Chapter Thirty-Five
The crown may claim the greater good
The dead still pay in flesh and blood
Calira waits until the sedative begins to clear from their system before waking them. Alchemy is about precision. Timing, dose, duration, delivery.
The cavern smells of volcanic ash and the bitter medicinal smoke curling from the herbs burning slowly in her bronze dish. The Melders remain unconscious—dose and duration is always longer for them. Their breathing is deep and even beneath the effects of the sedation tonic.
Precisely as intended.
Transporting Melders is difficult enough when they are cooperative.
Calira crouches before Ronyn first.
Street-wise.
Observant.
Annoying.
Worst of all, he hides intelligence beneath humor. Men like that are difficult to predict because everyone mistakes amusement for harmlessness. The kind of man who survives by performing to the exact rhythm of the world around him.
Even unconscious, his body remains tense. One hand curled loosely like he expects to wake fighting.
Jax is worse.
Stillness radiates from her in the wrong way. Not calm. Definitely not. This is containment. Like violence held together by will alone.
Calira reaches for the smoldering herb bundle beside her and lifts it beneath Ronyn’s nose.
Blackbriar leaf. Unpleasant enough to force consciousness upward quickly.
Ronyn recoils almost instantly, coughing hard as awareness slams back into him.
Efficient.
Effective.
Jax is next. A low, enraged snarl tearing from her throat as she comes to.
“Should’ve left that one sleeping,” Vren grumbles from behind her, jerking his head toward Jax, and dragging his hand through his onyx braids. “Isn’t that why we do it to the others? Can’t argue with us while they’re unconscious.”
Calira’s used to Vren’s intolerance, but she huffs out an irritated breath all the same.
“They can’t answer us then either,” she counters coldly.
Information matters more than comfort. More than fear. More than dignity. Systems fail when people prioritize emotion over function. And Vren is emotional.
Jax’s eyes spring open, dragging them around the space to orient herself. Her gaze meets Ronyn’s.
“You just had to go and get caught,” she jabs.
He shakes the haze from his head. “Me? You’re fucking next to me, Jax—you got caught, too!”
She scoffs loudly.
But Calira has no interest in the insignificant quarrels of others. “Are you done?” she asks, but it’s not a question.
Jax and Ronyn stare at each other for a moment longer, as if they’re deciding if they’re truly done. Their eyes drift slowly to Calira.
“Why are you here?” Calira asks.
Jax tries to sit up taller, but the bindings around her wrists prevent her from doing it efficiently. “We’re here to find out what you fucking pricks are doing here—because it’s sure as shit not for weapons!”
Ronyn rolls his eyes, as if this outburst is typical. “Would you fucking stop? Not sure we’re in a position to aggravate the woman with the deadly alchemy,” he whispers, though it hisses through the air with ease.
Calira’s mouth twists in disgust. Their emotions leak into everything they do. Inefficient. Dangerous. Dangerous in the way all unpredictable things were. Thalmyr would call them inefficient. Inefficiencies to refine.
Vren steps forward. “Why are you here… in Vyrhal?” he tries again, voice measured.
Ronyn pauses, weighing his options, assessing the best approach.
Jax shakes her head, trying desperately to get him to stop whatever is about to come out of his mouth. But he sits up a little straighter, despite his arms being tied behind his back.
He swallows, and then his eyes drift to Calira’s. “We’re here to find the Melders.”
Vren sucks in a sharp breath, then moves in front of them, crouching down so he’s at eye level. “Vren Valári, Elder of the Dravari Melders.”
Shock does not settle on Ronyn’s face. Or Jax’s. Interesting. As if they know with certainty exactly what the Melders are. Who they are.
But Ronyn’s face turns vacant for one heartbeat. Two.
Then a lop-sided smile breaks free on his face. “Ronyn Holt, first god metal archer of Aevryn, best friend to the Rightful Queen of Dravara, and unwanted vessel for the soul of Tarrakai, Ender of Kingdoms.”
The space stills.
Vren’s composure fractures at the name.
Then, Ronyn adds. “Oh, and Tarrakai would like you to know that you are now second Elder, unimportant, and no longer in charge.”
Vren doesn’t flinch. But his eyebrows pinch together.
“Tarrakai? The most powerful dragon in history?” He asks the questions with skepticism. Suspicion, even.
Ronyn smiles broadly. “The very one. Heart of Ashara. Awaken the dragon. Worthy vessel. All that. I’m the worthy vessel, if you hadn’t caught that already.”
Vren doesn’t move. Only trains his gaze on the archer like he can find the truth there.
Calira’s patience thins to nothing.
“The Melders are not up for discussion. They have obligations to the Crown,” she snaps from behind her helmet.
Ronyn’s facade falters, and he jerks against his restraints. “To the Crown? My best friend is your Rightful Queen, and you have the godsdamned audacity to speak to me of the Crown?” he snarls.
Jax huffs a laugh beside him. “So much for not aggravating the woman with the deadly alchemy.”
She looks pleased with herself, despite her circumstances.
Ronyn ignores her.
“And where’s the rest of them? This can’t be it.” Ronyn’s eyes drag across the room. At the meager numbers of slumped Melders—twelve of them, eyes rolled back in their heads.
“We are what is left,” Vren admits.
Jax’s eyes narrow on him. “And what, you just serve the false King Thalmyr blindly now? The king whose family had your kind hunted to near extinction?” She shakes her head in disgust.
Vren grunts his disapproval. “We serve Dravara. Soulbound for eternity. We bleed Dravari,” he says the words like he bleeds those, too.
“And you?” Jax juts her chin at Calira. “You a blind follower of fucking Thalmyr too?”
Calira does not feel rage, she feels heat—whatever is left in place of emotion. “Blindly? No. We are trained to see everything with our eyes wide open. And we are not blind enough to believe that kingdoms survive on good intentions. Thalmyr trained us better than that.”
This is what conscription is for. Not softness. Not sentiment. Survival.
Thalmyr did not ask them to survive the system. He taught them how to become useful to it.
Calira is done with inefficiencies. She draws a short blade from her hip, and strides toward the undisciplined pair.
Their eyes blow wide, hands pulling at their bindings.
Calira crouches behind them, and slices through the ropes, freeing their hands.
Ronyn wrings his wrists with his hands. “I’m not sure the suspense with the blade was really necessary there,” he complains, side-eyeing Calira.
Jax pounces, closing the gap between them. “Thalmyr trained you better? So taking children from their parents, starving every Earthbound, and hoarding wealth is a training strategy in Dravara is it?”
Calira’s chest tightens, sharpening her focus on the threat. “Thalmyr knows that systems do not survive without sacrifice. He was the only one willing to change them from within.”
Ronyn drags a hand through his hair, eyebrows raising in disbelief.
“And tell me, Calira… what the fuck do you know about sacrifice?”
Ronyn stares at her then, like a man who’s lost everything.
Calira looks up at Ronyn, no fear. “I know that sacrifice is necessary if you want progress. There is no place for sentimentality in governance.”
He scoffs. His hands fly to his hips, and he begins to pace.
Jax mutters something incoherent under her breath. Calira catalogs her: too emotional, too unruly.
Calira’s hands reach for her helmet, lifting it over her head without fanfare.
Her caramel hair falls from the metal helmet, landing in a blunt cut just beneath her chin.
Ronyn stares at her, assessing her face like he’ll find truth in it. He drags his eyes over her angular jaw. Over her high cheekbones. The deep blue eyes that mirror those of the man who sired her.
Ronyn’s eyes narrow, homing in on her. “Who are you?” he asks with measured suspicion.
Calira lets silence fill the space. Lets it thicken the air.
“I am Calira Haradin,” she says simply, and she lets the truth hang like a verdict.
Ronyn’s eyes blow wide in realization.
Jax elbows him, her mouth still twisted in a sneer. “Who? What does that mean?”
Ronyn blinks.
Once.
Twice.
“No.”
His eyes narrow.
“No.”
Ronyn drags his hand over his stubble. “You’re Callie.”
His mind reels.
“Revryn’s daughter.”
His eyes snap to Jax. “The man who took me in, raised me… this is his little girl. This is Callie.”
His eyes dart back to Calira looking for confirmation.
“Calira,” she corrects. “And Revryn Haradin sired me, yes,” she confirms, emotion never touching her tone. But the name lands somewhere beneath her ribs before she can cauterize it. She shoves it down.
Ronyn scoffs again. “Sired you? That’s all the respect you’ll extend to the man who loved and lost you? He’s your father! The best man I know!”
He starts pacing again.
He spins back to her. “And what of your mother? I suppose she’s just the woman who bore you and died for the Crown?”
Calira feels nothing. No fondness, no connection, no grief. Just the cold, empty presence of indifference. “They were too weak to handle the demands of serving the Crown.”
Jax barks a humorless laugh. “You are fucking heartless. Does the Crown take those as well? Or just your moral compass?”
The insult does not land. Just slips past her in the way Thalmyr taught her.
Ronyn looks at her then, with pity heavy in his eyes.
“You must be so lonely,” he whispers, like he knows the feeling.
She’s not.