Chapter Nineteen #2
Laryn barks a humorless laugh. “Oh, she said it had nothing to do with that. But slowly, over time, Kiva was pushed out and trade to The Wastes slowed and when Maldrak took over, it stopped completely.”
Elyssara’s gut roils.
Maireth made it personal. Ruined lives for her own rejection.
“What did The Wastes used to trade with Caeloria?”
Kael drags an uneven chair across the wooden floor, and settles into it like the chair itself can absorb his pain.
“Long ago, they traded fabrics, herbs, spices, building materials, in exchange for our military alliance, threvenar, zarethite for weapons. Then, it was reduced to threvenar in exchange for building materials. And finally, nothing at all.”
Kiva sinks into the chair beside Laryn. “It was punishment. We all knew it.” She shakes her head, sadness creeping into her expression. “It was fickleness and rejection dressed as policy.”
Laryn growls under his breath. “Policies she fuckin’ created!”
Kiva strokes his arm, soothing him with her touch. As if they’ve been over this thousands of times, and still, the ache does not lessen—it echoes like a scream in an endless void.
He pushes forward, sitting at the edge of his chair.
“Kiva was pushed further and further from Azhareth Castle. But when her father passed, Maireth had free reign to remove her altogether until she was barely at the fringes of the Outside. No one spoke of it. Maireth never addressed it. Just slowly, systematically, eradicated the family—socially, politically, economically. Gone.”
Holy fucking Stars.
“So she just erases whatever doesn’t align with her will?” Elyssara snaps, appalled.
Kiva smiles softly—a wistful look of nostalgia. “My word, you are so much like her.”
Kael’s eyes turn glassy, but he shoves down the emotion and furrows his brow, intent on strategizing a plan.
“Maireth’s still engineering the realms to her will, Kiva. She’s monopolized memory—history. We believe she’s holding Dravara’s Memory Orbs in Azhareth’s vault,” Kael says, voice tightening into fury and precision. “From everything we can track, Thalmyr pays handsomely for her to protect them.”
Kiva growls. “Whatever you’re planning, Kael—stop. Stop now. We’ve lost too much to that woman already.”
But Kael doesn’t stop. He doesn’t know how to stop. Kael knows force and power and strategy far more than he knows restraint.
“We need to get into the city proper without detection.” He pauses for a moment, letting the request sink in. “And we need a map of the castle.”
Laryn sucks his teeth. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
“You’d have better luck escaping the guillotine, Kael,” Kiva snaps, teeth bared, tendons protruding from her neck.
But Kael is unfazed. “Regardless, we need those Orbs. Dravara must remember. Elyssara must take back her throne.”
His aunt stares him down with the staunchness of a woman who could only come from Kael’s bloodline. Stubborn—unflinching in the face of the impossible.
In the face of systems that make tyrants look reasonable.
Because if there’s one thing Elyssara knows without a single doubt, it’s that Kael does not balk—not at kings, queens, or gods. He bows for no one but her.
Kael’s palms ball into fists, veins bulging in his forearms. His sharp jaw is set, his ocean-lightning eyes unyielding.
Gods, he’s mesmerizing.
Elyssara rests her hand over his in a soothing touch, electricity sparking there. Gods, she misses his touch.
But her emerald-green eyes land on Laryn, then Kiva. “We’re going, whether you help us or not.”
Kiva huffs a small laugh. “I know,” she sighs in acceptance. “Laryn, get the linens. They’ll be needing to get out of those leathers and into something a little more Caelorian.”
Elyssara doesn’t speak. She was expecting more of a fight.
“Surprised I agreed? Darling, I know the look of a woman who can’t be swayed. I come from a long line of them,” Kiva whispers conspiratorially, winking at Elyssara.
“Get Yvesha’s Inside linens,” Kiva demands, throwing a glance to Laryn.
Laryn groans as he pushes to stand, running a hand over the black stubble on his chin. “I’ve learned better than to argue with a Corvannis woman,” he grumbles. “Yep, just accept my losses and do as they say. Isn’t that right, love?” He bends down, pressing a tender kiss into Kiva’s hair.
She smiles fondly, but her gaze never drifts from Elyssara. “It only took him thirty years.”
A laugh bursts from Elyssara’s throat, and a warmth blooms in her chest—at the easy banter, the familiarity, the affection.
But her chest clenches, too. At the loss, the hardship, the daily question they must answer: am I safe today?
No one should have to live like this. But everywhere she goes, power looks less like collective thriving, and more like engineered favoritism to a minority.
Light sparks at her fingertips, fury taking root in her gut. But Kael slips words down the tether. Justice suits you, my love.
The words settle into her like something she didn’t realize she needed to hear: that Kael is still… Kael.
His shadows spread over her hand, gently soothing her fire into submission. The endless cold of his shadows crawls up her forearm. Intoxicating, alluring—as if her light craves to dance with them. Her head tips back just slightly as she sucks in a small gasp.
Laryn clears his throat, disappearing into the only adjoining room without ceremony.
Kiva suppresses a smirk.
Elyssara snaps her hand back, smoothing down her cloak, and tucking unbound strands behind her ears.
It’s been too long.
Too long since his hands have found hers. Too long since his mouth was on her. Too long since he touched her with indecent intent.
Kael drags his hands through his stubble, fighting a smile that craves to break free.
He slips a single sentence down the tether before snapping his walls back into place. You’re so beautiful when you’re flustered, my love.
But before she can respond, he’s gone. Her intent slamming into the walls of his mind.
Laryn returns carrying an armful of linen—white, sun-bleached, folded into careful rectangles that have been handled too rarely to be casual, too often to be precious.
Elyssara’s throat tightens.
The fabric is thin. Breathable. Unadorned. Like it has been designed to vanish against stone.
“Caelorian Inside dress,” Kiva says, already shaking one length loose. “For people who work or live within the walls.”
That’s when Elyssara realizes—Kiva doesn’t wear white. She wears rust.
“Caelorian Outside dress. Signifies us as people beyond the boundary,” Kiva answers the question she knows Elyssara wants to ask.
Fury ignites in Elyssara’s chest again.
But Kiva steps closer, worrying at the clasp on Elyssara’s cloak, her leathers, and begins to wrap the linen around Elyssara’s body with practiced efficiency.
No fussing. No reverence. Just function.
The fabric winds low at the hips, then higher, crossing her chest and shoulders, sleeves falling wide and loose, meant to be rolled back when labor demands it.
It is not beautiful.
It steals something from her.
The linen flattens her shape. Mutes her presence. Dulls the instinctive sense of strength that has followed her since her powers were unbound. In white, she is not a queen or a warrior or a weapon.
She is useful.
And usefulness has never felt so close to erasure.
It touches on an unhealed wound—that she is nothing but a tool.
Kiva cinches the cord at her waist and stills, fingers lingering for the briefest moment.
“She would’ve liked you, Elyssara,” she murmurs, throat tight with emotion. “Yvesha. She would’ve liked you.”
Yvesha Corvannis.
Kael’s mother.
But Kiva doesn’t let the words linger.
“Keep your head down inside the walls,” she instructs. “Do nothing to attract attention, Elyssara. Nothing.”
Elyssara nods. And she hears the words that weren’t spoken: because attention will get you killed.
Kael stands a few paces away, already pulling off his leathers. He trades them for Laryn’s old linen trousers and a plain tunic—undyed, straight-cut, built for durability rather than form. The fabric clings differently, outlining muscle where armor once disguised it.
Against the white, the shadows beneath his skin look darker. Coiled. Pressed tight.
There is nowhere to hide a blade.
Nowhere to hide himself.
Kiva’s eyes snag on his darkened veins, but she says nothing. Only holds her breath.
Kael’s hands brush Elyssara’s as she adjusts the sleeve at her wrist. The contact sparks—quiet, grounding. Kael’s fingers curl around hers for a fraction of a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then he lets go.
Laryn clears his throat.
“I still work the cistern routes,” he says, already pacing. “Aqueduct work. Azhareth was built over underground rivers—old ones. We catch the flow in stone reservoirs beneath the city.”
He taps his heel against the boards once. A dull, hollow sound answers.
“From there, we run channels through the walls. Stone-lined. Gravity-fed. Keeps the elite districts wet year-round.”
Elyssara stares at Laryn, her shock palpable.
“Year-round,” Elyssara repeats, like the words taste foul.
“Inside the walls, water moves through stone channels,” Laryn explains. “Basins. Baths. Fountains the nobles have for decoration.”
His jaw tightens. “Outside, they carry it by hand so no one forgets who decides who drinks.”
The injustice of it curdles in her gut.
“We’ll take supplies in for a job I’m doing in the Eastern District,” Laryn continues. “Sealant. Mortar. Pipe segments. We can get a supply cart through—hide the weapons in there, get you through legitimately so you can move freely.”
His gaze lands on Elyssara. Sharp, assessing. Not unkind.
“You’re my new help. Both of you. I’ve got a lift I can’t manage alone. Got it?”
Kael nods tightly.
“No one can carry weapons?” Elyssara asks simply. But the room hears what she’s really asking: are the people of the Outside really expected to remain defenseless?
Laryn purses his lips and gives a tight shake of his head.
“Not if you’re coming in from the Outside. Maireth won’t risk a revolt.”