Chapter Forty-Eight
Some grief is loud and some concealed
Yet both still shape the swords we wield
Ronyn has spent most of his life avoiding rooms full of egotistical, self-righteous assholes. Unfortunately for him, The Perils seem intent on correcting that oversight.
Ronyn takes it all in from the edge of the space, a half-full flask of brask dangling loosely from his fingers as his gaze drags over the gathered factions that have returned from their missions—too many egos, too many grudges, too many people who would have happily slit each other’s throats a couple of days ago now standing shoulder-to-shoulder like that means anything at all.
The Melders cluster near the stone ridges, all sharp edges and watchful eyes.
Saana stands among them, softer but no less steady, her presence a quiet counterbalance to Vren’s barely contained agitation.
Marin watches Saana, trust for the Melders clearly questionable.
But she stands with Elyssara, Seren, Teddy.
At least some sort of bond is forming—even if she’s simply keeping her enemies closer.
The witches occupy the far side, composed and calculating. Daphinia and Caev stand flanking their empty space like sentinels, but Lara… she is notably absent.
Calira stands apart from the groups, posture rigid beneath the Royal Guard armor. Watching everything. Trusting no one. Like she still doesn’t trust anything other than the man who turned her into a monster.
This. This is who will bring Maireth and Ilyra to heel. Not even three dozen. Against thousands. Yes, there may be a Starborn army at their disposal, but will they comply under Elyssara’s rule? Will they take advice from the General of Zerynthia? Are they even enough if they do?
All of it is a risk. A risk to humanity itself.
Ronyn can’t help but notice that Seren’s eyes dart to the mouth like she’s waiting for Lara to walk through at any moment. But we all know where she is: Ilyra. Fucking Nyrielle.
And Lara… a coward.
But Ronyn shakes it from his thoughts. Files it away.
Not a problem for tonight. Tonight isn’t about solving every fracture in the realms. Tonight is about making sure no one kills each other before they get the chance to kill someone else on the other side of this thing.
Really, it’s about connection. Gathering against a common enemy.
And that’s why they need him. He’s the perfect man for the job. He exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders back as he steps forward into the space like he belongs there. Like he always has. Truth is—he does. Chaos, tension, and impossible odds? This is where Ronyn thrives.
Because if there’s one thing he knows better than anyone in this room, it’s how to survive something that should have killed you. And if there’s a second? It’s how to make people forget they’re terrified long enough to keep going, and maybe even start to like each other.
He lifts the flask slightly, weighing the room. Timing it. Measuring the exact moment the silence tips from tense into suffocating.
There.
“Right,” Ronyn says, voice cutting clean through the space as he pushes off the stone and strides toward the center of the cavern. “I’ve got a question before we all march off to what will almost certainly be a heroic and wildly ill-advised death.”
A few heads turn. A few don’t. He grins anyway.
“If we’re about to die,” he continues, gesturing loosely with the flask, “I think it’s only fair we establish one very important thing.”
A heartbeat passes. He lifts his chin toward the gathered group.
“Who here is the best drunk?”
A snort breaks from somewhere behind him.
“I know Teddy likes to find his way to the dance floor. Seren takes her clothes off,” he adds with a casual flick of his wrist.
Another snort.
Seren’s brows narrow in annoyance, but he doesn’t miss the way her lip quirks up. “That was one time,” she grouses.
“Memorable, though,” Ronyn retorts.
The tension cracks—just slightly. Exactly as intended. Ronyn’s grin widens.
“There we go,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “That’s better. Now, drink up, and show me what you’ve got. We’ll cast votes when sobriety is a thing of the past.”
He takes a swig of brask and winces just enough to make it entertaining.
“Gods, that’s foul,” he adds, offering the flask out toward the nearest poor soul. “Who brewed this? I’d like to have a word before the end of the world.”
Vren scoffs from the side. “You’re the one drinking it.”
Ronyn shoots him a look. “Desperation lowers standards, mate. I honestly thought your standards were non-existent with only a dozen of your lot remaining.”
A ripple of quiet laughter moves through the group. Not loud. Not carefree. But real. And that’s all he needs.
He shifts his stance slightly, angling himself so he can see more of them at once—tracking reactions, watching who loosens, who stays rigid, who hasn’t said a word. He notes it all. Because this isn’t just banter. It’s reconnaissance.
“All right,” he says, clapping his hands together once, sharp and decisive. “Let’s try this another way. Anyone here not planning to betray the rest of us at the worst possible moment?”
Silence.
“Define betrayal,” Calira says flatly from the edge of the cavern. “Political? Tactical? Emotional?”
“Gods, remind me never to let you organize a social gathering,” Ronyn quips.
Marin raises a brow. “No—define ‘worst possible moment.’”
Ronyn points at her immediately. “See, that’s exactly the kind of ambiguity that concerns me, ladies.”
Jax huffs something under her breath that might have been a laugh. Might. He catches it anyway. Stores it.
“It does seem like the sort of thing Marin would do,” Jax drawls, taking a swig from the flask.
Gods.
Always Jaxxy.
Marin rolls her eyes. “Coming from the woman who sold out her own kingdom after being bedded. Must’ve been great in bed to make you squeal, Jax. Or are you just that easy?” Marin taunts.
Jax’s hand flies to the dagger at her thigh.
But Marin doesn’t stop. “What did he promise you, Jax? A crown?”
Okay, this took a turn.
Time to change it up.
“You know…” Ronyn begins, “I actually thought you two would get along. You seem like kindred spirits of a sort.” He wags his finger between the two women, hoping to diffuse, or at least distract them.
Jax crosses her arms.
Marin’s mouth twists into her signature snarl.
No one in the space breathes.
“I’d be more concerned if they started being nice to each other,” Teddy mutters under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, and extending his hand for a swig of brask.
That draws attention. The General of War has barely spoken since the conclave. Ronyn knows why—Teddy hasn’t looked at Seren. Not once. A fracture.
All eyes land on Teddy. Waiting for an explanation.
Marin’s eyes narrow to slits, her jaw tightening. She shakes her head once at Teddy, pursing her lips. Jax looks away.
Well, this just got interesting.
Teddy huffs an exasperated sigh and shrugs. “Their parents were both pushing for a betrothal to Kael. The only Luminaar child, or the Princess of Caeloria. Pitted the girls against each other to win his favor. They were kids, but… it was brutal.”
Elyssara’s mouth kicks up at the corners, a grin forming on her lips. Smugness settling into her features. A look that says: he’s mine.
Marin’s glare almost burns a hole in Teddy. She drags her eyes around the room. “I never wanted it. Him. Any of it. But my mother hates… weakness. Hates losing.” She throws an arm out in a half-frustrated, half-flippant gesture. “I had to.”
Saana’s eyes soften as they land on her wife. She knows about all of it, and no one can miss the tenderness there. The understanding.
Jax clicks her tongue in haughty arrogance. “They sound like the words of a loser, Marin. Finally willing to admit to the fact that I bested you across every domain?”
Fucking Stars, Jax.
Marin huffs an exhale, closing her eyes for longer than she needs to. She shrugs, resignation, or perhaps acceptance settling there. “They’re the words of a woman who has moved on and let herself love, Jax. Can you say the same for yourself? Or are you still trying to prove you’re enough?”
Jax stills.
Marin’s words linger in the air like a truth carved straight into the atmosphere. They sounded soft. Aware. Like the kind of words a person says when they’ve made peace with the truth.
Red blooms in Jax’s cheeks, shame and sadness and humiliation coalescing in the blush.
So Ronyn does the only thing he can to save her from retorting—he speaks.
“Look,” Ronyn says, tone softening just a fraction, enough to slip something honest beneath his performance, “we’re all here because we’ve got the same problem. Doesn’t mean we trust each other. Doesn’t mean we like each other.”
His gaze flicks, briefly, across the room. Landing. Reading. Moving on.
“But it does mean,” he adds, lifting the flask again, “that for one night, we might as well pretend we’re not all one bad decision away from killing each other.”
He takes another drink, then tosses the flask toward Vren without warning.
“Drink,” he orders. “You look like you need it.”
Vren catches it with a grunt. “Drinks on you?”
Caev scoffs a laugh from the other side of the cavern. “Typical,” she grunts, loud enough for the whole space to hear.
So Ronyn seizes the opportunity to divert the remainder of attention from Jax.
He plonks himself down against the stony wall—the only one not covered in bones—and props an elbow on his knee, another flask dangling from his fingertips.
“I think it’s story time. Starting with; why in the realms do the Melders and witches hate each other so much?” he asks, a cheeky grin lifting his lips, and his brows wagging in anticipation. “I’ve been starved of gossip since leaving Virellin. Let’s remedy that.”
Murmurs begin between both groups.
Eyes dart back and forth, weighing each other up.
“We don’t have enough time in the fucking day for that story, Ronyn,” Vren snaps.