Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
The first horns split the silence like a blade.
They did not sound like the ceremonial calls Solmiris had grown accustomed to in his time as king—the measured notes of assembly or triumph—but a warning torn from lungs already burning with fear.
The sound reverberated through stone, rattling the banners that hung along the high walls of the palace and setting every nerve in his body on edge.
Val-Theris was in the war room when the Angelicus Prime burst inside, his face pale beneath streaks of blood.
The ministers and generals inside startled. A few hands went instinctively to their weapons, but relaxed when they saw Rohannes. But he was disheveled—worried. His cloak was torn. One gauntlet was missing. Blood streaked across the edge of his jaw where a blade had kissed him.
Rohannes had always been composed, even in battle. Even when death pressed close enough to whisper. To see him like this—armor scarred, breath uneven, eyes burning with urgency—sent a ripple of unease through the room.
“My king, Korvath has breached the main gate.”
A cold weight settled beneath Val-Theris’s ribs. But then his posture changed into that of a seasoned soldier. Fearless. Prepared. He hastily stepped with Rohannes toward the doors and out the palace.
“Mobilize every Hastati soldier in this city,” he ordered, his voice clipped and sharp. As they passed through the palace doors, a fresh gust of wind drove thick, bitter smoke into their faces. Below, the city roared with fear. Warning bells rang. Steel struck steel. Screams rose and fell.
“Val-Theris,” Rohannes said, turning the king’s attention directly to him. There was something urgent in his voice that had not been there moments before. The kind of urgency that preceded words that would change everything. “They’ve taken hostages.”
By the time Val-Theris and the Hastati with him reached the plaza, the air was thick with smoke and tension.
His soldiers formed a hard line behind him, halberds raised, their feathered plumes dulled by ash and sweat, but the enemy stood firm in the center—and between them, the hostages knelt, hands bound, faces ghostly with terror.
The plaza had once been a place of commerce and ceremony.
Now it was scarred beyond recognition. Fires burned unchecked along the edges, devouring market stalls and tapestries alike.
Shattered stone littered the ground, slick with blood that reflected the flames in dull, trembling pools.
The air rang with the sound of crackling wood and distant screams, punctuated by the sharp bark of Korvathian commands.
It was only women and children kneeling, as if they were the only target of this attack.
If any of them cried too loudly, Korvath’s soldiers cut them down.
Something caught Val-Theris’s eyes at the very center of the group—two young children crying near what could only be assumed to be their dead mother.
The woman lay slumped forward, her body shielding nothing now, her hair matted dark against the stone. One of the children clutched at her sleeve, shaking her as though she might still wake. The other sobbed openly, face streaked with soot and tears, their small shoulders hitching with each breath.
Val-Oros landed in front of them then, his flaming wings shooting outward.
The heat of his descent rippled across the plaza, forcing even his own men to step back.
Stone blackened beneath his boots, cracks spiderwebbing outward as if the ground itself recoiled from his presence.
He turned to the crying children with a scold on his face.
“Be quiet!” He barked, but the children only cried harder.
And the sight that followed made Val-Theris go still with dread. Jesenia, kneeling among the hostages. She had reached for the two children and wrapped her shawl around their faces so they did not see the blood.
“You again?” Val-Oros said, grabbing her roughly by the arm. When he did, his eyes glossed over with his prophetic vision.
He saw this Lunarethian girl lying on a chaise with his brother at her back, their hands resting lightly over her stomach. Intimacy. Tenderness. A future he would never let his brother taste.
The vision left him as quickly as it came, and Val-Oros decided in that moment that this would be the way he would break his brother and put an end to this war.
Val-Theris’s wings twitched instinctively to take flight—to go to her, but he forced them still as his gaze locked on the curve of her face and the strands of hair knocked loose from her braid.
Every instinct screamed at him to abandon formation, to damn the consequences and tear the plaza apart stone by stone until she was free. He tasted blood where his teeth cut into his lip, the discipline that had ruled him for centuries fraying under the weight of her presence there.
And because the world’s cruelty knew no end, Jesenia’s eyes landed on him just enough to make his chest splinter, and Val-Oros noticed.
“Well, well,” Val-Oros said, his voice carrying easily over the square, laced with cruel amusement. “The rumors were true, then. The Angel-King and his little foreign pet.”
A ripple of laughter broke through the enemy’s ranks.
Val-Theris’s jaw tightened, his voice low and even despite the icy fire beneath it. “Let her go.”
His voice came out far weaker and more desperate than he had meant it to.
“Oh, we’ll let them all go,” Val-Oros said lightly, waving vaguely at the kneeling hostages. “Refugees, citizens, children. We’re merciful like that.”
Around them, Korvathian soldiers laughed softly, the sound harsh and metallic beneath the crackle of nearby fires. One man nudged another with his elbow, nodding toward the bound figures as though they were livestock at auction rather than lives held in the balance.
He pulled Jesenia to her feet by her hair and forced her forward, closer to where Val-Theris, Rohannes, and the Hastati formed a line. He then jerked her head slightly so her face tilted toward Val-Theris. She gritted her teeth to keep from crying out at the sharp pain at her skull.
Her braid came loose in his fist, strands tearing free as her knees stumbled against the uneven stone.
Dust clung to her palms where she caught herself, her breath coming short and shallow.
The distance between her and Val-Theris felt suddenly unbearable—only a few strides apart, yet bridged by blades, fire, and a brother’s cruelty.
He stopped abruptly, turning his gaze back to Val-Theris, his voice dropping sharp. “All you have to do is kneel before your king.”
No one dared move. Not until Val-Oros drew a sharp dagger from his belt and flashed it tauntingly at his brother. Val-Theris took a step forward.
The blade pressed against Jesenia’s neck threateningly. “Ah-ah!” Val-Oros mocked. “One step closer and your heir dies before it draws breath.”
The cold edge bit into her skin, and she gasped despite herself, tears blurring her vision as fear surged hot and wild through her veins.
The threat hung there, obscene and absolute, spoken loud enough for every soul in the plaza to hear.
A bead of bright blood was pressed out of her skin, and her panicked breath came ragged, her pulse hammering in her throat.
“Please,” she begged her captor, but Val-Oros wasn’t listening.
He had his eyes locked on Val-Theris, who was frozen in fear for Jesenia and their child.
Jesenia’s arms wrapped around her middle, clutching instinctively against her stomach. The silence of the plaza was suffocating.
Val-Theris repeated her pleas. “Please,” he begged his brother, hoping something inside him still yearned to give mercy. “I’ll give you what you want. Just don’t hurt her.”
His voice broke on the final word, stripped of command and divinity alike.
Val-Oros chuckled low, sharp and cruel. “I told you what I want. I want you to kneel before your king. I want your city here as witness as you trade your divinity for a woman.”
He spread his free hand toward the plaza, toward the shattered streets and watching crowds, savoring the weight of every eye upon them. This was not merely conquest; it was spectacle.
And for the first time in history, Val-Theris kneeled before another in submission. He did not hesitate this time. His wings folded low against the ground, and his eyes never left Jesenia’s. “Please, King Val-Oros, have mercy on my wife and child.”
Murmurs echoed through the plaza. Now everyone knew how far Val-Theris’s devotion to the Lunarethian girl went, a secret only Rohannes knew before. The three kingdoms of the realm watched the eternal, untouchable Angel-King of Seraveth beg.
Val-Oros grumbled in satisfaction. His smile was slow and indulgent, the smile of a man who had waited lifetimes for this moment. “Good. Now the world sees what a god hides beneath his feathers.”
With a sharp gesture, Val-Oros pushed Jesenia to the ground in front of Val-Theris, who barely caught her before her stomach touched the stones. His hands instantly cradled her with desperate care as though his body knew before his mind that she must be shielded at all costs.
With Jesenia out of the hands of Korvath’s soldiers and its king, Val-Theris’s eyes sharpened into something deadly.
“Burn them all,” he commanded his Hastati. “I want every soldier of Korvath reduced to ashes.”
The words rang out across the plaza, sharp and absolute, the same words that had once sent armies scattering and cities falling silent beneath his shadow. Smoke curled around his wings as he spoke, the air still thick with the scent of blood and scorched stone.
The Hastati had once knelt at the sound of his wings. Now they stood in silence, ranks unbroken, shields grounded, spears upright but unmoving.
Val-Theris faced them. He gave the order calmly, as he always had.
“Advance. Give no quarter for Korvath’s men.”