wormed their way through the stone itself.
The banners are gone, torn away, leaving the ramparts bare and hollow.
Iron spikes flank the causeway where garlands of ivy once grew, and in their place, decaying heads of defectors perish in the elements of The Wastes.
And a miasma clings to the air—a wrongness that curdles the breath, that makes even the mist seem tainted.
It is a vision of glory profaned.
My castle. My father’s. A place built for justice, now a nest for tyranny.
My jaw clenches, fury storming through me.
I imagine it restored—the corruption purged, the stone gleaming pale again, the halls filled with voices not choked, but in harmony.
And I swear to the Stars, I will see it so.
I will tear this curse from its bones, even if I have to rip the walls down and rebuild them with my own hands.
Even if it costs me what’s left of my tainted soul.
I train my eyes on the causeway, searching for Elyssara, holding my breath as I scan the gruesome skyline.
“She’s not there,” Therion says, cutting through my thoughts.
I let out an exhale in relief, but I know that doesn’t mean she’s okay. Death might be a mercy compared to whatever they’re doing to her.
My stomach lurches.
I choke, splutter, and finally, I retch, spilling the contents of my stomach on cracked earth.
“We’ll get her back, brother. I swear to the Stars, we won’t rest until we have her,” Therion assures, his eyes narrowed, axe at the ready. He’s prepared for battle.
“Give us orders, Kael,” Daelen says, broadsword unsheathed.
I wipe the filth from my mouth, and clear my throat.
I’m fucking ready for this moment.
“Morrathys, we need a cloak over us all until we can get past the main patrols,” I say, training my gaze on Death like he’s mine to command.
He nods, and I swing back to the group. “We need to find The Shield’s Apprentice—I know nothing more than his code name.
If what Nalya said is true, he’s how we find her.
“Mavyrn, you stay here. Without horses, we have no other way out—and the outposts span every ridge of Kryntar. Rhyven and Zakarius were the only ones who knew them all.” My voice drips with disgust at the traitors who put my Starbound in this fucking hell, and I pray to the Stars I find Rhyven tonight.
“You are our escape,” I say with intensity.
“I’ll be here, boy,” Mavyrn confirms, twirling the ring on her bony finger as if she’s bored.
“Therion, Seren, Rubi—I need you to find Maldrak’s Arcanist. We need them alive.
Do not kill, but do what you must to subdue them.
Arcanists always have chambers in the same wing as the king—often interconnected rooms. Therion, you know the way,” I command, and he nods—a soldier receiving orders.
Seren loads her crossbow, and secures the leather strap she’s taken to wearing around her forehead.
Rubi slaps her cheeks with her palms, as if she can strike the drink from her veins. They’re prepared.
The air hums with readiness—steel rasping against scabbards, breath fogging in the cold.
“My blade is your blade,” Therion says, pressing the inverted triangle symbol between his fingers.
I don’t acknowledge it, but my chest tightens at the sign of deference. Of recognition of Zerynthia’s true ruler. Of me.
“Ronyn, you’re with me. Elyssara will need to see someone she trusts, and I need you to have my back,” I say to the archer.
“Always, brother,” he affirms, not a joke to be heard.
“Merrik, Jax, Daelen—eradicate anything in my way,” I growl.
And they all drop to one knee, the inverted triangle pressed between their fingers in front of their chests, save Morrathys.
He bows his head, hand over his heart—a god’s deference.
“The true King of Zerynthia,” Death breathes.
The words ripple through the air. A battle cry. A coronation.
“Serve your king with courage, conviction, and no mercy,” I command. “And get me my fucking queen.”
We crouch low under Morrathys’ cloak, and I can’t deny the hollowness I feel at entering into battle without my shadows.
But for her, I’d fight an army with nothing but my own knuckles.
We move smoothly as a unit down the causeway, Kryntar Castle looming over us in the same way our mission does.
My eyes scan the grounds where patrolling guards move systematically from point to point. Security seems light, which can only mean one thing.
“Most guards are inside,” Therion whispers, confirming my own thoughts.
“Then that’s where she is,” I say.
“Servant’s entrance?” Therion asks.
“My thoughts exactly,” I agree, and we gesture to the unit to cut around the castle to the back.
She could be in the dungeons, but she could just as easily be in Maldrak’s bed, and the thought alone makes something primal in me bare its fucking teeth. I reach for the phantom shadows that I can feel like a ghost at my fingertips, but nothing comes. Only a hollow ache.
We move with unsheathed blades, carefully hidden from patrolling guards, but still taking precautions.
With Morrathys not at full strength, I have no idea how long the cloak will hold.
So, I grip the hilts of my god metal blades like they’re the only thing standing between me and death. Because they are.
And that’s when I feel it—
The tether ignites in a flurry—pain, defeat, heartbreak, anguish, and hope that’s barely an ember in the wildfire of her emotions.
Elyssara.
My breath hitches.
Therion looks to me, questioning.
“I can feel her,” I breathe, my broken heart fracturing further. “He’s breaking her.”
Which means he’s breaking me, too.
I do the only thing I can think to do: I speak down the tether.
My darling.
Nothing.
I’m coming, my love.
I hear nothing.
But the ember of hope grows slightly through the tether.
I’m coming for you, Elyssara. Don’t stop fighting. I speak the words down the tether with force.
Nothing.
But the ember blooms this time.
She knows I’m here.
“Move,” I command. “She’s weak. She needs us,” I urge impatiently.
And as we round the corner, closing in on the servant’s entrance, the air feels too quiet. Too still.
“They’re here,” Therion confirms. “Over a hundred.”
They were expecting us. They’re not inside. They were waiting.
Good.
Because no amount of soldiers can slake my fury.
“Remove the cloak,” I command Death. “I don’t hide from those who take what’s mine,” I snarl, my voice like the cold, dark night.
The cloak parts instantly, revealing us as we step around the corner.
More than one hundred. At least one hundred and fifty soldiers stare us down, veins of twisted rot spewing from their necks.
I don’t say anything. I only stalk forward with the promise of violence.
The soldiers form a shield wall, impenetrable and fierce.
Or so they think.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Prince of Nothing,” a female voice croons from behind the wall. A voice I’d know anywhere. A voice of distilled hatred.
Vessira.
She pushes through the ranks with blades in both hands, and they part for her. Warriors with no honor.
“I’ve dreamt of this, Vessira,” I breathe, rapture curling around every word. “The day I’d watch your last breath leave your body.”
But she smirks—an arrogant, dangerous thing.
“How’s that sister of yours going? She was an easy project, Kael—weak. Almost as if she wanted to be broken. Wanted to betray you,” Vessira taunts, but I’m in no fucking mood.
“Where’s my woman?” I grit out, not taking the bait.
“You’ll have to find her. Consider it a treasure hunt. What do you say to a little dance first?” she teases, lifting her blades that glint in the moonlight.
“I’d say it’s a grave error to push a man to violence, when violence is the one thing I know better than anyone,” I growl, and my muscles ache for blood. For flesh. For lives.
Her face falls ever so slightly. But I notice. I hear the string on Ronyn’s bow flex backwards, ready to loose. A growl rumbles low in Therion’s chest, and that’s all the sign I need that we’re ready, odds be damned.
“Send every fucking one of them to the Final Gate. No mercy,” the words come out a low, lethal command. “Charge!”