Chapter Forty-Four
ELYSSARA
Amarisse’s private room is already full.
Gellesk leans against the table like he owns the damn place, Correk smiles tightly, and Tess tries to look at ease in a brothel being used as a rebel safe house, though her clenched fists and darting eyes betray her nerves.
And our group? They’re sprawled across couches, full and well-rested, as if we’re not about to discuss plans that fundamentally change the realms.
But it’s Therion’s forearm I notice most.
“You’re healed!” I say, rushing toward him and grabbing his arm to inspect.
“I know I’m a drunk, El, but I’m also a fucking incredible healer,” Rubi scoffs indignantly from beside him, while pouring a finger of amber liquor into a glass. “Of course he’s healed.”
“No one doubts your skills, Rubes,” Therion says gruffly. “They just doubt your ability to exercise those skills when you’re a dozen drinks deep and the sun hasn’t even reached its peak.”
I expect her to snap, but she counters smoothly, “You act as if my skills are dependent on my sobriety, Teddy, and you’d be wrong to think such a limiting thing.”
I can’t stifle the laugh that bursts from my mouth. “I didn’t doubt you for a heartbeat, Rubes. I doubted that he’d let you touch him. Inflated warrior ego and all that,” I say, winking at Therion, all cheek.
Therion exhales, though I can see him fighting a smile. “I need that fucking drink,” he complains, pinching the bridge of his nose.
But before the moment can continue, Amarisse interjects. “I need you out of my establishment. Discuss your wars. Talk numbers. And get out,” she snaps, fresh crimson robes cascading down her body and dipping low between her breasts.
She sweeps past us, robes trailing in her wake, and she brushes through the curtains in an intolerant huff. Apparently, she will support the rebels only so far—until their politics affect her business.
“Appreciate the hospitality you’ve extended, Am,” Gellesk’s deep voice rumbles over his shoulder after her.
It’s strange to see him like this; serious, powerful, focused.
But I’ve revisited our interactions again and again—how he never traded in people, how he never did dirty tasks himself, how he refused to profit from his wares, how he knew every last merchant in The Barrier District, how he always knew trade routes and secret dealings.
All this time, Gellesk was leading a rebellion against the kings of Aevryn. “Let’s get down to business.”
And Kael doesn’t hesitate.
“I need you to march on Kryntar,” he says without flourish or pretense.
Gellesk’s face hardens, determined. “How many soldiers do you want?”
“Every soldier you have, except those with children who’ll need to leave one parent behind,” he answers, unyielding, direct.
“We have barely one thousand soldiers. And you expect us to take on Maldrak’s entire Marked army?” Gellesk asks incredulously.
Kael’s eyes darken in unwavering authority. Gone is the man who caressed my skin, and begged me to unburden my shame. In his place is the King of Zerynthia—powerful, irrevocable.
“Caeloria and Dravara are allied—if you remain here, what good will that do anyone? What are you defending? Any dissent is squashed within heartbeats by Thalmyr. You need resources. Numbers. If you march, we have a chance of taking out Maldrak, regaining the Marked soldiers, and having the stronghold of Kryntar Castle to defend from. We need you to meet rebels in Vyrhal and Galreth, then march on to Kryntar. Do you understand or not, soldier?”
Gellesk’s cocoa-brown eyes stare down Kael, though I see the way his breathing quickens under Kael’s gaze. “I understand, Your Highness. Though, I have concerns, if I may speak freely?”
And just like that, Gellesk bows—not with a gesture, but with his words.
Kael nods graciously—a king holding counsel. “Of course.”
“We’re to leave Virellin undefended? With all due respect, this is our home, and we’ve fought for as long as memory allows to protect it.
” Gellesk’s voice breaks on the last word, and I see through the man I knew him to be, and see the real one that’s always lived beneath the surface: the Dravari loyalist who would bleed for his kingdom.
“There will be no Dravara to speak of if we don’t draw the fight to Kryntar.
By staying, you guarantee Virellin’s erasure,” Therion asserts, voice stark and dangerous.
“We’ve heard reports of Caeloria’s advanced weaponry.
They have the largest army in the known realms, and the coin to fund an enduring war. Can you say the same of the rebellion?”
Gellesk runs his hands through his coiled, black hair. “You fuckin’ know I can’t,” he admits.
“Nor do you have an entire army of indoctrinated Starborn who’ve been trained to eliminate any threats to the throne from their fifth summer,” Therion snaps, seemingly not done with this tirade. Though I can hardly disagree with his points.
But Kael pushes on, eyes firmly trained on an outcome. “We draw the fight to Kryntar, away from Virellin and Thornewood. We break the spell on the Marked, we bring down The Decay, and we take back Zerynthia—then we turn our gaze to Dravara. It’s the best plan we’ve got,” Kael commands.
“I’m pretty sure it’s the only plan we’ve got,” Ronyn drawls, ankle crossed over his knee lazily as if he hasn’t a care in the world.
As the Heart of Zerynthia and the rightful Queen of Dravara, do you agree? Kael’s voice trickles down the tether.
I do, I agree without hesitation. And with emotion thick in my throat, I add: Thank you for wanting to protect my Kingdom.
His low, rough timbre trails back to me. For you, my love, anything.
My heart stumbles, sharp and certain, because finally, I’m starting to see that he really would.
“I can hear the Codex,” Seren’s words split through our silent conversation.
“You can hear a book?” Ronyn clarifies.
Gellesk and Correk look utterly bemused, searching the group for explanation.
“Veilborn,” Jax says casually by way of explanation. “Some old line of magic wielders from the lost kingdom, supposedly.” Her voice is almost bored.
“I haven’t heard any whispers of Veilborn for decades,” Correk breathes in awe. “The Archivist will know more.”
Who is this Archivist?
Seren looks hopeful at Correk’s words. “The Archivist in Nymeris?” she says, voice pitched high in hope.
“They call him the Aevryn Archivist,” Gellesk says. “Has a particular fascination with our continent, apparently.”
Seren moves to speak, to ask more questions, but Therion pushes on. “What can you hear?”
“I can hear it… speaking to me,” she explains, hesitant. “It wants me to open it.” Her wild, blond curls frame her delicate face as she looks around, waiting for someone to speak. To let her know it’s okay.
I move to comfort her—to be the anchor in her wild storm—but Therion’s hand shoots out, wrapping her dainty fingers in his giant palm.
“It’s okay, Seri. Does it tell you how?” Therion’s voice is steady, sure—a balm to her apprehension.
But Ronyn’s found fodder for a joke.
“Seri, hey? So, we’re doing nicknames now?” he asks, wagging a finger between them. “That’s a bit cute, isn’t it?”
A laugh slips from my lips, unbidden. We’re talking about a forbidden tome with a magical lock that can help us break a spell, and Ronyn’s joking about nicknames. The absurdity.
But before I can tell Ronyn to focus, Seren smirks, and with more force than I’ve ever heard from her, she says, “Fuck off, Ronyn.”
“Can we focus?” Jax snaps, though the hushed laughter from the group drowns her out.
“Don’t be jealous, Jaxxy. No need, in fact. We’ve already named your pu—”
“Ronyn!” she groans, clapping her palm over her face.
“What?” he spreads his hands innocently. “I’m just keeping morale up. Someone has to, with Therion all serious and Kael practicing his king voice—my role is essential to this whole operation.”
I can’t help it—I laugh. Wildly. Freely. Uninhibited.
Kael watches me, his gaze a brand.
So fucking beautiful, my love. His warm, honeyed admiration drips down the tether, and it turns me molten.
“This is why you got caught and thrown in The Tannery the first time, Ronyn—you’ve got a big mouth. Just sayin’,” Gellesk grumbles.
“True,” Ronyn agrees, not even arguing with the jab. “Anyway, I digress. Where were we? Ah yes, talking tomes and cute nicknames—as you were,” he reminds with an exaggerated flourish of his hands.
Seren shakes her head, barely holding in a laugh, but continues.
“It wants my blood,” she whispers, confused, pulling the tome from her satchel.
“I’ll give it. I’ll open the book. But why me?
” She’s not apprehensive from fear—she’s surprised.
Surprised that her blood has the power to open the book no one else seems to be able to open.
Bound in midnight hide and clasped with Starforged silver, the Lunar Codex is less a book and more a living scripture.
When it touches the table, the air itself seems to recoil—like the room is holding its breath.
The silver clasp hums faintly, low and resonant, and the shadows along the walls stretch as if drawn toward it.
Correk’s hands tentatively press against the clasp, curious, inspecting.
“I know very little about all manner of magic, but do not open this in Aevryn. Maldrak is magically attuned to everything connected to his rule, and I suspect that includes this. If you open this here, he’ll know,” he says, disturbed and unsettled.
The logic makes sense—and I don’t want to risk being caught before we have the chance to open it.
“We need to see what The Archivist can tell us first, then, we open it in Nymeris,” Therion says, and the room nods in agreement.
“Then it’s settled—the rebellion marches on Kryntar, we open the Codex, we secure the alliance and information from Nymeris,” Kael assesses. His stare bores into Gellesk, all command and directness. “Camp nearby, and do not attack until you get my signal.”
Gellesk grunts his acknowledgement, a soldier receiving orders.
A plan confirmed, a fate awaits.
Amarisse’s private room stills, chatter hushes, and the air begins to buzz with tension, as if we should be holding our breath.
Gellesk’s eyes land on mine, the full weight of his attention channeling into me, and his rough grumble splits the room.
“So, tell me—have you secured the fifth relic?”