Chapter Thirty-One
KAEL
Council Hollow smells of oak and harsh liquor, and the air is a dense mixture of both apprehension and eagerness.
Therion claims his seat to my right—the seat of the General of War.
The Zerynthians on the council file in, claiming their assigned seats around from Therion.
With Eldric and Lady Sylvaine gone, Seren and Ronyn take their seats directly across from me.
The very act of Dravari natives at our table rewrites history—a symbol of the peace we aim for.
Correk and Mavyrn stand to the back of the hollow, pressing themselves into the walls as if they can melt into them.
Elyssara is the last to enter the room. She’s changed into her fighting leathers, Starforged Blade sheathed at her thigh once more, boots laced firmly, and her hair tightly styled in twin war braids like the ancient female warriors of Aevryn.
She’s mesmerizing. A force. A prayer made manifest.
Without a word, she sits to my left on the thick stump of oak—unaware, unknowing of the significance.
No one has sat to the left of the king since my mother flanked my father around Kryntar’s war table.
Daelen sits up straighter, eyes darting around the room looking for how to respond.
Jax lets out a scoff, muttering something under her breath that I can’t discern, but is undoubtedly venomous.
Merrik leans back, pressing his lips into a thin line.
But Therion? He doesn’t flinch, and I notice the way his eyes crinkle at the corners—suppressing a smile. He knows what this means.
Elyssara’s eyes narrow. She can feel the weighted stares on her, glaring, disconcerted.
“Obviously I’ve pissed someone off. What is it?” she asks indignantly, her brows pinching together.
No one speaks, and tension blankets the air. I can’t help the smirk that graces my face. Because having her to my left is exactly where she should be.
“Would someone just fucking say it?” she snaps, annoyance trumping any curiosity.
But no one speaks. They only look to me, expectantly.
I lean forward, resting my arms on the table and slowly, I let my gaze meet her face. The faint freckles that sweep across her nose. The emerald-green eyes that inhabit my dreams. The furrowed brows that frame her face when she fights.
I clear my throat.
“In Zerynthian tradition, it is custom for the King’s Sword to sit at his right, and the King’s Heart to sit at his left,” I say, and I can’t hide the amusement I feel at her sitting there unaware.
Her trepidation snakes down the tether, but she doesn’t yield. Not completely.
“So, just tell me to move, then,” she scoffs, and moves to stand.
I throw my hand out to her shoulder, pressing it down firmly to stop her.
She eyes me warily.
I pause, weighing my words carefully. We’re in a delicate truce—somewhere between acceptance and forgiveness. I don’t want to scare her off. I also want to claim her so fucking thoroughly that she forgets Kryntar ever existed.
“I don’t want you to move—you’re exactly where you belong, Duskae,” I say, and I mean it.
Elyssara is unmoving, eyes locked on mine. She swallows thickly. And her brows relax just slightly. Almost imperceptible, but I notice.
The air prickles. As if every man and woman in this hollow has realized what her presence means: that the heart of Zerynthia beats Dravari.
“The King’s heart,” she murmurs, and I’m not sure if it’s a question, but I treat it like one.
“The Sword makes war. The Heart makes us worthy of it,” I explain.
Silence rents the air.
Inhales cut off mid-breath.
The jungle’s hum fades beyond the room. Even the candles seem to hold their breath.
But I don’t take my eyes off her.
“Will you stay at my left, Elyssara?”
She sucks in a long, slow inhale through her nose, tempering her urge to fight, to push back. “On one condition,” she finally says.
“I would expect nothing less,” I reply, amusement still heavy in my tone.
“When I speak,” she declares, voice like steel wrapped in Starlight, “my word is law.”
My core goes fucking molten at her boldness. She’s so beautiful when she’s powerful.
A hush spreads, weighty as iron. Every councilor’s gaze is pinned to her, as though they’ve all realized the same thing—that by sitting here, Elyssara hasn’t just claimed a seat. She’s claimed power.
And I intend to give it to her.
Varian’s whining voice interrupts my thoughts, “Kael, no. You can’t. She’s Dravari. This is a Zerynthian War Cou—”
“As you wish,” I agree, ignoring Varian with cold indifference. And down the tether, just for her to hear, I say: I’ve told you before, Elyssara—you are the one who commands the Sky.
Mavyrn’s face is a wall of smugness—as if she predicted all of this since our visit to her cottage at the foot of Mount Lyssar.
Correk looks victorious. Like he’s won a game he’s been playing for a long time.
The door to Council Hollow creaks slightly, a rustling sound pressing against the other side of the door.
It bursts open—Rowan stumbles backwards into the room after pushing the door open with his body.
He’s holding a sizeable wooden box, balancing two missives with royal wax seals on top.
His cheeks flood with warmth as he looks around the room, embarrassed with his entrance.
“Apologies, Your Highness—just needed to retrieve the box,” he stammers.
I give him an unfazed nod and gesture to leave the box on the table.
Rowan squeezes between Seren and Ronyn to place the box on the table, and his eyes catch and linger on Ronyn.
I don’t explain. I don’t say anything. I just watch the exchange, smile shamelessly on my face.
“I thought you were dead!” Rowan exclaims, unable to believe his eyes.
“Same,” Ronyn says casually, sipping his ale. “But ya can’t keep Ronie down—this place would be far too dull without my good looks, sharp wit and exceptional jokes now, wouldn’t it?”
“Ah, yes, sir. I suppose it would,” Rowan murmurs, unsure how to handle Ronyn’s irreverence.
The hollow fills with laughter, camaraderie, and I relish the sound. But I can’t let it last. There’s too much at stake.
“Let’s open the missives. Box first,” I command, voice clipped. There’s a time for friendship, and there’s a time for war. And right now? It’s the latter.
Rowan slides the box across the smooth oak table, and steps back, pressing into the wall like he’s not here.
I palm a small dagger from my belt, sliding the blade between the planks that seal the box.
It splinters open at one corner, and the reek of tart, metallic blood floods my senses, along with the stench of rotting flesh.
I eye Therion, and his lips are already sealed in a thin line. This is not good.
I spring the opposite corner open—
A lump of gray hair, caked in dried blood. I blink. And then I see it for what it is.
A head.
Eldric’s fucking head.
Tankards go still.
Groans of stomachs souring fill the space.
Shock rents the air.
I push the box away, throwing my hand over my nose and mouth to quell the sharp, sudden rise of bile in my throat.
A fly lands on the gray fringe; no one swats it.
“Those fucking Caelorian bastards,” Merrik growls, slamming his fist into the table with a viciousness that rattles the tankards and decanters.
“What does the fucking missive say?” Therion grits out, lethal calm stilling his body.
I gesture to Rowan to remove the box, and he stifles a retch that rises unbidden in his throat as he clambers for the box.
I slice carefully through Queen Maireth’s seal with my dagger—desperate to temper the violence that calls to me in the marrow of my fucking bones.
Eldric advised my father, and his father before him.
Eldric was family.
And hurting my family doesn’t go unpunished.
I unfold the parchment to see the elegant, cursive handwriting of Queen Maireth that sits in direct opposition to her blunt, brutal, calculated execution.
Prince Kael,
One thing I have learned as Queen of Caeloria—the wealthiest lands in the known realms—is that if you want a job done properly, you should do it yourself.
If you want my alliance, you should’ve come for it.
Thalmyr did, and his respect has been rewarded with the promise of my army and weapons.
Zerynthia will be lost to history, just like Dravara.
Your altruism is noble but short-sighted. First, we must conquer.
Goodbye,
Queen Maireth of Caeloria
I pass the missive around, dragging my hands through my hair and clenching my jaw.
We needed Caeloria’s army. We needed their numbers.
My father never liked Maireth—he thought her an oppressive leader who hid behind her opulence, and had her people in a gilded cage.
He could never understand Caeloria’s wealth.
Could never understand how their coffers were overflowing on low-yield minerals and materials, and dismal exports.
Their weapons are advanced, but they don’t trade them.
He also knew that Maireth planned one of two things; keep The Decay to suppress the resources here, or lift The Decay and take the lands for herself.
She never made a play at us, but he knew she was only biding her time until the prophecy was enacted.
If Caeloria are allied with Dravara, it’s because they’re coming for our fucking land.
They want our threvenar to control the narrative, our zarethite to arm the conquest, our gems to fund it, and our fields to feed it.
They’d control the realms.
Every horrific scenario flashes through my mind: the enemy killing Maldrak before we break the spell on the Marked, bringing down The Decay and reaping our resources for their own gain at the cost of our people, wiping Zerynthia from history entirely.
Or worse: taking our lands without lifting The Decay and locking us in eternal rot.
A cold sweat breaks out across my skin.
Fuck.