Chapter Thirty
ELYSSARA
We approach the campfire, raw but united, where a handful of figures rest on seats carved from trunks, clinking tankards and sitting in relative silence.
Kael, Therion, Daelen, Jax and Merrik come into focus as I round the fire and claim a spot across from them. Their eyes land on me simultaneously, shock and confusion lining their faces.
I’ve wrapped my mind and heart in walls of Duskae’s magic since the moment we returned to Thornewood, but I breathe deeply, holding Kael’s gaze, and allow the walls to slowly recede. Letting the walls slip down like a silk negligee falling from my body. An invitation. An olive branch.
He doesn’t flinch as the barrage of rioting thoughts and emotions flood the tether, hungry and desperate for somewhere to go. He just stares at me, unwavering and unfazed—like he’s not scared of this. Of me. Through the tether, I feel him—steady, unmoving, loyal.
I breathe a shaky sigh, and steel myself. Down the tether, I say, I am not the same woman, Kael. Kryntar changed me. You don’t want this version of me.
He flinches, offended. There is no end to the way I want you, Elyssara. Every part of you. The broken, the bruised, the beautiful. I don’t care which parts you give me—I want all of them.
His voice is hard and restrained. Like he’s terrified I’ll shut him out again, desperate to keep the tether humming.
I can feel the others’ eyes on us, assessing, analyzing, deciphering our silent exchange. But I keep going.
I’ve done things, said things, thought things that make me a monster, Kael.
I would’ve kept going with Vessira if you didn’t stop me.
The monster in me will always be there. I send the words down the tether, letting myself admit them for the first time.
Letting myself admit that more than anything, I’m afraid of the monster within.
Understanding flickers down the tether—like he knows the darkness that lives within me intimately.
Darling, you think I’m afraid of monsters?
I’m at home with them. I am one. The only souls who aren’t monsters are the ones who deny what lurks within.
I want all of you. I can handle you. Burden me with your rage and pain, Elyssara.
Let me help you hold it. He says the words like a prayer and a promise—a vow I can’t trust. Not yet.
The words brush against something raw in me, too tender to look at for long.
I don’t know how. It’s all I can say to his heart laid bare.
Let me hold you. Take what you need from me—use me. He offers himself freely, and I know—this has not been conjured. His elbows rest on his knees, and he opens his arms wider in a barely perceptible gesture. An offering.
The tether hums between us—quiet, alive, pulsing with everything unsaid.
Part of me wants to step forward, to fall into the gravity of him. But the moment I shift, memory rises: the stone floors of Kryntar, the sound of chains, the echo of his blade cutting down my friends and family. My body goes rigid. I can’t. I won’t.
His thoughts brush mine again, steady and unrelenting. Take from me.
I flinch.
The words scrape against the walls I’ve built. I want to tell him no, to tell him that I don’t want his softness, that every inch of me is splintered and sharp and unfit for touch.
A memory climbs back up my throat—Vessira’s blade, the way she conjured visions of his shadows choking me, his grip climbing up my body, entitled. My knees want to buckle. My hands want to shove him away. Everything screams not him.
One breath later, some stupid stubborn piece of hope wins.
His presence thrums down the tether—steadfast, waiting, patient.
My knees wobble—not in weakness, but in recognition. My body remembers him even when my mind refuses.
A single, shuddering breath leaves my lungs. Then another. And I move.
I cross the distance in two stumbling steps. My hands hesitate on the seam of his cloak, fighting the part of me that hums in his presence. Is it safe in his arms?
The ache wins.
I press into his chest, stiff at first, like my body doesn’t remember how to yield.
He says nothing, only folds his arms around me—gentle, absolute—and I feel the fight bleed out of me molecule by molecule.
It’s strange, being held and not taken.
So I let him.
Not because I trust him—Stars know I don’t—but because for the first time since I was taken, I want to.
Safety, ruin, salvation—it all blurs together in a single, fragile exhale.
Not healed. Not forgiven. But maybe, finally, willing.
Use me. The words float down the tether like an incantation.
I know I will not find healing in old ways of being, so I force an exhale from my lungs and press into him. Forcing myself to lean into his frame, his offer, like he is the remedy to my suffering.
He cradles me to his body, and says nothing, only clings to me like he’s lost out at sea and I am his raft. So, I take. I take his affection, his touch, his support, and I let it bleed into my tissues.
I don’t know how. I don’t trust him—not fully. But it’s a start. A shaky one, but real.
A strong hand squeezes my shoulder, and Merrik’s wise eyes stare into mine with a tenderness I’ve only ever experienced with Revryn, and my heart cracks at the sight. His rough timbre drifts on the embers, “It’s good to have you back, love. I knew you were too strong to stay down.”
I let a smile form at the old warrior, but Therion stills, hand flying to his axe, and springing to his feet.
“We have company,” he growls, primal and raw.
His strong hands wrap around the haft, as he drops low and animalistic in his stance.
The others fan out, stepping over the trunks that surround the fire, blades rasping from sheaths, backs to the fire. An organized unit of warriors.
Magic crackles at my fingertips—available, ready, hungry—but it flickers weaker than it should, like it’s remembering how to live after Kryntar.
A rough, calloused hand encloses around my wrist, and my first instinct is to wrestle it free.
It’s just me. Kael’s voice rushes down the tether. I thought you might want this.
An object wrapped in cloth presses into my palm, and with my walls down, I feel it.
The Starforged Blade calls to me.
I unwrap the cloth and let it fly.
I’ve carried it with me every moment we’ve been apart—waiting for you to return. He says down the tether, voice thick with emotion, though his eyes still scan the trees that surround us.
I palm the blade, dropping into a fighting stance, and something about it feels like a return home. This blade, these people, this place.
A twig snaps.
Every muscle in the camp goes taut.
From the treeline, a figure staggers forward—slow, dragging one leg, breath a hollow rasp.
The fire crackles, and the shadows split across his face in quick flashes of light and dark.
Weapons rise.
No one speaks.
The jungle holds its breath.
Another step, another. The scent of blood reaches us—copper and sulfur—and something cold coils in my gut. Venomshade? A Marked guard? My grip tightens on the Starforged Blade, the edge gleaming like a sliver of Starlight.
He steps closer, the fire catching his features.
Eyes. A mouth. A smear of dirt across a too-familiar jaw.
My heart stumbles.
No—it can’t be.
One more step and the light reveals him fully. Chestnut hair. That damned, lopsided grin that used to drive me mad.
I drop my blade. The sound rings out like a bell.
“Ronyn?” The word scrapes from my throat like a prayer half-believed.
He throws his arms wide, grin widening through the grime.
“I’d say I come bearing good news—but it’s even better. I come bearing me.”
For a heartbeat, the world forgets how to move. Then I do.
I run.
Footsteps follow, and that’s when I know—this is not a dream or a Venomshade conjuring.
They see him, too.
“Ronyn!” I scream, running at him with desperation, as if I have to hold him here with the living, lest he leave me again.
I throw myself at his frame, folding my arms around his neck, but before he’s even had a chance to return my embrace, I throw him off me. “What the fuck Ronyn Holt? You bastard!” I shove his chest, unable to quell the shock that rises hot and fast in my veins.
The group gathers around us now, looks of varying emotions owning their faces—surprise, anger, relief, confusion.
He takes a step back, throwing his hands up in surrender.
“Firstly, ow! Arrow to the chest remember?” he rubs his chest in a soothing motion, the hole through his leathers still there.
“Secondly, ten out of ten do not recommend dying. Hurts like a godsdamned bitch. And finally, I guess I’m magical now?
Took dying to get there, but still, it counts. ”
He saunters through the group, heading towards the fire like he didn’t just return from the fucking dead.
Seren’s squeal cuts through the night—an ecstatic giggle cleaving through her high-pitched celebration as she launches herself onto Ronyn’s back and wraps her legs around his waist.
“Fuckin’ Stars, Seren. Don’t you have Therion for that now?” Ronyn grouses, but I can hear the tenderness in his tone.
The tall warrior’s face flushes at the mention, and I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him react… to anything.
Tentative laughter spreads across the group, as if this moment is too fragile. Like it might be taken away as quickly as it was given.
Ronyn continues to the fire, his grin never subsiding.
“So, did you piss everyone off at the Final Gate? Is that why they sent you back?” Jax quips, though her eyes are rimmed red with emotion.
“Just say you missed me, Jax. It’s okay to have feelings,” Ronyn taunts, not rising to her dig.
She scoffs, waving her hand in his direction dismissively.
Ronyn clears his throat like he’s about to make an announcement. “I decided I’d be more bold when I was floating in the in-between. No more letting fear rule my life, ya know?” He looks around curiously.
“Coming from the man who walked backwards into the lost kingdom and thought a death maze was a good time?” Kael snipes, elbowing Ronyn in the ribs.
He blows out a perfunctory puff, dismissing Kael’s point. Which was accurate—Ronyn has never feared anything in his life. “Anyway,” Ronyn says, elongating the word like he’s about to make some grand proclamation. “Jax, will you spend the night with me?”
A shocked gasp escapes me, and I clap my hands over my mouth.
My eyes shoot to Jax, and her gaze has doubled in size, her cheeks blazing to life. I swear to all the gods of Aevryn, I never thought I’d see the day when Jax was taken aback.
“What?” Ronyn asks in mock surprise. “Brothers, take note. Women want a bold display. Trust me.”
Merrik pinches the bridge of his nose, mouth pressing into a line of despair. “Gods save us, the bastard comes back from the dead and he’s somehow more insufferable,” he mutters under his breath.
“Are you kidding me? If this is what death does to a man, I’m never preventing another death again,” Rubi jeers. “Cheers to your return, Ronie!” she adds, throwing him her flask.
The group spreads out around the campfire, claiming a stump for themselves, though the fresh layer of shock is still palpable in the air. Rubi fills our tankards with more ale, settling into Ronyn’s side.
“To the first god metal archer in Aevryn,” Daelen announces with cavalier charm, raising his tankard in celebration, and the rest of us follow suit, eyes shedding tears of relief, happiness, unrealized grief. No one says anything—we just allow.
The world feels right again.
Ale splashes against my tongue, and I take a long, slow drag from my tankard. For the first time since I was last in Thornewood, I savor the taste. Relishing the crisp, tart freshness that makes me feel alive. Grateful, even. Thank the gods he’s back.
I don’t want to disrupt the fragile peace of Ronyn’s return, but I need to know. I need to know if he’ll be taken from me again.
“Are we going to talk about how this happened? What this means?” I say, tentative and shaky.
Ronyn’s grin thins—a crack. He hesitates, and the camp leans forward with him.
He looks suddenly very small, as if the bravado has shuffled away.
“There’s… something,” he says, and his fingers fumble at his leather.
He pulls his tunic open a breath later—not to grandstand, but because his hands won’t stop shaking.
At the firelight, an orange-red pulse throbs through his skin, a small globe glowing beneath the flesh like a slow ember. The laughter dies in the air.
“The Heart of Ashara,” someone breathes.
My stomach drops. Shock turning my blood to ice.
“So, it worked?” Daelen asks, confused.
“He does feel different,” Therion confirms simply. “I thought it was because he’d died. But perhaps it’s this. He feels… older, somehow.”
Older?
But before I can say anything, ragged breaths cut through the fragile peace, approaching at speed.
Therion stands, stalking towards the sound like a duskprowler on the hunt.
“It’s Rowan,” Therion announces, releasing his hand from the haft of his axe.
The young Mindweaver barrels towards the campfire, and Kael’s jaw clenches in anticipation. No one runs like that without good reason.
In a heartbeat, the lover-stare fades, and something older—command, calculation, a king’s weight—slides into place.
“Sir,” Rowan pants as he rests his hands on his knees in exhaustion as he arrives. “Sir, we’ve received missives. Lady Sylvaine. Eldric. They’ve sent word,” he finally gets out between breaths in a staccato rhythm.
Kael’s posture shifts in an instant. No longer a lover, a friend, a warrior. No. Now, he’s a king. The True King of Zerynthia.
“Assemble the war council. Bring Correk and Mavyrn—leave Morrathys to rest. We meet at the moon’s peak,” he commands, tone clipped and direct. He stands, tips his ale into the fire, and looks around the group—his trusted council. “It’s time for war.”