Chapter 14 #2
On the bed before him, his father stirred. The warrior in him must have sensed the presence at last—the shift of air, the weight of intent—because his eyes fluttered beneath their lids.
Rakhal released the shadows.
They slithered away into the corners of the room, fading into nothingness, leaving him revealed.
King Draak's eyes snapped open, betraying shock. But just as quickly, it was masked, buried beneath layers of discipline hardened over decades.
Coldness settled into the old king's gaze, sharp as steel.
Rakhal could almost see the thoughts moving behind that scarred face. A dozen possibilities, measured and discarded in an instant. Attack. Defend. Call for guards. Demand explanation. Weighing them all in silence, calculating as only a king of the Varak could.
Draak sat up. Slowly, deliberately, as though drawing out the movement itself were enough to remind Rakhal where authority lay.
His massive frame shifted upright, broad and hulking, muscles still thick beneath a latticework of scars.
Yet Rakhal saw it—the faint stiffness in his shoulders, the creak in his joints that hadn't been there a few years ago.
"Is it done?" the king asked at last, his voice low, gravel scraping in his throat.
"No," Rakhal answered quietly.
Draak's eyes narrowed, considering. The silence stretched. Then: "You entered without my permission."
Rakhal inclined his head, a single nod. He knew what his father would make of it. This was no mere intrusion. It was proof—clear, undeniable—that he could have harmed the king at any time. Killed him where he slept.
If Draak was unnerved, he gave no sign. His face was stone, his voice steady.
"What happened?"
"I changed my mind."
Draak's scarred brow lifted slightly, and he leaned forward, the firelight catching the ridges along his jaw. "Oh?" His voice rumbled, low and skeptical. "That isn't like you."
The words were simple, but there was weight behind them. Rakhal had always been decisive—cold, efficient, unflinching. To act and then claim hesitation, a change of course... it was not in his nature.
The king's black eyes studied him, searching, measuring.
"You do not have the authority to disobey my direct orders," Draak growled, his voice carrying the weight of command that had bent a thousand warriors to his will. "Not even you, my son."
Rakhal's reply was steady, quiet but edged with steel. "This time, I ask you to reconsider. Once, and only once."
The shadows stirred at his feet, coiling and writhing, a dark reminder of what he carried within him.
A warning. The faint light of dawn slipped through a gap in the heavy drapes, stabbing against his veil, reminding him of how drained he truly was.
His body ached, his runes burned, and yet he stood tall, unwilling to let his father see weakness.
Draak studied him, scarred face unreadable, gaze sharp with thought. The silence stretched, thick as smoke.
"And you have an alternative plan, my son?" the king asked at last.
Of course he did. Draak knew Rakhal too well to think otherwise.
"A political union," Rakhal said outright, his voice as cold and steady as stone. "I will take the queen's hand in marriage. She has already agreed."
Draak scoffed, a harsh sound that rumbled in his chest. But then he fell silent, his scarred face shadowed in thought.
"You are serious," he said at last.
"Yes."
"The clan elders will never accept it. Neither will the humans."
"They will," Rakhal countered, his voice firm. "If you decree it, they will. If you convince them it is the path to end the war. To achieve peace."
He let his words hang between them, heavy as iron, then added, low and deliberate:
"The Ketheri ride toward Istrial."
At the name, his father's face darkened, shadows cutting deep across his lined features. The Ketheri.
It had been the Ketheri who had struck them hardest, many years ago.
The Ketheri who had wielded their fire-magic like a scourge, burning through orc ranks, leaving ash and ruin.
That was the war that had taken both of Draak's wives—Kardoc's mother slain in a clan battle turned to slaughter, Rakhal's mother burned down on the plains by magefire.
The memory of that war lived in the scars across his father's body, in the silence that often claimed him when their name was spoken.
Eventually, the orcs had driven them back. But it had been no triumph—just survival. Led by Draak himself, the orcs had ground the Ketheri down through sheer attrition, bleeding for every step, paying for every skirmish in rivers of their own.
It had stolen countless lives and left wounds that had never healed.
"If the clan is united with the Maidan, the war will end," Rakhal said, his voice low but unyielding. "The Ketheri will arrive and find no battle to fight. Instead, Maidan will send them home. The queen knows what's at stake. She is no fool. She also wants the bloodshed to end."
His father's expression was carved from stone, but Rakhal pressed on.
"This is the only way. Kardoc will not be involved. He will marry a princess from another clan, as is expected, and continue the bloodline. He will have his warriors, his glory."
He took a step closer, shadows curling faintly at his feet.
"I will be consort to the queen. I will work to make the Maidan understand the benefits of a union. And..." his voice sharpened, deliberate, "I will keep their mages in check."
The words hung heavy in the dim chamber, bold as treason, daring as prophecy.
"Where is the queen now?" Draak asked quietly, his eyes narrowing, cunning gleaming behind the scarred mask of his face.
Rakhal stilled. He knew the danger in this moment—knew his father could give a single command, and soldiers would storm his chambers before dawn's light fully broke. He could not afford to show weakness.
"She is safe," was all he said. His voice did not waver. "Her cooperation is fully guaranteed. All you need to do is provide me with a guard. Two units of soldiers, and Commander Shazi. I will go to Istrial and deliver the terms. Tonight."
"You?" Draak's eyebrows rose, the barest flicker of surprise. "You're a warrior, not a diplomat."
"It matters not," Rakhal replied, his tone flat. "The terms are simple. There is nothing to negotiate."
The king hesitated, skepticism twisting his scarred mouth—but there, in his dark gaze, a glimmer of something else. Promise. Interest.
Rakhal leaned into it. "I know the Maidan better than you realise.
I've walked among them. Invisible. Watching.
Killing. I've seen their soldiers die, but I've also seen their despair.
I've heard their voices, their fears. I've walked through their markets and taverns unseen.
Their lives are steeped in exhaustion. They want an end as much as we do. "
"I will deliver," he said, each word like iron. "The war must end, father. I've had enough."
"You've had enough?" Draak's lip curled. He scoffed, low and derisive.
Draak's jaw worked as though chewing on something bitter. He turned away, stalking to the window, broad shoulders tight with barely contained fury. When he spoke, his voice was a low growl.
"You've never defied me. Not once in all these years."
"I've never had reason to," Rakhal replied steadily. "Until now."
Silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. The king's massive hands curled into fists, then relaxed, then curled again. His breath came in controlled, measured exhales that did little to hide his rage.
"The Ketheri," he murmured at last, almost to himself. "Always the Ketheri." His scarred hand rose to touch the ridge of an old burn along his jaw—a memento from their last war.
Finally, he turned back. "Two units. No more.
And Commander Shazi, as you requested." Each word seemed pulled from him unwillingly, like teeth from reluctant gums. "But hear me well, son—if this fails, if the humans reject this union, you will still complete your original mission.
The queen dies. There can be no half measures, not with the Ketheri coming. "
Rakhal inclined his head. "Understood."
But deep within, he knew that was not the path he would take.
He wouldn't fail.
Holding his exhaustion tight within him, clamping down on the shadows that clawed for release until they threatened to burst forth, Rakhal looked down at his father.
"I won't fail," he said, voice low, steady as stone.
Then, with deliberate slowness, he let the shadows rise. They curled around him in coils of black, cloaking him until his form blurred, until his father's eyes widened just slightly at the display. And then—he was gone, swallowed whole by the dark.
A reminder.
A warning.
He slipped from the chamber unseen, passing the unconscious guards without a sound. The stronghold was hushed in the gray stillness of dawn as he moved through hidden corridors, his body heavy with fatigue but his resolve like iron.
Back to his chambers he went, down the corridors, through the door, invisible to all.
Back to where she slept.
The Queen of Maidan.
Eliza.
Creature of iron resolve and human softness.
Perhaps his father suspected. Perhaps he knew that Rakhal would have had no choice but to take her, to keep her close.
The only thing that kept his father at bay, that kept the soldiers and the guards at bay, was the threat of his magic.
They had no idea how spent he was, but now that he was back, here in his chambers, nobody would dare disturb him.
For although all shadow orcs had magic flowing through their veins, they feared those such as him, those who walked in darkness more often than they dwelt in the light.
Rakhal staggered into his office. Then, weaker than he'd ever been, vision swimming, pain flooding his body, he released the shadows.
They pulled him back, threatening to engulf him, to claim him, his will, his mind.
Chest heaving, grunts of pain escaping his lips, he rose to his feet and stumbled toward the window, flinging the heavy drape open in a desperate swipe.
Bright morning sunlight flooded through, weakening the shadows just enough for him to utter a very old, simple, but powerful incantation.
Adash.
Begone.
The shadows fled, and Rakhal collapsed in the sun's embrace.