Chapter Forty-Eight
KAEL
The Velmara rise the moment they see us. Their ears twitch, bodies poised, waiting—suspicious. For a breath, they don’t move. Then, as we step through the gap in the rocky outcropping, they relax. We’re in one piece.
“Well?” Ronyn asks eagerly, Therion and Seren flanking him with urgent expressions. “What in the Stars happened up there?”
“You couldn’t see?” Elyssara asked, intrigued.
“We couldn’t hear or see anything other than complete silence,” Seren’s voice is stern, as if concern has woven its way through her very being.
“We got the compass,” I answer simply, pointing to the iridescent compass hanging weightily from Elyssara’s neck.
“Fucking obviously, Kael. I mean what else happened?” Ronyn scoffs and waves a hand in my direction, immediately fixing his eyes on Elyssara and staring at her impatiently. I can’t help but fight a smile at his obvious comfort around me now, seeing as he shot an arrow at my head only ten days ago.
“The heavens spoke, and we... definitely heard some interesting truths,” Elyssara says the last word as if those truths are still in question. As if they’re not absolute in the eyes of the compass.
“For fuck’s sake, you two, just spit it out,” Therion’s tone is impatient and clipped. Typical.
“I have magic of the gods in my veins. Apparently they left it within me as a last attempt to keep their magic here in the realms, because King Thalmyr and a sorceress have somehow... banished them? I think,” her words are a little uncertain.
“Ahhhh... okay? So you’re basically a god then. Do we bow?” Ronyn quips.
Elyssara shoves him in the chest with a giggle and I fucking relish the sound, “Oh my Stars! No, you idiot,” she chides. “I’m a vessel for their magic... or at least, that’s how the voice described it.”
“And you?” Ronyn’s eyes land on me. “Are you a god or a king or something too?”
“My truth,” I say, too smoothly, too easily, “is that I must protect Elyssara at all costs.”
A traitorous fucking lie.
Stars help me, but I won’t destroy her. I can’t. I won’t.
And the worst part? I don’t know if I just defied fate, picked a fight with it, or doomed us all.
Therion barely keeps his rage on a leash, his hands balling into fists that turn his knuckles white, clearly livid at how this will affect our plans.
This has been his greatest fear all along—that I’ll fall for her and it’ll change everything.
He’s fucking right. Looks like I’ll be having that conversation later.
“Not quite as fun, but I guess it works,” Ronyn says flippantly.
Seren exhales in relief. “Okay, that’s a lot to take in. All of it.” She inhales, expression terse, “We should go—the Vaythari will be waiting.”
We all mount our horses, Nyx seems to have relaxed slightly around the Velmara now, and we settle into a rhythm at the back of the group, the Velmara now leading Therion at the front.
We ride in relative silence for a few hours, the weight of everything settling into our bones—Elyssara’s role with the Vaythari, the reunion with their kin, the god magic in her veins, her role in their fate. Elyssara hasn’t spoken, and I respect her need to process it all.
The first sign of the Vaythari camp is not the firelight—but the music.
A deep, steady drumming pulses through the night, low and insistent, like the earth itself is speaking.
The air hums with it, a resonance I can feel beneath my ribs, in my blood.
It’s not the formal cadence of a military march, nor the orderly rhythm of temple bells.
This is raw, untamed, older than discipline, older than kingdoms. Primal.
Then comes the whistle of skyflutes, threading through the percussion in sharp, breathy notes—haunting, dissonant, beautiful. They weave through the air like wind over ruins, like voices calling from the past.
The scent reaches us next. Charred meat. Spiced smoke. Something sharp and herbal, almost metallic. Not just from the fire—from the land, from the people themselves.
A plume of silver-gray smoke curls skyward in the near distance, rising in soft, spiraling tendrils against the blackened sky. And beneath it, flickering in the dark like embers scattered by the wind, golden glows of torchlight pulse and sway.
The Velmara see it first. Their ears flick, their bodies tensing for half a heartbeat—then, just as suddenly, they run.
They know this place. They know their kin.
I feel Elyssara straighten slightly in the saddle, a subtle shift, but enough to tell me she’s alert. Her breath is steady, but I don’t miss the faint hitch in it.
Anticipation. Wariness. The weight of expectation on her shoulders.
“Are you alright?” I ask, my voice low enough that it doesn’t carry.
“Yes.” A pause. “And no. It’s just...” She exhales, then nods once, more to herself than to me. “Yes. I’m alright.”
She’s not. Not fully.
I smile to myself, but I don’t let her see it.
“I can feel your stupid face and your smug smirk behind me, Kael. Even if I can’t see it.”
My smile deepens. “My blade is your blade, your majesty,” I say it with sarcasm, but the truth in it bleeds through, regardless. Then, quieter—meant only for her—I add, “I won’t leave your side. If you want to leave, say the word and we’re gone.”
She doesn’t answer. She just breathes, and we fall into silence, the only sound is the distant music of the Vaythari, our breath and the horses treading through the snow.
The camp emerges from the dark, sprawled in the natural basin between ancient, jagged stones, as if the land itself carved out a space for them.
The fire at the center roars with life, fed by something unnatural, burning higher than any ordinary kindling should allow. It casts shifting shadows against the rock, distorting figures as they move, dancing wildly, their bodies twisting in a fevered rhythm.
The Vaythari move like both predators and spirits. Some are bare-chested, their skin streaked with ash and shimmering gold dust, muscles flexing as they beat at the ashdrums. Others move with sharp grace, wielding knives mid-dance, the steel flashing with each flicker of firelight.
And then, there is the sound.
It is laughter and song, sharp bursts of it woven between the music—not careful, not restrained, but full, open, alive, completely uninhibited. It doesn’t belong to the halls of kings or the courts of lords. It does not ask permission to exist.
It simply is.
And for the first time in a long, long while, I see something in these warriors that we’ve forgotten—freedom, belonging.
Not just caution, or strategy, or winning, or dominion. But a true sense of belonging to something bigger than war and battle and kings and queens. Kin.
The firelight flickers against the rough stone and animal pelts, the night air even thicker now with the scent of spiced meat, the faint metallic tang of strong spirits, and something richer—a heady anticipation, a current humming beneath the revelry.
The Vaythari are celebrating her. Their Zhari.
The drumming grows louder as we dismount, the air vibrating with the thrum of anticipation for what this means. What she means.
They break into cheers when they see us, voices rising in a primal, exultant cry. They do not bow to her. No, bowing is for kings, for rulers of blood and conquest. This is different. This is acknowledgment. This is acceptance.
Syphra emerges from the crowd, moving with a warrior’s grace, her dark eyes gleaming like polished onyx. She doesn’t speak at first—she simply gestures for Elyssara to follow.
Elyssara hesitates, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face as she glances toward me.
I tilt my chin slightly—not a command, not reassurance, just encouragement to trust her instincts. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that she needs to make her own choices.
She follows.
The Vaythari part as she moves through them, some raising curved hunting knives in silent tribute, others slapping their chests in a rhythmic pattern. They do not question her right to be here. They already know.
We pass the smoking carcasses of freshly hunted beasts, the air thick with the scent of them. The Vaythari feast like warriors—they hunt their land, they cook over open flame, they eat with their hands. This is no pristine courtly gathering. This is raw, alive, untamed.
At the center of it all, carved into the natural rock, rests the throne. Or at least, their version of one.
Made of polished stone and layered with thick furs, it is not ostentatious, but ancient. A place where warriors sit, where battle-leaders command.
Syphra gestures to it. A silent invitation.
Elyssara looks back at me again, her fingers flexing at her sides, almost as if readying herself to fight.
I arch a brow, amusement curling in my chest. She may be Starborn with magic of the gods, but she’s still an on-edge street girl at heart.
I give her the smallest nod. Sit, Duskae.
She does, and I take up the position on her right, and Therion, Ronyn and Seren form a line next to me.
Immediately, a drink is pressed into her hands—a dark, glimmering liquid swirling with silver flecks. It catches the firelight, almost as if the Stars themselves have been dissolved into the drink.
She eyes it warily. Syphra makes a symbol with her hands and directs it towards Seren.
“It’s Silverwake,” Seren murmurs hesitantly. “It’s a celebratory drink. Said to be made of the dust Stars leave in their wake.”
Her brows lift. “Well, that’s poetic.”
Syphra’s face contorts into something sly, and she makes another symbol to Seren, her slender finger flicking emphatically between Elyssara and me.
“It’s also an aphrodisiac,” Seren says, amusement coating her tongue, and she winks at Elyssara. Seren is definitely growing on me, and by the glint in Therion’s eye, she’s growing on him, too.
Ronyn slaps his thigh and barks a riotous laugh. “I fuckin’ love what this journey has done to you, Little Star.”
Elyssara chokes, coughing on the first sip, her eyes watering as the liquid burns its way down her throat.