Chapter Nineteen #3
Elyssara hisses an exhale between bared teeth, praying for patience to any deity that will listen.
But Laryn doesn’t let her rage build. “We’ll hide them in the supplies and pray to the Stars they’re not inspected,” he soothes easily, as if all this were standard.
Kiva folds her arms. “You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not look guards in the eye. You let Laryn do the talking.”
Her gaze snaps to Kael.
“And you do nothing heroic.”
Elyssara laughs to herself.
Kiva really does know Kael.
Kael inclines his head. “Understood.”
Kiva snorts softly, unconvinced.
She steps closer to Elyssara, fingers closing briefly around her wrist.
“If you make it through,” she says under her breath, “you go to Rhaema. Weavehouse. Lower eastern quarter. She’ll hide you while you build a plan.”
Elyssara covers Kiva’s hand with her own. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Kiva mutters. “Just survive. That’s all this place ever asks of anyone.”
The walls of Azhareth loom as they approach—pale stone, smooth enough to reflect the undying light. They do not feel like protection. They feel like judgment.
Laryn walks first, posture loose, steps confident.
Elyssara and Kael walk either side of the cart being pulled by Laryn’s horse, loaded with supplies and tools—weapons strapped to the inside of a pipe.
Elyssara sucks in a steadying breath, sharing a quick glance with her Starbound, his jaw clenched too tight, like he’s barely holding onto restraint.
The guards at the gate straighten when they see Laryn.
“Evening,” one calls. “Late run.”
“Pipe collapse near the Eastern cistern,” Laryn replies easily. “Crown wants it fixed.”
The guard grimaces. “Always does.”
They wave them forward.
The horse moves calmly, hooves steady against the stone. Elyssara keeps her head bowed, hands folded into the wide sleeves of her wrap. The linen brushes her skin with every step, whisper-light.
“Inspection of the new help, Laryn. Routine. You know how it is,” the guard says, already reaching for Elyssara’s pack.
Laryn exhales sharply, irritation flashing across his face. “There’s a flow-gate stalling on the Eastern side,” he snaps. “Pressure’s building behind the seal.”
That gets the guard’s attention.
“If it gives,” Laryn continues, lowering his voice, “you’ll have the Eastern District dry by tomorrow and the castle fountains running like rivers.”
The guard grimaces, glancing toward the wall, then back at the horse.
“…Fuck,” he mutters. “Always happens at the end of my shift.”
Laryn shoulders past him without waiting for permission. “You want to log my tools, do it after the Crown’s done bathing.”
A beat.
The guard moves to step aside, but he falters. “I won’t log tools. Just a quick pat-down of the new help. The Crown’ll have my balls if weapons are sneaking in from the Outside.”
Fuck.
Elyssara’s breath catches in her throat. Not because she’s carrying weapons, but because she doesn’t trust the Decay to stay leashed inside Kael while this guard pats her down.
Another guard steps forward from the narrow gate, striding toward her with the arrogance of a man used to being in charge. He spits into the dirt about a foot from her, face pulled into one of hunger. Greed. Entitlement. A face Elyssara has seen a hundred times.
He pulls up an inch from her face.
His hand gently pushes her hair back. The hair she intentionally wore unbound so it would conceal her.
Elyssara swallows thickly, but refuses to shrink.
Her emerald-green eyes lock on the man, unyielding.
“Haven’t seen you pass through the gates before,” he sneers, voice a low, entitled claim.
A growl rumbles from Kael’s throat, sliding down Elyssara’s spine like a warning.
“New on the job,” Elyssara explains, forcing her voice into neutrality.
The guard’s hands skim her arms, her waist.
And linger.
Too slow.
Too deliberate.
Fuck.
His fingers press at her hip, sliding beneath the loose fall of linen, testing softness that does not belong to him.
She tries to steady her breath. Because Elyssara can endure the shame, the violation.
But Kael won’t. He can’t.
The horse exhales a nicker—a slow, ominous warning responding to the heightened tension.
Elyssara’s breath catches. Not in fear, but in readiness.
This will not go well. That, she already knows.
“I think you’re done there,” Laryn says, keeping his voice even.
But the guard’s mouth tips into a feral smile.
“Not yet, boundary scum,” he taunts Laryn. “You may wear white, but we all know your heart bleeds rust.”
Laryn bites his lips between his teeth, closing his eyes—begging himself for patience.
Elyssara’s eyes flick to Kael. It’s okay. She mouths the words.
But Kael ignores her, his expression clear: it is very much not okay.
The air compresses. The warmth bleeds from the space between them, replaced by a sudden, bone-deep chill. Shadows coil tight at Kael’s hands. His pupils blow wide. Black cuts through the ocean-light of his irises like ink dropped in water.
No.
“Do not touch her,” Kael growls, all animal and acid. He tries—just for a heartbeat—to hold it. To stay still. To stay human. But Elyssara knows it’s too late for warnings. This is a promise.
The guard ignores him, used to being a man who acts without recourse.
Big fucking mistake.
The guard’s hands rake over Elyssara’s body in clammy, grabby grips. His palm smooths over her breast like she owes it to him.
And she knows, deep in the marrow of her bones, that this man will die today.
She turns her head, mouth opening—
But Kael moves.
The guard’s head snaps up, and he gasps as the endless black of Kael’s eyes lock on him.
He is a moving embodiment of Death, shadow, and Decay.
His magic, his curse—they do not announce themselves. They do not rage.
They decide.
The horse’s head throws back in a violent arc, her hooves stamping and striking at the guard.
“Fuck!” he screams, thrown off his feet as the horse looms over him.
“No!” Elyssara screams. Not for the guard’s sake. But for theirs. Laryn’s.
Because without the cover of anonymity, they’re on the run. And Laryn? Kiva? What becomes of them?
Shadows threaded with silver lash like a whip and wrap around the guard’s neck—a leash of Death magic and shadow. Elyssara stumbles back from the display of power. Not in fear, in allowance.
The guard chokes on his own breath, grasping at the shadows.
And despite what it means, Elyssara relishes the sight—another entitled man with false power falling for his own arrogance.
Endless black spreads through Kael’s veins, stretching through his neck, his arms, disappearing beneath his linens.
“Get on your fucking knees,” Kael demands, rasping the words into the man’s ear like law.
The guard does not hesitate. He chokes on the shadows, but drops to his knees in a heavy thud.
“Crawl to her,” he snarls, releasing the guard from his grip and thrusting him to the dry, gritty stone.
Kael crouches beside the guard, and whispers low and unhinged, “And beg for your fucking life.”
He does.
The guard drags himself forward on hands and knees, pained groans and rasping breaths wheezing in and out of him.
But Elyssara can’t bring herself to care.
She’s so fucking tired of men feeling entitled to her—her power, her body, her mercy.
“I can’t hear an apology,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” the man begs, desperately trying to reach for her. “Please.”
Kael looks at her then, with eyes of endless dark, and she realizes she’s made a grave error: she has encouraged the Decay. Validated. Approved of it. Welcomed it.
And worse—he felt it. Through the tether. Her approval landing like permission.
Elyssara knows something in that moment—Kael is not in control.
This is the Decay.
Fuck.
The man tries to speak again, tries to bargain, to beg, but the words never make it past his teeth.
Shadow surges down the guard’s arms, veins blackening in an instant as his breath seizes, his body folding inward with a sound like cloth tearing. He collapses to the stone, eyes wide, mouth frozen around a scream that never lands.
Kael does not look away from Elyssara.
But his words whisper into the ear of the dying man he never intended to spare. “I said: don’t touch her.” His words are soft, but they land like a verdict.
For a single, suspended heartbeat, everything stills.
Laryn swears viciously. “Move!”
And chaos detonates.