Chapter Forty-Seven
KAEL
The tavern smells of stale ale and bodies gone slack with exhaustion. Tankards overturned, cards scattered, boots propped on tables—my companions look more like common drunks than the best warriors of the known realms. But I savor the moment—taking it in while they sleep.
Elyssara’s head rests against my shoulder, her breath soft, steady. The tether hums with contentment, and for a moment I let myself believe this—the peace, revelry, joy—could last. That laughter, spilled wine, and reckless dancing could exist without consequence.
But peace never lasts. Not for us.
The door slams open at the top of the stairs. Lantern light flares. Boots hit the stone steps, and a woman strides down, robes snapping with the kind of authority no drunk or rebel could ever ignore. Mavyrn.
Her sharp eyes sweep the wreckage of our revelry, landing on me with a sharpness that rivals the tip of a blade. “You,” she hisses, voice taut with urgency. “Get up. All of you. Nymeris waits, and time is running out.”
Around me, groans and curses stir as the others rouse from their stupor. Ronyn mutters something about roasted meats. Rubi snickers. Seren clutches her shift tighter, cheeks blazing from the memory of last night’s wildness, no doubt.
But my eyes are only on Elyssara, whose lids flutter as she stirs. For a heartbeat, I think of holding her there, refusing to let the world intrude. But war doesn’t care for love, and duty doesn’t pause for joy.
And Teddy? My General of War? The Sword of Zerynthia? He doesn’t move.
I narrow my eyes at Mavyrn. “Us? We’re only here because you fucking disappeared without a single word. We had no idea if you opened a Gateway of Threads back to your little cave in the mountains, or if you stepped out for ale,” I snap, fury igniting in my veins.
Despite serving my father, and him having trusted her, something about her feels wrong—like she’s too practiced. Too rehearsed to be natural. Her unsettledness cloaked behind bravado and a sharp tongue.
For a heartbeat, the old woman falters, retreating a step, but her voice remains as cold as steel.
“I can’t fight my way out of a hot day, boy.
Not unless you wanted me to bring the full weight of the royal guard down on us with my forbidden spells and sorcery.
I saw the fight starting in The Underbelly—I took cover, laid low,” she explains, but something in my gut screams that she’s full of shit.
Elyssara’s eyes train on the Arcanist—not easily fooled either, it seems. Despite being sleep-addled, her wit is as sharp as the blade at her thigh. “Where?” she presses.
And I know why she probes—no one knows the streets of Virellin better than Elyssara.
But Mavyrn stares her down, seemingly unfazed by her suspicion. “I’ve built a network of contacts in Virellin before you were even born, girl. I have my places,” she croons, but the vein in her neck bulges, her pulse visible and fast.
“Where?” Elyssara demands again.
Mavyrn sucks in a measured breath, calming herself. “If you must know, in the old apothecary by the whorehouse you stayed in,” she snaps pointedly.
Elyssara pushes from my chest, taking the warmth with her, and I hate the feeling of her absence.
She stalks toward Mavyrn like a predator, and the Arcanist swallows down her rising panic, refusing to avert her gaze.
Elyssara looks down at her, eyes narrowed into slits.
“You may have saved my life once, but I don’t trust you to do anything unless it serves your agenda,” she whispers icily, voice too calm to be natural.
“I don’t know what it is yet,” her mouth curls into the faintest, dangerous smile, “but I will.”
Elyssara spins on her heel, a wild storm made flesh. She’s done with Mavyrn… for now.
Mavyrn’s face is a mask of indifference, but she spins the ring on her finger in nervous attention.
The gemstone glints under the light of the lanterns as it tracks around her finger, and something about it looks familiar.
Something about it is known to me, though I can’t pinpoint what it is—the memory nothing more than a wisp of smoke in the recesses of my mind.
But, Ronyn’s movements interrupt my thoughts, as he staggers to his feet. “Any roasted meats around here? I’m starved,” he groans, picking up a forgotten crust of bread off the table.
Rubi unfolds herself to stand, reaching for the flask she left abandoned on a chair, peeling crusted hair from the corner of her mouth. “Nothing hair of the dog won’t fix,” she quips, taking a swig from the flask, and passing it to Ronyn.
Seren doesn’t say anything, just scrambles across the floor to where she left her tunic, and hastily pulls it over her head, mortification palpable.
Therion’s eyes crack open just slightly, before he snaps them closed when the lantern light sears them. “What in the fucking Stars?” he grumbles, clapping his hands over his eyes.
“Oh look,” Ronyn teases with a mouth full of stale bread, “the beast stirs. Careful, Seri, he might start gyrating again if the fiddle strikes up.”
Jax laughs wickedly. “Don’t forget to call him Teddy—it has a ring to it, remember?” she taunts, and the laughter cuts through the haze of the ale’s effects.
“Gods, my head hurts,” Therion groans, covering his face with his hand, but I can still see the bright red flare of his cheeks beneath. “I swear, if any of you ever speak of this again—”
“Teddy, I will never let you forget it,” Rubi interrupts with a gentle, patronizing pat on his head.
He groans, face still buried beneath his hands. “I’ve got enough enemies without having to watch my flank for my own fucking sister,” he croaks.
I contemplate letting everyone savor the moment, but Daelen and Merrik risk facing Dravara, Maldrak and Caeloria alone if we don’t get back to them in time, and we’ve already been delayed with whatever Mavyrn got up to.
“Enough,” I bark, the word striking like a blade. In an instant, laughter dies. Soldiers snap back into themselves, steel behind their eyes. My voice leaves no room for play—only duty. “The fun’s over. Nymeris awaits. Seren, the Codex?”
She nods instantly. “I can feel it,” she confirms, reaching for her satchel left hanging off the back of a chair.
“We leave now. Last night should remind you of what’s at risk if we can’t fulfil our mission—we don’t take back Zerynthia and freedom will be a thing of the past,” I say, voice blunt. “Mavyrn, open up the Gateway.”
Mavyrn steps forward, rings clattering like tiny bells as her hands snap out toward Seren.
“The Codex,” she demands, voice sharp enough to slice. “It’s from Nymeris—I need it to open the Gateway.”
Seren stiffens, clutching the tome against her chest as though it were her own heartbeat. The leather creaks under the pressure of her grip. Her wide eyes dart to me, then to Elyssara. She doesn’t want to let go.
“Seren,” I say, low but firm. “Trust me.”
Though in truth, I don’t know if we can trust the old Arcanist.
Her jaw works, knuckles white, before she finally extends the Codex with reluctant hands.
The moment Mavyrn’s fingers close over the Codex, the leather groans like a living thing. Silver sigils crawl across its surface in jagged lines, burning through the dark hide like molten veins. The air hums, sharp with static.
She lifts the tome high, voice a rasped command. “Watch.”
The silver veins erupt upward, threads whipping into the air like spun metal. They weave, braid, and snarl, until the first shape of a circle begins to form. And then—just as the last silver thread stitches into place—the whole construct flares, bleeding into molten gold.
Light floods the tavern. Every scar on the walls, every sticky stain on the tables blazes under its brilliance.
The air sears with ozone; sparks fall like fireflies in a storm.
The circle ripples like molten glass, bending the very air around it, its golden edges pulsing with impossible power.
Beyond it, shadows writhe against a horizon that isn’t here.
The room falls silent. Even Ronyn’s smart mouth is shut. All of them stare at the impossible Gateway with wide, reverent eyes.
Nymeris calls.
But my hand tightens on the hilt at my back, because the way Mavyrn’s eyes gleam in the golden light? It isn’t reverence. It’s hunger.
And the thought chills me: this may not just be a Gateway. It might be a plan.