Chapter Seventy-Five
KAEL
The moon hangs heavy and bright—almost at its peak. Watching. Waiting.
I asked Merrik to watch over Elyssara in my room and sent Rubi to heal her, though I know the worst of the attack won’t be physical.
I stride into Council Hollow, and the war council members have already taken their seats. There’s a heaviness in the room. A palpable tension.
They all stare at me, breaths held. Assessing.
There’s no time to grieve. No time to feel the full weight of everything. Not when war looms.
Therion, Jax, Varian, Daelen, Rubi, Lady Sylvaine, Eldric, and Rowan. Ronyn and Seren stand on the edge of the room, faces solemn. I invited them here tonight—Seren is our best planner, and Elyssara needs Ronyn wherever she goes; that much is clear.
I sent word for Rhyven to join us, too. I need to know if he’s a threat after everything that happened with Zak. He’s the last one to arrive, looking regretful, and he averts his gaze when I try to make eye contact.
I clear my throat, “I’ve called the war council together tonight for a few reasons.
” My voice is commanding and unwavering—a skill I learned from my father.
“Much has come to light since our journey to Starlit Grove, and I owe you all an update. Secondly, we need a comprehensive plan for the next journey to the fourth relic,” I pause for a heartbeat.
“And finally,” I turn to Rhyven. “We need to discuss the events from earlier this evening.” I stare at him unflinchingly.
Without hesitation, he kneels with the symbol of Zerynthia pressed between his hands—like a man asking not just for forgiveness but for a future, “I beg for your mercy, my prince.”
I regard him with the full weight of my scrutiny, my stare unrelenting.
“Zak chose his path. And paid the price,” I let the loaded words hang in the air for a beat. “But I won’t have this council splinter further, and I won’t be questioning where your loyalties lie again,” he lifts his head, his gaze meeting mine. “If you’ve something to say, speak now, Rhyven.”
He inhales, steadying himself, but his trembling hands don’t escape my notice. “All I ask, Your Highness, is that you give me an opportunity to prove my undying loyalty to Zerynthia and my fealty to you,” he stammers the words.
I look around the room at the war council—Eldric, who has been on this council with my father since before I was born and who has always been a wise and just servant, nods his acceptance and approval.
Lady Sylvaine nods tightly, and her approval carries merit—she’s masterful in court politics and judging one’s character.
Therion doesn’t move, still weighing Rhyven’s words and integrity.
Varian nods predictably, though his judgment lacks the weight of the others. There’s always an angle with him.
Jax shakes her head, though I expected that. Jax is critical and often beyond reproach, even if wrongdoing is by association alone.
Daelen nods, and though he can be brash and shameless, his opinion is one I respect.
“Please, my prince,” Rhyven begs. “Don’t judge me by my brother’s actions. I know better than anyone how overindulgent and misguided he could be. I beg you—see me for who I am, not who I’m tied to,” he pleads the words, voice cracking in desperation.
I look to Therion again. His nod is nearly imperceptible—so faint I almost doubt seeing it. But it’s enough for me.
“Very well,” I say with a nod. “You’ll get your chance to prove your loyalties, Rhyven, but they’ll need to be earned.
” Despite being Zak’s brother, he’s also his father’s son.
Brannon was a good man, a loyal soldier, and most importantly, a Zerynthian through and through.
Rhyven is no different—though his loyalty will soon be tested by the sight of his brother’s body hanging in the village square.
“Thank you for your mercy, Your Highness,” Rhyven stands, backing towards the door as if hoping for a swift exit.
“I don’t offer mercy. I offer an opportunity to prove your loyalties,” I announce. “Sit down,” I say with fierce command.
He nods quickly and stammers, “Of course, of course. Anything you need.”
He pulls out a chair and sits, though his nervousness is apparent. I don’t blame him—I’m not known for being overly forgiving.
“Seren, Rowan—what of the next relic?” I gesture to Seren to sit down.
Seren clears her throat delicately, placing the old piece of parchment on the table and sliding it forward. “We’re looking at this section here,” she says, pointing to the lines that read:
Where ruins burn and the Flame-heart sleeps,
The dragon stirs in the soul it keeps.
And in the skies where wild winds sing,
Beast and bond form a timeless ring.
“And what have you discovered?” Lady Sylvaine asks.
Seren’s face shifts from innocent and pure to scholarly and wise in a heartbeat.
Her brows furrow in concentration, and she begins, “My mother used to tell me a bedtime story about the sleeping flame. She said it lived beneath the ashen ruins of a city that vanished. A city so old, even the maps forgot it.” She looks around at the room, and we’ve all leaned in, elbows resting on the table, eagerly awaiting her discoveries.
“She used to say, ‘The flame remembers. Even if the world does not.’ I thought it was just a tale.”
Rowan interjects smoothly, “Seren told me about this tale, wondering if the sleeping flame was connected to the Flame-heart from the prophecy, so I Memory Walked thousands of records looking for threads and archives relating to it,” he pauses for a heartbeat, looking straight at me.
“I found something... unexpected. Something big.”
I incline my head, trying to mask my eagerness. “And?”
“There’s an ancient myth that speaks of the Flame-heart as a dormant soul of a dragon,” he lets the words hang in the air.
No one speaks, all of us holding our breath in collective curiosity.
“The Flame-heart is not a literal beating heart, but the preserved soul of an ancient dragon that carries the will and memory of the most powerful dragon.”
“I can add to this myth,” Lady Sylvaine announces, her voice firm and confident—a reminder of her decades advising kings—and I can’t help but raise my eyebrows in surprise.
“Don’t give me that look, boy—I advised the last three kings.
There are things I was never meant to forget,” she says, giving me a wry smile.
“The ancient dragons were soul-bound to the Dravari royal line—not just as their allies, but their protectors,” Lady Sylvaine says with such conviction that I’m inclined to accept it as the truth.
“Are you telling me that the dragons aren’t really extinct?” Ronyn asks quizzically from behind Seren.
“I’m telling you that their extinction is largely fabricated, yes.
Many were killed, but others went into hiding when the Dravari throne fell,” Lady Sylvaine confirms. “Now, they’re sleeping, dormant.
I don’t know where. They’re wiped from Dravara’s memory along with everything else of importance, no doubt—they’d pose a great threat to Thalmyr. ”
Ronyn drags his hands through his shaggy brown hair, eyes blown wide in surprise. “Well,” he drawls, “fuck.”
Fuck, indeed.
“How do you know how the Dravari monarchy fell?” I ask, genuinely curious to know how this unassuming courtier knows so fucking much.
She looks at me sardonically and says, “How do you know how the Dravari monarchy fell?”
The sneaky old woman.
I smirk. Now I know why my father liked her and kept her on his council despite many opposing her position.
I pause for a moment, weighing the merits of sharing this. “Since Elyssara informed me that she is the lost Dravari heir according to the Obsidian Crown,” I reveal, feeling the weight of the admission settle heavily in my chest.
The room stills. The council is silent, processing the information.
“You couldn’t just pick a regular woman with no royal lineage, bound magic, or fucking soul-bonded dragon, brother?” Daelen whistles, dragging his hand down his face.
“Yeah, what he said—except she’s my best friend, so pretend I didn’t,” Ronyn quips.
I smile at Ronyn and Daelen—they’re trouble when they’re together.
I quickly drag my gaze back to Rowan and Seren, “We’ll get to Elyssara in a moment, but first, how do we find these ashen ruins of a city?”
Rowan sits up a little straighter, “The only information I can pull from my archives is that there is a lost kingdom that can be accessed through an enchanted waterfall somewhere in Zerynthia where the Flame-heart sleeps. The only detail I could decipher during the Memory Walk was an ancient rune carved into a rock beside the falls—one I’ve never seen in any other record.
” Rowan shrugs as if what he’s said isn’t fucking world-changing.
I don’t miss the way Lady Sylvaine huffs out a shaky breath—apprehensive, maybe. Perhaps what’s hidden doesn’t want to be found?
Rhyven raises his hand, “I believe I can actually help with that, my prince.” He swallows thickly, his unsettledness still obvious, “I’ve tracked elk to the ends of Zerynthia and have seen a waterfall with a rune.”
“And I can read the runes,” Seren adds enthusiastically.
I nod, taking in the information, weighing it all. “And how exactly is the Flame-heart preserved?”
Seren’s eyes flick between Rowan and me, slightly uncertain. “We don’t really know,” she admits. “But we assume it’s kept in some sort of vessel, but Rowan found no archive, and I have nothing in the few books I was able to bring,” Seren concedes.
I tap my chin in thought, eyes dropping to the table.
Eventually, I lift my gaze, pinning Rhyven with my stare. “Rhyven, I guess it’s your chance to prove your loyalty—we leave for the waterfall when the sun rises.”