Chapter Thirty-One #2
Council Hollow erupts in outrage—words of revenge and war against a nation built on advanced weaponry and armies that could swallow us whole with the sheer number of them.
Therion leans in close, the voice of reason in a room of reckless rage.
“Our only options are Nymeris’ alliance and summoning the rebellion.
Or, less likely; breaking the spell and regaining the Marked soldiers into our ranks—if they’re even redeemable,” his low rumble of reason blocks out the emotion from the room.
“That, and we need the fifth relic to unbind Elyssara’s power—she could take down over a hundred in an instant.
But regardless, war seems to be coming from all angles.
Maldrak will likely strike back at us, word from The Joining is that Thalmyr’s forces expand every day indicating an impending play at The Wastes, and now Caeloria? We need to do something. Fast.”
I give him a curt nod, taking his words under advisement.
I explore them all internally. We don’t have updated information on the rebellion—they may not be ready.
Nymeris’ answers lies in the missive in my hand.
The fifth relic is an answer we don’t have yet.
Breaking the Marked spell might be our best option, depending on what lives behind Queen Ilyra’s wax seal.
Fuck.
I’m made for battlefields, not political games. I’d rather bleed an enemy than slide pieces across a board.
“Silence,” I announce with quiet command, holding a single hand up.
The room falls silent almost instantly, awaiting my instruction.
Without a word, I break the wax seal, sliding out the parchment that underpins everything that comes next—and could doom or direct our fate.
Lady Sylvaine’s no-fuss handwriting marks the parchment, and with that, I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. At least she’s safe.
Your Highness,
The memories have not been lost—Dravara lives on. Nymeris wish to aid in the rise of Zerynthia, but what they offer is not weapons or armies, but knowledge that will change everything. And I do mean everything. The Archivist awaits you.
No trace,
Your servant.
I pass the missive around, but this time, no rage ensues. No, this time, curiosity does.
The recent missive from The Shield whirls in my mind:
The memories live on.
Beyond our shores.
All is not forgotten.
Elandor knows.
— The Shield of Dawn
Elandor. The Archivist. Knowledge that will change everything. It bends and melds in my mind—a crashing wave of incomplete information. Lady Sylvaine is calculated and doesn’t tolerate nonsense. I know I can trust this, even when it doesn’t make sense.
“‘Dravara lives on’, what does that mean?” Seren asks impatiently, seemingly frustrated by the half-cocked information, too.
But Merrik ignores her questions, emotions running high. “We need weapons and armies, Kael. You can’t win wars with dusty books and strongly worded missives,” he complains gruffly, insulting the typical ways of Nymeris—the scholars. He throws his hands up and lets them thud to the table.
“Not all wars are won with steel,” Seren counters, dismissing the seasoned warrior with a quick flick of her wrist. “What we learn can inform how we strategize. How do we get to Nymeris? As in, where in the Stars is it?”
They’ve never left Aevryn. Never left Dravara, or likely even the slums, until Therion and I. They know nothing about the world beyond our shores.
Elyssara’s face is a mask of indifference, but I know better than to think she’s sitting idly. She’s thinking. Plotting. Weighing.
The Heart of Zerynthia.
“Hate to say it, Seren, but most wars are won with steel—I’ve seen it,” Jax snipes.
She wasn’t always such a contrarian. But the fall of Zerynthia—her part in it—broke us all in different ways.
And Jax? She’s made herself hard and impenetrable—incapable of getting hurt, again. Or so she’d have you believe.
Therion lets out an annoyed huff. “Most wars are won with intelligent strategies before we’ve even drawn our blades, Jax—I’ve planned it.”
She scowls, and I can feel the tension in the air thickening. It feels like a war council meeting. Hot tempers, bold opinions.
“I don’t give a fuck if it’s strategy, blades or books we draw first. All I care about is getting it right so Zerynthia still stands at the end of it all,” Daelen cuts in with no fuss. “We need the right decision, not everyone’s preference.”
He makes a good point.
“Can I hear the list of options again? I’ve got steel, books, strategies…” Ronyn lists them out on his fingers. Fucking Ronyn. Though, I’m grateful for his endless ability to cut tension.
“Brask,” Rubi adds. “No one has mentioned brask. It’s solved a lot of my problems.”
Therion grunts in agitation at his sister, and the room breaks off into pairs of debate.
Mavyrn’s eyes gleam with victory. Why? I have no fucking idea.
I snap.
“We’ll take it to a vote,” I announce gruffly. “Before we take the vote, does anyone want to put forward other strategies?”
I pan around the room, waiting for suggestions.
Mavyrn pushes off the wall, stalking slowly towards the table.
Her crooked finger adorned with that silver ring and a too-long nail stretches out, pointing right at me.
“Before you weigh your options, boy, consider that breaking the Marked spell needs more than just the Arcanist that cast it and Maldrak—you’ll need the spell itself; the ingredients, the sequence, its reversal.
And a spell like that exists in only one book.
That book has been outlawed for decades.
Impossible to find,” she croaks, and the room listens.
I give her a curt nod, and begin the vote.
“I’ll lay out the options. Then, we vote,” I direct without waiting for an answer, though the room nods in agreement, anyway.
“Option one: we rely on ourselves. We ready our own small army without allies and track down the fifth relic for Elyssara to strengthen our defenses—and maybe even have a chance at taking down The Decay.” The words sound fucking weak and taste bitter as they spill from my mouth.
“Option two: we head for Nymeris and take the Archivist at his word—trust that whatever knowledge Lady Sylvaine believes can ‘change everything’ is enough to turn this war.”
No one breathes. The Hollow is silent, the air thick.
I push on.
“Option three: we call in the rebellion. We rally The Shield’s forces and push to take back The Wastes before Thalmyr and Maireth make their move.”
Merrik and Daelen nod at that. But I’m concerned that without being able to take down The Decay or break the spell, that option is futile. A bandage over a gaping wound.
“Option four: we chase the spell itself. We find this outlawed spell book, and we break the Marked spell before Dravara and Caeloria carve up our homeland. We’d take back Kryntar Castle—at least then we’d have a stronghold to defend from.”
The room falls silent. I know the options aren’t compelling, but they’re the ones we’ve got, and if my father taught me anything, it’s that you play the hand you’re dealt.
Elyssara leans forward, her lips parting like she’s about to say something.
The room stills, waiting for her, like even her silence can command a room.
I can feel her sifting and sorting through memories and thoughts via the tether, but on the outside, her face is unreadable. I raise my hand, asking the room to wait.
And then finally—
“I believe I know that spell book. And, I believe I know where it is,” she whispers, still trying to decide if she can trust her memory.
My eyes flick to Mavyrn, and though her face looks the same, I can see a spark in her eyes. The spark that tells me her plans are working.
“We need to go to The Underbelly,” Elyssara breathes. “We need to go home.”
The room sucks in a breath. Even the sway of branches halts.
“To Virellin, love? Straight into the heart of enemy territory?” Merrik asks, apprehensive.
But my chest fills with pride at her brilliance.
“What’s the book, Duskae?” I ask.
“It’s the Lunar Codex. Outlawed and forbidden, but there are people in Virellin who knew it was important and kept it.
It’s in The Underbelly,” she says, this time, with more conviction.
“And I know how to go unnoticed.” Something comes alive in her eyes—a part of her she forgot existed, but still pulses through her veins.
I purr my pride down the tether, and I notice the ghost of a smile on her lips in response.
“Makes meeting with the rebellion easy, then,” Correk finally speaks up from the back wall, and the war council still eye him warily, despite saving our asses in Kryntar. They don’t trust outsiders easily, and I can’t blame them.
“The rebellion operates out of Virellin?” Elyssara asks, her surprise palpable.
“Headquarters, yes,” Correk says simply. “In The Underbelly. That’s where we meet with The Shield.”
“And you know this ‘Shield’?” Seren interrogates. “How do we know we can trust them? That this isn’t a set up?”
Correk huffs an aggrieved breath out his nose, and he grits out, “The Shield is trustworthy.”
I make sure my tone is measured and calm, hoping to distill the tension. “I’ve been working with The Shield for a decade. He’s built our ranks, expanded our mission, managed to find alternate sources to the water supply to help Dravara remember. He’s as trustworthy as we can guarantee.”
The tension in Seren’s jaw dissipates just slightly, tempered by my explanation.
“And I’m The Shield’s Apprentice. I’ve given up a decade of my life to that fucking shithole in Kryntar to help the rebellion,” Correk’s chest rises and falls too fast, his temper rising at the insinuation that he’s not trustworthy.
And he’s right. He’s played a dangerous fucking game for ten years. We need to assume he’s an ally.
Elyssara’s voice cuts through the room—her words holding an unnatural weight. Like every time she speaks, her words ripple across the air like a spell. “Correk knows Revryn. He helped me awaken my magic from the gods. He has my trust.”
She awakened her divine magic?
I try not to show my surprise, but I can feel it travel down the tether anyway. All questions of Correk’s loyalty erased in an instant.
Ronyn leans across the table eagerly. “Can you travel through time? Do you have the power of invisibility? Can you fly? This whole thing would be a lot easier if you could,” he says, eyes wide with excitement.
Jax snorts a laugh, and the tension in the room dissolves instantly.
Whose magic do you have, El? I ask the question down the tether.
She smiles, then. A beautiful smile of pride.
“I am a daughter of Duskae,” she announces. “Daughter of the Unknown.”
Shocked, disbelieving gasps fill the hollow.
“How?” Seren breathes, awed.
“I— I don’t know. But I think…,” she looks at me tenderly, “I am the spark Duskae left in the world, and the gods used their magic to awaken it.”
The spark.
She recites the words I spoke to her in the caves of Cindralis. The old Zerynthian stories of The Goddess of the Unfated.
“What magic do you have, then?” Jax asks, and this time, she’s curious. As a Luminaar, magic is what Jax knows better than anyone.
“I haven’t used it much, but I think it responds to… my will,” Elyssara explains, still trying to make sense of it.
“Of course Duskae gave you magic that becomes whatever you want it to become,” Jax huffs a laugh, but it’s not rude. It’s intrigued. Awed.
“I’ve built mental walls, I’ve hurt people… it seems to be connected to me. To my emotions,” Elyssara continues explaining. “She seems to give me what I need most.”
Warmth floods me. She’s fucking breathtaking.
“Duskae didn’t play by the rules of the gods,” Therion offers, voice low and reverent. “She created her own fate. Her own way of expressing magic. It seems you play by the same rules, El: none.”
Elyssara doesn’t move. Her emerald-green eyes taking it all in, hungry for more stories of Duskae.
“This is why they banished Duskae, girl,” Mavyrn croaks. “Too unpredictable. Can’t be controlled. So, what will you do with all that power?”
The words hang heavy in the room, and Elyssara looks unnerved by the Arcanist. But in a heartbeat, she shifts into something godly.
“I’ll do good with it. And you? What will you do with your power? Will you hide in the mountains or choose a godsdamned side?” She stares down the old woman, and Mavyrn returns a smug, expectant glare, but says nothing.
“Is this a good time to also mention that Seren World Walked? Yep, pretty impressive, isn’t it? They’re my best friends, by the way,” Ronyn quips, nodding and smiling like he’s won a hand at the poker table.
Seren’s face blazes red, and she sinks back into herself at the compliment.
“Fuck’s sake, lad,” Merrik grouses. “We’re planning a war here.”
“Actually, we were questioning the loyalty of Correk—big guy over the back there,” Ronyn throws a casual thumb over his shoulder in Correk’s direction. “We hadn’t decided yet, in case you were wondering. As you were,” he signals casually, encouraging us to keep going.
I take a long drag on my tankard, steadying myself before making a plan. I suck my teeth, and let the room go silent again, commanding attention and deference.
“Nalya trusted him,” I finally say. “It’s good enough for me.”
Merrik’s head tips back in exasperation. He wants blood. He wants war.
Jax doesn’t look overly pleased, but that’s neither here nor there.
But ultimately, they don’t decide the fate of this nation or all of Aevryn.
I do.
“The verdict from the Sword?” I ask, turning to Therion, my tone clipped.
He pauses, weighing his decision with the intricate workings of a strategist. “Nymeris is our best chance—we have to trust that Lady Sylvaine has done her part.” He nods, signaling his final verdict.
I return a nod, and swing my attention to Elyssara. “The verdict from the Heart?”
Without waiting, she stares at me with an intensity that makes me still. “The Underbelly for the book. Rally the rebellion. Then, Nymeris,” she says, looking around me to Therion. “We need to know our chances of breaking the spell and engaging the rebellion first.”
Despite the slight, Therion nods once, acquiescing to her word.
And just like I promised, Elyssara’s word is law.
For the first time in a decade, I feel the odds tilt towards us.
“We leave for The Underbelly when the moon dips below the treeline.”