Chapter Forty-Eight #2
Caev steps forward, cropped white hair gleaming silver in the moonlight. “That’s because the story is unbecoming for the fearsome Melders,” she taunts, sarcasm dripping from her words.
The witches snicker at that.
Ronyn crosses his ankles, leaning heavier against the wall like he’s settling in to watch a play at the theater.
Vren growls low and real. “You bitches are no different to the people in power—taking advantage anywhere you can. Taking what should be symbiotic and turning it into possession.” He snaps his gaze to Ronyn, chocolate-brown and unflinching, and says, “I told you they were cunts.”
Ronyn nods, taking a long pull from the flask.
“I have noticed your fondness for the word, yes. But there was another word in there that I’d like you to elaborate on…” he ventures.
Vren waits, confused.
“Symbiotic,” Ronyn announces with theatrical flair. He wags his fingers between Caev and Vren. “Carry on.”
The room settles into hungry silence.
Caev steps forward, all smug and superior. “Oh they didn’t tell you? They used to be our… pets.”
She snorts an arrogant laugh. The other witches snicker behind her.
Surprise flares in Ronyn’s chest. Pets?
His eyes flick between the groups.
We were not their fucking pets! Tarrakai snarls through Ronyn’s mind. We are not possessions—we are creatures of the sky.
A growl rumbles from Vren’s chest. “We weren’t your fucking pets, Caev,” he spits her name like he knows it intimately.
“We were your allies. Partners. Deadly fighters with complementary skills that could cut down any army, any force. Until you fell for the promise of coin and protection. When have kings and queens ever followed through on their promises for such things, Caev? Are you safe? Are you free?” Vren closes the distance between them, a finger stabbing in Caev’s direction.
Realization floods Ronyn’s mind.
But Elyssara beats him to it—
“You used to… ride the dragons?” she says, directing the question to the witches.
His mind snaps to memories of Elyssara atop Tarrakai. The rightness. The naturalness of the feeling. And he knows in his bones that witches and dragons were once connected in this way. He can feel the resonance.
“Yes,” Vren and Caev answer together, jaws clenched.
Holy fucking Stars.
“Until humans beguiled them with empty promises and pretty words,” Vren admits. “Then they turned on us, trapped us in mortal skin.” He takes another pull from the flask. “All part of the plan… eliminate threats.”
His words hold no bite. Only defeat. Sadness. The kind of loss that leaves a man hollow.
Caev scoffs. “We don’t need you, Melder. What do you offer? Wings?” she asks incredulously. “We can travel by threads any time we please.”
A smirk spreads across Vren’s face. “You can’t tell me you don’t miss taking to the skies, Caev. Threads have nothing on the skies.” He says it seductively, like he can lure the witches into submission.
Caev’s face softens. She looks like she’s going to agree. To admit it.
Vren leans in, desperate for whatever she offers.
Then she says, “The only thing I miss, Melder… is forcing you to do my bidding.”
He throws his hands in the air in exasperation. “Fuck!”
But before the rivalry can detonate, Marin steps forward, her straight onyx hair falling like a blanket of midnight either side of her captivating face.
“I respect what you did, you know,” Marin says, and the tension cuts instantly.
Vren snorts. “Oh yeah? What’s that?” He snaps the words like he’s expecting another fight.
But Marin’s face is serious, unflinching. “You sacrificed yourselves to protect Dravara. Followed through on the oath you took.”
She shrugs like it’s obvious.
“That takes balls.”
Vren stills, surprised by the praise.
Then his gaze snaps to Caev. “At least someone appreciates what the Melders do for the realms.”
Caev rolls her eyes. “I didn’t say I didn’t appreciate it, I just don’t care,” she murmurs to no one in particular.
So much for bonding.
Jax strides into the center of the space. “How’s your oath to Caeloria going, Marin? How’s loyalty taste when you spit it out?”
Ronyn winces at the venom in her words.
Gods, she’s hurting.
Every part of her is bleeding, even if no one can see it.
Marin rounds on her. “I made an oath to protect Caeloria—that’s exactly what I’m doing. Even if I have to protect it from its own queen.”
She strides forward, teeth bared. “What my mother is doing is institutionalized hatred under the guise of commerce, order, improvement. But really? It’s murder, Jax. Would you have me submit to her in the name of loyalty?”
This is not banter anymore.
Eyes fix on the two women.
Breaths snag in throats.
But Marin keeps going. “You’re no different to her, Jax. Hatred under the guise of protection. Cruelty under the guise of care. Stop lying to yourself, and admit that you hate who you are. Your head hits the pillow and it never knows peace.”
Jax flinches.
A rare slip.
Fuck.
No one steps in.
But Ronyn stands, desperate to protect her. This has gone far enough. He moves to speak, but Marin won’t stop—
“At least I do something with my self-loathing—I act. I fight for the people I love. You fight with them, and those two things are worlds apart.”
Jax doesn’t speak, but her lip trembles. Caught somewhere between rage and heartbreak. Marin’s words found their mark, and she doesn’t look regretful for a heartbeat.
The silence stretches taut, waiting to snap.
Ronyn feels it before he sees it—how quickly this could turn. How easily old loyalties and old wounds could fracture something they barely have the luxury of calling an alliance.
Same pattern. Different faces. Hatred dressed up as something noble.
He shifts his weight, dragging a hand over his mouth. Then, he claps. Once, loudly and enthusiastically.
“This is not exactly what I had in mind for brask and banter, but I did enjoy the show,” he quips.
He wants to go to her. To put the broken pieces back together.
But not here. Not in front of everyone. She’d have his balls for something so sentimental.
So he moves to redirect the conversation, but Elyssara steps forward first.
“Enough.”
She doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t need to. The word lands clean, immovable. The room stills. Her gaze moves across them—slow, deliberate.
“You’re all standing here arguing about pride,” she says evenly. “About history. About who wronged who.”
Her lip curls, emerald-green eyes narrowing on the room.
“While the world breaks.”
No one interrupts. Not now.
“It is what humans do,” she continues, quieter now, sharper. “When the pain of existence becomes so great that it calcifies into identity… and that identity requires an enemy.”
That lands.
Ronyn feels it move through the room.
Through Marin.
Through Vren.
Through Jax.
Through all of them.
Elyssara doesn’t soften.
“Would you all rather turn your pain on each other? Or on the ones who wish to claim these realms for dominion?” She asks, though she does not wait for an answer. “I am not asking you not to hurt. I am asking you to direct it effectively.” Her words are cold now, callous.
“If you need to hate each other,” she says, “do it later.”
A beat.
“Because right now, we need it pointed in the right direction.”
Her eyes flick briefly—Marin. Jax. The rest.
“Hatred doesn’t need to call itself hatred to destroy everything in its path.”
Calira’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Like some part of the words landed somewhere she does not know what to do with.
Silence. Heavy. Unavoidable. She exhales slowly.
“Redirect it,” she says. “Or don’t.”
Her shoulders square.
“But understand this—what comes next will exploit every weakness we have. I’d rather our weaknesses not be petty grievances and political dick measuring.”
A pause.
“It will only care what you choose to do with all that pain.”
The room holds that. No one moves. No one speaks. And then—Marin steps forward. Measured. Controlled.
“Then let’s stop pretending this isn’t a fucking funeral and talk about something real,” she snaps.
Elyssara smiles, wolfish and wicked.
“I’m interested to see you say anything real, Marin. It’s difficult to discern your performances from your personality,” she quips, every word a challenge.
Ronyn sucks in a deep breath.
Too many fucking women in this room.
But Marin doesn’t take the bait. Her face turns serious, solemn almost.