Chapter Fifty-Four
KAEL
“And where exactly is home?” Elyssara breathes. Her words come out soft, but there’s steel in them—like she already knows the answer won’t be good.
“The far east of The Wastes. Thornewood.” I don’t soften it. She deserves the truth—at least, the parts that won’t ruin the plan. Jax looks displeased at the confession, but fuck, Jax always looks displeased.
“The entwined roots are in Thornewood?” Seren presses, eyes wide with that spark she gets when she’s on the edge of solving something.
Therion clears his throat, closing his eyes for a beat too long. I know that look—he’s lost in memories that still fucking bleed.
“Thornewood sits on the edge of a grove,” Therion says, voice low.
Surprise twists in my chest—he never talks about this.
“It was once a sanctuary for kings and queens to take respite, to gather wisdom.” He drags in a breath, the kind that feels like it’s scraping against his lungs.
“But since the last rightful king died, the grove’s gone feral. ”
Silence swells, heavy and sharp. Even the fucking air feels tighter.
Merrik breaks it, his rough timbre a relief. “It was a sanctuary—sure. But its heart was always for the crowned. And now?” He shakes his head. “She’s turned. The roots tangle, trees bend, the paths close, and no one gets through. At least, no one who’s come back to talk about it.”
“One could argue they went in under-prepared and paid for it,” Jax snaps, the weight of lost soldiers thick in her voice.
Elyssara ignores Jax, her jaw ticks, disbelief warping her words. “And that’s where the crown is?”
“I don’t know for sure,” I admit. “But the prophecy points to entwined roots, and there’s nowhere else in Aevryn where the land twists in on itself like that. If the crown’s hidden somewhere... the grove makes the most sense.”
Seren chimes in, flipping through a brittle page. “The crown is tied to legacy and legitimacy—it would make sense for it to be placed in a sanctuary once meant for kings and queens. And if the grove’s turned hostile, it’s probably because no one worthy has claimed it since.”
“Or because someone doesn’t want it found,” Therion mutters darkly.
“So we’re walking into a death maze for a crown that we’re not entirely sure is even there?” Elyssara deadpans.
“Pretty much, yeah,” Merrik doesn’t sugarcoat it.
Ronyn lets out a long, slow whistle. “A moving death maze, a killer crown, and a rebellion hanging by a thread? Sounds fucking perfect.” He flashes that reckless grin. “I’m in.”
We gather around a frayed map spread across the table, the edges curling from age and wear.
The Joining cuts a jagged line across the parchment, the last breath of Dravara’s territory before it collapses into inaccurate projections of The Shadow Wastes’ terrain.
It looks simple enough here—just a slash of ink.
But they’re about to find out just how much they’ve been lied to.
Merrik traces a thick finger along the border. “The main crossing’s here, but it’s swarming with Guards this time of year. Even their best idiots wouldn’t leave it unguarded.”
“Except they have,” Jax cuts in, leaning forward, boots kicked up on the table. “Scouts came back empty. No Royal Guard patrols, no lookouts. It’s been fucking silent.”
A heavy pause.
“Too silent,” Therion mutters. “They’re not just absent—they’re waiting.”
Elyssara’s brows furrow. “If they know we’re moving, wouldn’t they stake The Joining itself?”
“Exactly.” I tap the map. “That’s why we don’t take the open ground. We use the smugglers’ tunnels.”
Seren hums, rifling through parchment and notes. “The old passages under the cliff side? Are they still intact?”
“Barely,” Merrik grunts. “They twist under The Joining, popping up on The Wastes’ side. Used to be prime for contraband runs, but not many dare it now. Our rebels are the only ones game enough to attempt it.”
Elyssara’s eyes flick to me, skeptical. “And the horses?”
“I’ll cloak them with Shadowweave. Keep them above ground, hidden.” I don’t say how draining that’ll be. No need to worry them about the risk. “They’ll be waiting on the other side.”
Therion shakes his head, jaw tight. “You’re going to burn through your magic. That cloak’s going to drain you before we’re even halfway through.”
“I’ll manage,” I say with a finality that kills any further debate.
But Elyssara’s sharp gaze lingers on me like she sees right through the lie. “Why can’t we just cross with the horses? Can’t you cloak us all like you did in The Barrier District?”
I wish I could. “Duskae, your magic was bound and barely traceable then. If you walk amongst Bloodbonds and Aetherstrides, it won’t matter if you’re cloaked or not—they’ll feel you.”
She huffs in frustration.
“We move fast,” I continue. “The tunnels aren’t wide, and they’re not forgiving. We hit the exit before the Royal Guard realizes we’ve slipped under them.”
“And if they already know?” Jax’s question lands heavy.
A beat of silence.
“Then we deal with them,” my words a promise.
Elyssara blows out a breath, her knuckles pale against the edge of the table. “Of course we do.”
The plan’s in motion fast. The horses are saddled, shadows creeping around them like thin smoke as my magic wraps tight. It takes effort—more than I let on—but I hold the cloak steady.
We ride for hours in tight formation toward The Joining. The path grows harsher with every mile, the ground turning from dirt to cracked stone, brittle under hoof.
No guards. No patrols. Just silence.
It scratches at me like sandpaper—too clean. Too easy.
“Still no sign of them,” Therion mutters, eyes scanning the horizon. “Not a godsdamned soul.”
“They’re waiting somewhere,” Merrik agrees, his hand never straying far from his sword. “I can feel it.”
The Joining unfolds before us—massive, raw, and brutal—but we stay back a healthy distance to not be detected.
The stretch of land between The Shadow Wastes and Dravara is wide, flat, and savage—an open scar across the realm.
Nothing grows here.
No trees. No grass. Just churned-up earth, riddled with scars of old battles. Bones still litter the ground, half-buried, bleached white against the blood-stained soil—remnants of the countless lives lost in the wars that made this place infamous.
The Wastes to the east—harsh, jagged, windswept.
Dravara to the west—lush but oppressed and poisoned by the rot of its king.
And this? The Joining is the cracked, bleeding vein between them.
The Joining is held by soldiers raised on bloodshed—men who’ve known nothing but killing, hate, and orders from kings they’ll never meet.
Separated only by dry, flat land—neutral territory that waits hungrily for the next bloodbath.
They’ve been held here at the center of our lands, fighting battles for kings in untouchable towers, who wouldn’t spare them a second thought.
Merrik points to a slope that curves down toward the cliff side. “Smugglers’ tunnels run under there. We slip in, avoid the open field.”
I reach out, twisting more Shadowweave around Nyx, forcing the cloak tighter. My temples throb, a dull pulse with every shroud I weave. I’m okay, for now, but the effort to keep these cloaks in place while we’re underground will hurt.
“That’s going to leave you dry for the fight,” Therion warns.
“Then we’ll make sure we end it quickly.” Another lie. Another gamble.
We move silently from a distance, avoiding the usual locations of scouts and soldiers that typically patrol the outskirts of The Joining, despite none being visible.
We dismount at the cliff’s edge, still shrouded by the dense trees on the fringe of the Galreth region.
The tunnel’s entrance stares at us at the bottom of the jagged cliff we need to climb down.
It’s nothing but a scar in the stone—jagged, dark, and waiting—easily overlooked by passersby.
I suspect they’re waiting for us at the bottom of the cliff.
It’s the perfect location—nowhere to go, easy to surround us.
Elyssara glances toward the empty plains, jaw tense. “Still no patrols.”
“Which means they know exactly where we’re going,” Therion mutters.
Her fingers twitch toward her dagger—subtle, but I notice. She doesn’t like this. Neither do I.
I tighten my grip on my blade. “Then let’s not keep them waiting.”
We begin our descent down the rocky cliff, the jagged stone scraping at my palms as I lower myself down. Loose gravel slips underfoot, tumbling into the abyss below. Every movement feels too loud.
At the base, the tunnel gapes open like a broken jaw—dark, cold, and still. I can taste the damp in the air, the copper tang of old blood lingering in the stone.
Elyssara steps to my side, her voice low. “Feels like a trap.”
“It is.” I don’t bother lying.
The wind howls through the pass, fierce and biting—like it knows it’s the last wild thing left alive here.
Merrik’s boots thud on hard-packed dirt. “Smells worse every time I come here,” he grumbles, waving a hand in front of his face. The stench of damp earth and old blood rises thick from the darkened entrance.
Jax’s eyes dart around, alert and on edge. “If this place doesn’t kill me, the fucking smell will.”
“We’re not alone,” Therion states with certainty, slicing through the arbitrary complaints.
Elyssara brushes past me toward the tunnel, her fingers skimming the boulders. Her jaw’s tense, but there’s fire in her step.
“You sure this is the best route?” she asks, voice low.
“It’s the only route.” And it’s true. The Joining’s surface is a blood-soaked chessboard—the minute we step into open ground, we’re fucked.
Therion and I brandish our weapons, moving with stealth through the pass. Ronyn has climbed boulders to find a higher vantage point, arrow nocked and ready to loose.
Elyssara moves with the grace of a warrior, haired intricately pulled back from her face in a warrior’s braid—the way she always has it when she knows she’ll fight, and it’s godsdamned mesmerizing—Jax watching her back with her hands poised and Seren between them, armed with her crossbow.
We move as one through the pass, ready to fight our way into the tunnels.
But no one’s here.
We can hear the murmurs of soldiers from above—playing cards, drinking, sparring—but nothing else. No hitching breaths, or scrape of metal. Just... silence.
Therion signals to enter the tunnels, and we all follow his lead.
The tunnels swallow us whole—dark, wet, suffocating. The air is heavy, a cloying dampness that sticks in my throat. Every boot step echoes too loud, the sound bouncing off the jagged stone walls.
Before we move through the tunnels, I twist more Shadowweave around Nyx, the magic clawing at me—each shroud feeling like it rips a thread of magic loose inside my chest. My vision darkens at the edges, a cold sweat slicking my brow. But I force it tighter. I can’t drop it. Not yet.
The space is tight, the walls rough, gouged with deep claw marks—some old, some fresh. Water drips from somewhere high above, the droplets a stark reminder of the deafening silence.
Therion keeps his sword raised, eyes flicking over every shadow.
Elyssara’s eyes dart up the tunnel walls, the sharp angle of her jaw tense. “The echoes are off. Something’s wrong.”
“I know,” I grit out, but we’re already too deep.
My grip tightens around my blade’s hilt, and I notice Therion’s already in a fighting stance, axe poised for use. He feels it, too.
The tunnel twists sharply to the right, narrowing even more. The air shifts—subtle but wrong. Too still. No echoes of distant smugglers. No faint shuffle of rats. Just silence.
A predator’s silence.
“Where the fuck is everyone?” Merrik rumbles behind me.
I spin just as Therion does, both of us looking back toward the entrance.
Therion lunges, hand reaching through the gap, fingertips brushing metal—then the gate slams down with a thunderous clang. His knuckles scrape against the iron as he yanks his arm back, cursing violently.
But it’s too late.
The iron gate slams shut.
Torvyn’s face is there—half-lit by the torches—but there’s nothing soft in his eyes.
“Torvyn!” Therion barks, slamming at the gate.
Torvyn holds up a hand, his jaw clenched. “I didn’t want to, boss. But—” He cuts off, voice rough. “It’s Finn. They promised they wouldn’t hurt him if I did this.” His breathing is ragged, panicked, “I’m doing it for my boy.”
The words hit like a fist to the gut.
“You fucking sold us out!” My voice comes out like a snarl, lethal.
“They won’t spare you, Torvyn. You’re nothing but a fucking pawn.
Both your heads will be on spikes before the sun sets,” I drop my voice low and guttural then, malice lacing every syllable, “and if they don’t, I’ll put them there myself. ”
Torvyn’s hand lingers on the gate’s latch, knuckles white. “I’m sorry, Kael.” His voice cracks, barely a whisper. “I know what this means.”
“You’re already dead,” I spit back. “I’ll come for you.”
His hand lingers on the lock for a breath longer, then he’s gone—shadows swallowing him as he disappears into the pass.
Therion reaches for the lock, poking his fingers through the iron gate, but he pulls his hand back instantly, gritting his teeth and seething.
“Fuck!” he yells. “It’s made of lillath. ”
Magic-nullifying metal.
“Kael...” Seren’s whisper is barely a thread, her wide eyes fixed on the shadows shifting ahead. “They’re here.”
I turn—
And torches are lining the tunnel, shadows stretching long before dozens of Royal Guards emerge, their armor catching the dim light. Their blades gleam—sharpened and waiting.
Elyssara’s breath hitches, sharp and fast, but she doesn’t step back. Her dagger’s already drawn, knuckles white around the hilt. “We’re trapped.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, voice like stone. I slide one sword free, the metallic rasp loud in the suffocating dark. “But they forgot one thing.”
The darkness stirs around me—thin tendrils of shadow curling up my forearm, licking the blade.
I smile savagely.
“I’m better in the fucking dark.”