Chapter 20
TWENTY
Rohannes intercepted the courier before he made it past the first tier of palace steps.
The man wore the official crest of Seraveth on his arm, his travel cloak stiff with road dust and dried mud and his hair plastered to his brow with sweat.
One sleeve had been torn clean at the shoulder, as if someone had grabbed him and missed.
His hands shook as he fumbled for the sealed parchment.
Rohannes did not make him climb any higher.
He took the letter with a practiced calm that did not match the sudden anxiety in his chest, broke the seal with his thumb, and read the first two lines.
He read it again, slower. As if a different pace might change the meaning. It didn’t.
Rohannes looked up.
The palace courtyard was quiet in the early hour—only the faint clink of armor from guards shifting at their posts, the soft rush of the palace fountains, the first thin wash of sunlight turning marble pale gold.
He folded the parchment once, neatly, and gestured for the courier to sit on the lowest step.
“Water,” he ordered a nearby guard. “Now.”
The courier’s knees buckled with relief. His eyes tracked every movement like an animal expecting a blow. Rohannes didn’t waste time with comfort.
“You come from the border?” he asked.
The courier licked his lips, throat bobbing. “S—Sunspire,” he managed.
Rohannes’s jaw tightened. Sunspire was not a fortress city.
It wasn’t built for siege. It was a leftover relic from a time when Val-Or ruled the land.
Its walls were old stone, its garrison light, its people traders and farmers who lived under the assumption that Seraveth’s gold would shield them the way it always had.
Korvath had shown them what assumptions cost.
“How many survivors?” Rohannes asked.
The courier’s gaze dropped. “I—I don’t know. But…the smoke was visible for miles after I left. I’ve never run so fast…”
Rohannes closed his eyes for a single heartbeat. Then he straightened.
“Take him to the kitchens,” he told the guard that brought water. “Feed him. Keep him within the lower wing until I return.”
The guard hesitated, thrown by the sudden weight in Rohannes’s voice. “Yes, Captain.”
Rohannes turned toward the palace doors. He moved quickly, but never ran. Running belonged to panic. He was not permitted to panic in his station.
He went straight to Val-Theris.
The king’s private office was lit from within, even at this hour. A thin line of pale light cut beneath the door. Rohannes raised his hand and pushed through the door without warning or formality.
Val-Theris stood at the tall window with his back half-turned, wings drawn close, hair unbound in the way he wore it only when he believed no one would see him. He appeared as though he was savoring the moments before he was forced to appear as a king again.
He turned when Rohannes entered, and something in his expression sharpened immediately. The Angelicus Prime did not waste time with preamble. He crossed the room and offered the folded parchment.
“News from Sunspire,” he said.
His eyes went still as he read the letter. His face emptied. His wings closed quickly as if someone had wrapped a chain around them.
He read the letter twice as Rohannes had. Then, very slowly, he lowered it to the desk.
“They sacked one of my cities.”
“Yes.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Val-Theris turned away from the desk and stared at the window again. The sun had begun to crest the rooftops, bathing Solmiris in its false calm. The world looked too peaceful for the violence creeping closer.
Rohannes watched his king carefully. In the years he’d served him, he’d learned to recognize the small signs—how Val-Theris’s fingers stilled when he was calculating, how his wings pulled closer when he was trying to hold something inside.
“Do you know if the garrison still stands?” Val-Theris asked quietly.
Rohannes swallowed. “Overrun. Whoever was present is either dead or fled toward another city.”
“Summon the generals,” he said. “All of them. Now.”
Rohannes nodded. “Yes, Majesty.”
“And send riders to patrol the borders,” Val-Theris added. “Korvath can cross anywhere. I want every inch of this kingdom fortified by nightfall.”
Val-Theris reached for another parchment, ink already staining his fingers as if his body knew what was required before his mind had finished processing it.
Rohannes hesitated. Val-Theris’s gave him a sharp look. “Speak.”
“The council will use this,” he said. “They will say this is the result of your attention diverted. They will say the refugees weakened our control. They will use Sunspire as proof that you have grown soft.”
Val-Theris’s eyes lifted slowly. “Do you truly believe that is any of my concern right now?” His gaze was dangerous in the morning light.
“You have your orders. Make haste. I will inform the council that we are marching to Sunspire to purge the enemy from our lands. Korvath cannot be allowed to burn my cities and remain unpunished.”
Then Val-Theris’s eyes flicked toward the small side door—one that led down a corridor toward the guest rooms.
Toward Jesenia.
Rohannes followed the shift in his attention and understood immediately what would come next. “You should not go to her,” he said gently.
Val-Theris’s gaze snapped back to him. “Why?”
“Because she will ask you not to go,” Rohannes replied quietly. “And you will want to obey her.”
The king’s jaw tightened. “She deserves to know,” he said.
Rohannes nodded. “Yes. But you must be prepared to leave anyway.”
“I am,” he said.
He moved quickly then, crossing the room with a controlled urgency. His wings unfurled slightly as he walked, as if his body was already preparing for the air outside the city walls.
Jesenia’s room smelled faintly of herbs and old books. The curtains were drawn back enough to let in pale morning light, which fell in soft bands across the floor.
Jesenia sat at the small table near the window, a blanket around her shoulders. A cup of tea sat untouched beside her, and in her hands was a dress she had been mending—thread caught between her fingers.
She looked up the moment he entered. Her expression shifted instantly, as if she’d learned to read him the way one reads weather.
“What happened?” she asked, voice already expecting hurt. She set the cloth down slowly, hands trembling faintly. “Val-Theris,” she whispered. “Tell me.”
“Korvath has crossed the border,” he said. “They sacked Sunspire.”
Jesenia went still. Her lips parted, but no sound came at first. Her breath hitched. “And you have to go,” she whispered.
Val-Theris did not pretend otherwise.
“Yes,” he said.
Silence. Her eyes filled with tears, fast and unwilling. But she offered him a sad smile. “I know.” Jesenia shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks before she could stop them.
Val-Theris’s expression shifted, pain flickering across it. Her throat worked. She wiped at her cheeks roughly, angry at herself for weeping like this, angry that tears did nothing to stop armies.
“I do not want you to go,” she said, voice cracking. “How do you know it will stop at Sunspire? What if it’s a trap? What if this is Val-Oros trying to change you?”
Val-Theris’s eyes held hers. “Because I have you. Because you remind me there are other ways to be strong. Because when I return, I want to be the man you can recognize.”
Jesenia shook her head again, tears falling freely now.
“That’s not fair,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t make your goodness my responsibility.”
“You are not responsible for my goodness,” he said gently. “You are the proof that goodness still exists in this world, despite it trying so hard to steal it from you.”
Her eyes squeezed shut. A quiet sob broke from her chest, and when Val-Theris finally touched her, his hands settled lightly on her waist, steadying her as if she might fall apart. Jesenia’s hands rose and gripped the front of his tunic, clutching him like a lifeline.
“I hate this,” she whispered into him. She pulled back just enough to look up at Val-Theris, her lashes wet, her expression raw.
“Promise me,” she said, voice shaking. “Promise me you won’t throw yourself into death just because you think it’s inevitable.
Promise me you’ll fight to come back to me. ”
“I promise,” he said.
Jesenia nodded once, as if anchoring herself to it.
Then her hands slid up to his face, palms warm against his cheeks. She held him there, looking at him as if she were trying to memorize every line.
“I don’t believe in war,” she whispered. “But I believe in you.”
He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. “I will return,” he murmured. “Even if I have to tear the heavens to do it.”
She kissed him then, hot and desperate. The kind of kiss that carried men through wars.
His hands slid down her arms, lingering at her wrists. He stepped back slowly, though the action broke something inside him. Jesenia’s fingers clung to him for an extra moment before they fell away, empty.
He turned toward the door. Her voice stopped him.
“Val-Theris,” she whispered.
He turned back. She stood now, shoulders squared despite her tears, shawl slipping slightly.
“Be safe,” she said, the words simple and devastating.
Val-Theris’s chest tightened. “I will be.”
Jesenia shook her head, tears spilling again. “Don’t say it like it’s easy,” she whispered. “Say it like you mean it.”
Val-Theris held her gaze, then took a step closer to her once more, kissing her cheek. “I will come back to you.”
Jesenia nodded, as if accepting it because she had no choice but to.
Val-Theris turned and left.
And Jesenia stood in the pale morning light, hands pressed to her mouth to hold in the sound of grief, watching the place where he had been as if staring hard enough might keep him within the walls.
By midday, the Golden City was no longer quiet.
Armor clanged in the lower courtyard. Horses screamed as they were saddled. Orders snapped through the air. Soldiers lined up in rows ready for direction.
Val-Theris stood at the head of them, wings unfurled wide, the sun catching along the edges until they looked like fire trapped in gold. Rohannes stood beside him, helm tucked under one arm.
The generals bowed, waiting.
Val-Theris’s gaze swept over his men—faces young and old, hardened and frightened, all of them looking to him as if he could make the world make sense.
He lifted his hand, motioning toward the gates, and the city answered with the thunder of an army departing for war.