Chapter Forty-Three
The sharpest teeth are not the worst
Beware the one who bites first
Seren’s body still remembers the feel of his skin on hers when she steps into the cold air of The Perils. Heat still clings to her, stubborn and unwelcome against the biting cold.
The world does not care that something sacred just ended. And neither should she.
She shoves down thoughts of him, burying them deep. She cannot think of him—cannot afford to. Not with the realms at stake.
No one greets her at the mouth. This is her home now. Somewhere she can come and go as she pleases.
The oceans do not respond to her—The Widow has accepted her. The place does not resist her. That, more than anything, unsettles her.
“Come,” Seren commands, her voice all steel and certainty.
No one speaks. No one dares to murmur a word in this place the world has forgotten.
Seren’s boots pound against the earth in a heavy, commanding thud. Everyone falls into line behind her, no one questioning how this place, this hierarchy, these people operate. No one is foolish enough to.
But swift steps approach, and she already knows who it is.
“Well,” Ronyn mutters at her shoulder, “this place is… unsettling.”
Seren can’t help but huff a laugh, a smirk lifting the corners of her mouth.
“I was really hoping the end of the world would have… less bones,” he mutters under his breath, eyes taking in the bone walls.
A surprised snort escapes her. But Ronyn doesn’t stop the irreverence.
“Next time you say ‘I’ll gather everyone,’ maybe lead with ‘into a cave full of skeletons.’”
Seren rolls her eyes. “Yes, but you see, Ronie, I actually wanted you to come, so I opted for omission.”
Ronyn pulls an apple out of his satchel. “You always were the clever one, Seren—I’ll give ya that.”
An annoyed grunt travels through the mouth. “Does he ever shut the fuck up, or is this a permanent affliction?”
Marin.
Ronyn turns, lop-sided grin on full display. “Permanent affliction, I’m afraid. A life of begging and stealing on the streets will do that to a man. And you are? Notably royal and never gone without a meal in your life?” His voice pitches high in mockery.
Marin scoffs.
“Finally got mommy’s permission to leave the castle, Marin? Cute,” Jax croons.
But Saana grabs Marin’s arm. “Go easy, Marin. We actually want to work with these people,” she murmurs low, and Marin visibly softens under her touch.
“That’s right, Marin, listen to your wife like a good girl,” Jax taunts, and saunters past them with her middle finger raised high in the air.
Gods, this is a lot of personality and ego in one fucking place. And not a single one of them is used to being second.
Ronyn swings his arm around Seren’s shoulder as they walk. “Disappointed I’m not the most insufferable personality in this place, to be honest.”
Seren drags a hand down her face, and throws Ronyn a look of absolute exhaustion at his antics already. “And that says a lot,” she murmurs.
An irritated grunt fills the air. “I need a fucking drink,” Teddy mutters.
Rubi laughs freely. “Oh, how the tables have turned. Full flask in my bag, Teddy,” she announces, patting the over-stuffed satchel hanging from her shoulder.
And that’s when Seren realizes—Rubi isn’t drinking. Doesn’t smell like a tavern gone sour. Something has shifted in her, too. Seren files it away.
“I’ll grab a swig,” the man Ronyn introduced as Vren says.
The wide cavern of The Perils opens into majesty—seated stations of fur and layered blankets form a circle around The Widow’s Waters, lanterns alight behind each seat.
But before Seren can say anything, the noise falters. Not fully—just enough to notice. Because Lara has stepped forward. Mahogany skin glistens bronze in the lanternlight, eyes catching every movement before anyone else does.
“Ah, the Melders. Still desperate free-loaders, taking the spoils of others, I see. How very… predictable,” Lara croons.
Okay, there’s history there.
Old. Bitter. The kind that doesn’t fade—just waits.
Vren steps forward, a rigid finger stabbing in Lara’s direction. He barks a humorless laugh. “Here we fucking go. I haven’t missed you, High Witch. You bound us in mortal skin and expected us to just adjust—no livelihood, no skills beyond fighting. We did what we had to do to survive.”
Lara scoffs, wicked and superior. “By stealing our shipments of food and starving us for years. It sounds like your approach to hardship is ‘us or them.’ Is that what they can expect you to bring to your so-called alliance?”
Gods.
Tension suffocates the space. One wrong word and it will snap.
Vren grunts his disapproval, his jaw clenching like he’s trying to hold himself back.
Lara clocks the movement and smirks—like a woman who sees her plan working.
Vren laughs, loud and unnatural. “If you’d unbind us from your fucking treachery, we’re the difference between the Known Realms thriving and our entire existence turning to ash. What do you bring to the table, High Witch? Dramatic pauses and no loyalty?”
Lara scoffs with haughty arrogance—something Seren has never seen. The Melders—or perhaps Vren specifically—are getting under her skin. “I forgot you’re also an accomplished contortionist, Melder—you could wrangle your way out of a fucking noose and a death sentence.”
Lara steps forward, all eminence and supremacy. She rakes her eyes over his tall frame, a scowl forming on her lips in disgust. “Perhaps we should test that theory.”
In the time Seren has known Lara, she’s never seen her this…
animated. No—emotional. Lara does not react.
Never has. She is unflinching in the face of violence, brutality, risk, men.
So this? It’s unusual, at best. She’s playing it off like she’s in control, but something about the exchange tells Seren there’s history that goes beyond mere rivalry.
Vren throws his hands in the air in frustration. “I told you I can’t work with this cunt,” he grumbles to Ronyn.
Ronyn’s brows furrow for a heartbeat, taking in Lara and every inch of unflinching confidence she emanates.
“You actually said ‘those cunts.’ Plural. Sounded like you meant all the witches.” He wags his finger around the space gesturing to The Dreaded, and winces.
“Just thought I’d make it abundantly clear. ”
He shrugs nonchalantly, but he knows exactly what he’s doing. Seren has seen this trick countless times.
Then Ronyn’s mouth stretches wide. “I won’t lie to you, Vren—this one,” he points to Lara, “seems… like a good time if you ask me. Not cunty at all.”
Gods.
Marin snorts under her breath. “I thought the same thing,” she agrees.
Vren mutters something inaudible under his breath about being the only sane one here.
Teddy drags his hand through his hair. “Gods fucking save me,” he grumbles to no one in particular.
But the room falls silent in an instant. No one breathes. No one speaks. Steady boot steps thud across the slick stone of the cavern. Unhurried. Slow. Certain. The gait of a person who does not doubt themselves.
“Enough.”
The words are undeniable. Final.
Elyssara steps into the center of the space, her piercing jade-green eyes scanning the group with a calculating stare. Her mouth parts slightly, baring her teeth.
The message is clear: Elyssara is in charge.
And just like that, the room rearranges itself around her.
Her honed body is fitted in fresh leathers with perfectly shaped panels and fine craftsmanship.
Lara’s doing, obviously. Her blades hang from her hips, gleam from sheaths at her thighs, glint from her boot, and catch the lanternlight in the hidden sheath at her wrists.
She’s armed to the teeth and not hiding it. And no one misses the insinuation.
Her waves of auburn hair, light licking at the tips, whip behind her like a goddess made flesh.
She stands before the realms’ most powerful, and she looks like she’s born to command them. Born to lead them into battle.
Nothing about her looks out of place. No hint of hesitation. Just a cold, penetrating stare that unsettles the room.
“Alliances aren’t about friendship. They’re about a common enemy… and we all have two. Take your places. And stop the petty bullshit,” she says, and the words are pure command.
Eyes land on her in recognition. Predators sizing one another up. She does not flinch. She simply moves like a woman too powerful to bother with such irrelevance.
A breath hisses between Lara’s teeth, all venom. She is not a woman who takes kindly to being told what to do. Daphinia steps up beside her, one hand hovering over her weapon, the other poised for magic.
Where in the Stars is Caev?
Elyssara turns at the sound of Lara’s insubordination, and then cocks her head to the side in curiosity.
Lara bares her teeth, and a wicked smile takes form on Elyssara’s face. A smile that says she’s enjoying this.
“You think I’m scared of fangs, Lara?” Elyssara taunts, stalking toward her without an ounce of fear. “Every person here knows how to bite. We are all animals, after all. But I do like knowing which of us are predators.”
Lara tries to still her mouth, but it twitches. Agitated.
“I agreed to listen, not to blindly fall in line,” Lara snarls, and the entire room teeters on a knife’s edge. Hands fly to weapons, knees soften into crouches.
Seren’s hands go rigid, ready to draw magic from all that lives in a heartbeat.
Elyssara closes the gap to Lara, leaving only a step between them.
“Blind obedience is the game of fearful dictators, Lara. I am playing a different game entirely,” she growls, her voice pure threat.
“You’re all standing here arguing about pride, about history, about who wronged who.
” Her lip curls. “While the world breaks.”
Silence.
Heavy. Suffocating.
“I don’t care if you like me.”
She allows a heartbeat.
“I care if you’re smart enough to stand on the right side of what comes next.”
Her gaze cuts through Lara, merciless.
“The best way to beat a monster is to become one.”
Her smile is sharp. Certain.
Lara does not move for a heartbeat.
Two.
Then a small smile tilts her mouth, and she nods in recognition. As if being a monster is more acceptable than being loyal.
“I promise nothing,” Lara says, tone clipped. “But I’ll listen.”
She does not walk away. And that is enough.
The space collectively exhales. Hands fall slack, faces soften.
Elyssara returns the nod to Lara, spins on her heel, and throws over her shoulder, “Take your places. The conclave against the north begins now.”
Witches. Melders. Royals. Earthbound. Rebels. Monsters. The realms have spent centuries tearing each other apart. Now they sit beneath the same sky.
Seren exhales for the first time in too long, cheeks puffing out with the force.
Holy fucking Stars—and the conclave hasn’t even started yet.
Seren follows the group toward the layered fur seats, but Ronyn waits for her. His shaggy chestnut hair falls over his brow. He huffs a quiet laugh, dragging a hand over his mouth.
“You know they all thought they were running this room, right?”
He glances toward Elyssara, then back to Seren.
“That’s the thing when you bring a bunch of powerful people together—they all think they should be the one leading,” Seren observes.
Ronyn scoffs sarcastically. “I’ve known her since she was fourteen.” He leans in conspiratorially. “That was never going to happen. Poor bastards never stood a chance.”
Seren glances toward Elyssara.
They still don’t.
She huffs a laugh.
It’s true—Elyssara has been an undeniable force since the moment she first saw her in the Flesh Circuit wagon. Unable to tolerate injustice. Fierce in the face of stacked odds. And undeniably hooked on making the powerful bow down.
“She’s going to need every ounce of power for this conclave,” Seren exhales. “This is not a room full of people who like to take orders—they give them.”
“If I was a betting man—”
Seren cuts him off. “Ronyn, you are a betting man, you moron. You practically lived at the poker tables in Virellin.”
She snorts against her will, clapping her hands over her mouth like she can retroactively take it back. Ronyn grins like he’s won.
“Semantics,” he waves her off dismissively. “I’d bet on our girl taming this lot.”
His face doesn’t falter, but his posture is off. Like Ronyn knows that what he’s saying is complete and utter bullshit.
Fuck.
Elyssara gestures to them to take their seats, and just like that: the conclave begins.