Chapter Three
Beware the calm that follows pain
Some storms learn how to wear a face
Kael has spent a decade burying his grief, his secrets. Shoving them into the hidden depths of his soul to protect the ones he loves. And now it is no different.
This he will shove down too. Nothing will get in the way of his Starbound’s crown. Not politics. Not gods. Not the Decay. And not his fucking grief.
He gives the maids instructions to prepare his sister’s body for burial in the sacred grounds of the Temple of Endings.
He’d take her with Daelen and Merrik. Give them all a god’s burial in Black Heart Belt amongst the zarethite and gems that are beginning to form again.
He’d honor them in the way they deserve.
He stands from his sister’s floor, leathers pulled taut around honed muscles, and wipes the blood from his hands on the remaining fabric from the sheet.
He draws in a long inhale, as if it’s enough to center him.
He forces it steady, as though control is still his to claim.
He drags his hands down his face, smearing salt and sweat through his stubble.
And he walks. He walks because stopping would mean feeling it, and he cannot survive that. So he does what he has always done—he keeps moving. He does not give himself a choice.
He forces his legs to move. To carry him forward in a way that Nalya never will again. The world does not stop for grief. It simply expects you to keep moving inside it.
His boots land heavy and intimidating on the obsidian floors.
Kryntar Castle still remembers how to be beautiful.
Light spills down from the vaulted arches in pale, reverent shafts, catching on silver-veined stone and the polished black of the floors worn smooth by centuries of rule. Murals line the ceilings—old victories, lost gods.
And yet, something lingers.
The beauty feels… forced. As if the castle has drawn itself tight around a wound that has not fully healed.
Shadows cling to the corners of the hall.
The sconces stutter like they’re too afraid to burn brightly in here.
Even the great throne room he strides into—cleansed, reforged, resplendent—still bears the memory of Maldrak’s reign, as though the stone itself learned his shape and has not yet forgotten it.
Kael’s boots strike the floor, the sound echoing up into the vaulted ceiling, and the room answers him—beautiful, obedient, and watchful—as if nothing in this world has changed. But everything has.
He ignores the pulsing Decay as if he can’t feel the way it slithers through his veins, up toward his mind. As if he can’t feel the way it tries to claw out of his skin and unfurl itself.
His heavy footfalls announce his arrival.
Tales from the war council halt.
Laughter ceases.
And silence awaits him.
He steps over the threshold, gaze steady and severe.
The war council stares at their king.
Waiting.
Everyone thinks he’s leading. But really, he’s holding the world together so it doesn’t fall apart around him.
Elyssara’s emerald-green eyes find his, and the silver lightning striking through his ocean eyes flares in recognition, as if it knows that home is not a place—it is her.
Ronyn’s face splits into a lop-sided smile. “I was hoping you’d start wearing those frilly shirts and long coats the kings seem to favor. You’ve got the look of a man who could do frilly,” he teases.
And Kael relishes the way Ronyn allows him to slip back into reality.
Kael returns a huff of laughter, allowing that half-smirk to tilt his mouth. “Leather and armor will do for me, regardless of the title,” he returns smoothly.
“Shame,” Ronyn muses, though he hardly looks as if it’s a shame at all.
Kael takes his seat at the head of the oak table, pride surging through his chest with Teddy at his right, and Elyssara, his Starbound, already seated at his left.
Grief spikes, sharp and inescapable, and so does guilt.
Can pride so easily bloom where grief has planted seeds? Or is this what it means to survive—to feel everything at once, and call it strength?
Elyssara sees the shift, and her warm, passionate light scratches at his mind again, but he dismisses it.
“We’ve had ten days to enjoy this victory.
That ends now. I know you’re all aware, but it begs repeating: we are not truly free, not victorious.
Not until Dravara is,” Kael’s voice is harsh, restrained, with an edge of brutality that doesn’t quite fit.
The words come too easily. Too clean. Like he rehearsed them instead of lived them.
But do his friends notice? Or will they put it down to his new throne?
“We have the threat of war coming at us from every direction. With the Decay destroyed, we’ll start producing zarethite again.
Gems will be plentiful. We already know Dravara wants our threvenar, our land.
Caeloria wants our riches. And if they take Zerynthia, they take the realms.” His words hang in the air, real and honest and terrifying.
Teddy nods, embracing the stakes without thought. “Then let’s do what we do best: prepare for war, and take back another throne.”
Elyssara’s eyes meet Kael’s, loaded with a thousand words spoken through the silence. They stay on him, holding questions she doesn’t dare speak.
Because they’ve never discussed it—Starbound lovers on opposing thrones, separated by kingdoms and politics and history and nations who’ve only known hatred.
All of it is relayed in a single glance.
Is love enough?
Elyssara’s eyes snap forward as she leans heavily on her elbows, ready to debate war strategy. But Kael knows the bones of her, right down to the marrow. He can feel her reaching—desperate for something real. Desperate for an explanation. Desperate for him.
She knows he’s performing. That he’s withholding the truth. That whatever stands before her now is not the man she loves, but the version of him the crown demands.
But Kael can’t yield. Not here. Not with her. Not when she needs him strong. Needs him to help her reclaim what is rightfully hers.
“As I see it, we’ve got three problems and one objective,” Kael says, voice booming through the war room. He lays it out like a puzzle that can be solved. Like the world still follows rules.
“I’ve come to associate you with problems over the last decade, Kael. Offense completely intended. So yeah, may as well start there,” Rubi quips, emptying the contents of her flask into her tankard of ale.
“I can’t speak for the last decade, but going off the last few months, she makes a fair point,” Ronyn agrees, clinking tankards with Rubi.
Kael allows a smirk to pull up the corner of his mouth.
“I can confirm it feels the same for me,” he retorts drily, but pushes onto strategy like the king he needs to be.
“We need to gather allies to take on Thalmyr’s Starborn army when the time comes.
” He drags his gaze across the council, letting the pause linger for a breath too long. “We need the dragons.”
The room breathes in, sharp and intense.
Seren leans forward. “They could be anywhere. But as for the spell to free them… it’s not in the Codex. I’ve gone through every spell. Twice.” She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
Teddy grunts in acknowledgement. “Elandor will be our best resource in finding out more,” he asserts matter-of-factly.
Kael nods simply, and the group watches on as Zerynthia’s King and his General work in perfect harmony.
“We need to find and shatter the Memory Orbs in Caeloria’s vaults,” Kael pushes on.
“The Shades of Nymeris are perfect for that,” Seren announces with a strength to her voice that reminds Kael of the woman she’s become.
Memories of the noose of golden threads she wove around Rhyven before snapping his neck flood his mind—callous, cruel, and fucking brilliant. His eyes linger on the witch for a heartbeat. Two. Studying her, seeking to understand her.
Who is she, really?
“And the third problem?” Elyssara’s voice breaks his stare, nudging him in the ribs.
Kael shakes the thoughts of Seren from his mind.
He sucks in a sharp breath and then stills.
His eyes drag across the council members. His friends.
“Lara.”
Teddy’s eyes snap to Kael. “Lara? You mean, the woman the old bat spoke about? Do you not think it was merely the ramblings of a madwoman trying to delay her death?”
But Kael doesn’t hesitate. “My instincts say it’s worth looking into, and that’s final.”
He does not leave room for doubt or discussion.
The tension in the air thickens. The council can feel Kael’s rigidity and severity—no one argues.
But it’s Ronyn—of course—that slices through the tension like a blade through butter.
“I do love a journey with unknown adventures, cryptic clues, and the high chance of death or debilitating injuries. When do we leave?” he asks, an expression of sincerity on his face.
Thank the fucking Stars for Ronyn.
But Kael’s not done.
Because the problems may be clear to the war council, but they need to be aligned on the only outcome he’ll tolerate.
“And council? There is one objective: get Elyssara back on her throne at any and all costs.” His voice comes out as a low, unwavering command. “Every action we take gets her closer to the throne, understood?”
Around the war room, the others nod without question. But it’s the warm trickle down the tether, like a slow, seductive drip of honey, that owns him.
Gratitude. Pride. And something stronger, all-consuming: love.
He hates himself for it. Hates himself for feeling anything but devastating grief. But here he is again, loving her. Like loving her now is a betrayal of the one he just lost.
And just as the walls encasing his mind begin to fall away, a small, hollow wisp of darkness ghosts his veins, riding in tandem with honey-sweet love. Canceling it out, counteracting it, commanding it. As if the fragment of Decay seeks out anything good and true, and molds it into something… other.