Chapter Seventy-Three
ELYSSARA
I tell him everything.
The cuff. The fallen monarchy. My bloodline. My mother.
The gods’ betrayal. Nyrielle. The god-magic relics. Thalmyr. Daphinia. Maldrak.
Every breath the crown dragged from me. Every truth it unearthed.
Everything.
The words unspool from my mouth, flowing freely as I consolidate everything the crown thrust upon me.
I don’t know what terrifies me more—reliving the horrors of the visions or the cold, dark fury that comes over Kael as he listens.
Night has fallen around us, darkness seeping in through the knots and hollows of the tree Kael’s room is cradled in. My stomach growls in hunger, and tiredness aches through my bones.
Kael leans back against the pillows, pulling me into his chest—tucking me into the crook of his arm like I belong there.
He brushes a kiss into my hair, but his voice—low and dark—still cuts through the quiet.
“They’ll all die.”
Despite the exhaustion that gnaws at me, my hatred, vengeance, and fury flood my senses, “Every fucking one of them.” My voice is gritty and raw.
“I love it when you’re violent, El,” Kael says, voice gravelly and rough. “You’re not the kind of woman who hides behind pretty dresses and propriety. You’re the kind of woman who leaves a mark on the world with her blade, her mind, and her heart.”
His words cleave through the fragile casing around my heart.
Not because they’re cruel.
But because they’re true.
I can’t speak, tears threaten to spill down my cheeks, and my throat goes thick with emotion.
I’ve spent so long dulling my edges.
Biting back my rage.
Playing small so I wouldn’t scare the people around me.
Saving the real me for the dark streets of Virellin—and putting on a pretty, palatable mask in the harsh light of day.
But Kael doesn’t flinch at the fire in me.
He leans into it.
Like he finds home in my darkness.
He sees the fractured parts of me—and holds them together.
He sees them, and he stays.
I tuck myself into his chest, into the warmth of him, and for the first time... I start to believe.
That maybe there is so much more life beyond the prophecy.
That maybe I don’t have to bury who I am to become who I’m meant to be.
Kael unfurls me from his arms, covering me with a blanket, “Stay and rest, Duskae.” His voice is tender and warm, “I’ll return with food and ale.”
“Okay,” I agree in a whisper, voice raw with emotion.
I watch as the towering warrior—my Prince of Zerynthia—heads for the door.
The armor across his broad shoulders catches the moonlight seeping through the window, illuminating him in silver.
He looks back at me briefly and winks at me with that infuriatingly handsome smirk, before closing the door after him.
For the first time in what feels like weeks, I am left alone to my own thoughts.
Perhaps in another world, at another time, I might’ve made a home here, nestled amongst the trees.
Seren seems to have found a friend in Rubi, Ronyn would find a role here in the rebellion, and me?
Well, waking up next to Kael, living beyond the prophecy.
.. it’s a reality I never thought I could have. Never let myself believe I could have.
My thoughts are interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. I climb out of bed, dragging my aching bones and tired muscles to the door.
I throw it open, lips curling into a smile. “You really can’t stay away for too long, can you, my prince—”
Zak.
Not Kael.
His fists clenched, knuckles white with the pressure. His mouth is twisted into a sneer, and his nostrils are flared as if he’s barely leashing his fury.
“Lightborne,” he snarls, pressing one of his wide palms flat on the door, barring me from closing it.
I slide my hand down to my thigh inconspicuously, feeling for my dagger, and feign nonchalance, “Your Prince has gone to the feast momentarily, but he’ll be back soon. What can I do for you, Zak?
I feel for my blade again, but I know it’s not there. I can’t sense its presence or feel its weight at my thigh. Kael must’ve taken my thigh holsters off while I was unconscious. Fuck.
He takes a step towards me, but I hold my ground, keeping my rising panic in check.
“You are getting in the way, Elyssara,” he seethes.
I try desperately to make a plan to either get to my blades, or diffuse him, but I’m blank, my mind still hazy from losing consciousness.
“What exactly am I getting in the way of, Zak?” I spit the words at him.
His breathing is ragged, his teeth bared, and I can smell the faint hint of alcohol on his breath.
He steps closer, and for a moment, I think he might strike. Then he says it—quietly, cruelly, “He will never get Nalya as long as you are alive.”
“Kael loves his sister. He will not leave her to rot!” My pitch heightens, no longer able to quell my panic. Though Kael hasn’t told me his plans to rescue her, I know he wouldn’t leave her. Not for me. Not for anyone.
“He was always too much like his father—soft, weak,” the words flood out of him as if they’ve been pent up for years. “Too eager to look after every poor charity case that comes begging.”
Something inside me snaps, and my magic springs to attention. I try to summon it, but it’s like reaching through thick water—my magic is there, but it won’t obey. Something about it feels sluggish, slow. Still, the air cracks around us, and my fury roars to life.
I take a step towards him, closing the gap between us, “What makes you think she’d even want you, Zak?
” I say the words with mocking malice, every word chosen to inflict pain.
“She’d take one look at you, at what you’ve become—arrogant, jealous, deceitful—and turn away.
Perhaps Maldrak’s cell would even be preferable to her? ”
His jaw twitches. Good. I’ve struck something real.
I keep going, “You’re already dead, Zak.” I smile—bravado masking the terror in my bones. I’ve dealt with brutes before. Rage makes them sloppy. And it’s the only edge I’ve got. “When he hears about this, you have no chance. You’re a walking fucking corpse, Zak.”
He tilts his head. A slow, predatory smile creeps across his face.
He takes another step towards me, pushing past the door, and kicking it shut. “Or, perhaps, your beloved prince will never hear about it at all,” his voice is low, almost a whisper.
“Fucking try me,” I drop low into a fighting stance, ready to fight without a weapon. Revryn’s words float through my mind.
Before you ever pick up a blade, remember this: you are the weapon.
He moves to strike, but I’m faster, I kick out with my foot, slamming it into his ankle. He swallows a cry, but barely flinches. He’s a Bloodbond. Realization crashes into me. They’re known for their battle fury, endurance and regeneration, so there’s no way I’ll win on strength alone.
“Come here, you little bitch,” he growls.
I try to summon my magic again, but it’s subjugated by my exhaustion from The Grove.
The moonlight glints in the corner of my eye and I chance a look—my thigh holster sitting on a small table next to the bed.
If I can just get there—
Zak sees the opening and wrenches my head back by my hair.
I cry out. I’m overpowered and weaponless. Think, Elyssara. Think.
“He should’ve fucked you and discarded you right from the beginning,” he spits.
“The only thing you’re good for.” The greed and entitlement in his eyes tells me everything I need to know.
I’ve seen this look in the eyes of self-righteous men before.
Usually in the early hours of the morning after a long stint at the tavern.
Entitled men that think they have the right to use and discard the bodies of women for their own debased pleasures.
I grit my teeth, and this time, I summon vengeance. If I can’t have my magic, I know vengeance will always come when I call. I throw my elbow back behind me as hard and as fast as I can, catching him in the throat.
He growls in frustration, coughing, and reaching for his throat with the hand that was gripping my hair. Now is my opportunity.
I run for my thigh holster, the Starforged Blade illuminating, as if it knows I’m calling it. I stretch out my hand, feeling the cool hilt on my fingertips—
“I don’t fucking think so,” Zak croons, as he wraps his arm around my neck, his forearm crushing my windpipe.
He drags me across the room, his spare hand finding the laces of my leathers. He wrenches them down, pushing them past my hips, hands groping at me with liberties that are not his, his forearm still cutting off the air from my lungs.
I try desperately to scream, to kick my legs, to throw my elbow back again, but it’s useless. I rasp. My vision splinters. He’s too strong. I’m pinned. We crash into the side of the bed, and I do the only thing I can think to do.
Kael, I rasp down the tether. Zak—
And then, darkness.