Chapter 14 #2
Alethea stripped out of the ruined common dress, the remnants of her disastrous ride into the Hyelean woods falling to the floor. It felt like a lifetime ago, though scarcely two weeks had passed. In that short span, everything had changed.
She slipped into the sapphire-blue gown, startled by how perfectly it fit after only minor adjustments to the laces.
The fabric was winter-warm and elegant, the sleeves long and open, the neckline modest at her collarbone.
She managed most of the fastenings herself, but the last two behind her neck remained stubbornly out of reach.
These gowns were never meant to be put on alone.
The thought of Millicent and Talia struck like a bruise.
How long it had been since she’d seen them...
They would have no idea she was safer here than she’d ever been before.
She was still reaching when she felt him behind her. A shiver traced her spine. She didn’t need to look to know his amber eyes were already on her.
Nakir’s fingers found the laces with practiced ease, finishing what she could not.
Alethea bit her lip, the moment suddenly intimate in a way that left her breathless—exposed, unsteady, keenly aware of the pull between them.
He lingered close enough that his warmth seeped through the fabric of her gown.
Time seemed to stall, her heart thundering in the silence, everything unspoken pressing close.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
The word—soft, reverent—sent heat rushing through her, the memory flashing, sharp and unwelcome, of how he’d devoured her before the attack. His breath brushed her neck, warm and deliberate, and Alethea’s heart leapt into her throat as the air between them crackled, electric and unbearable.
But then he withdrew, the spell between them breaking cleanly. The loss of him left her momentarily breathless, pulse still racing as the echo of his closeness lingered on her skin.
She grasped for words—anything to bridge the sudden distance.
“I... Thank you,” she said at last. “Emi picked it out.”
His lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. He’d changed as well—into a black tunic and tan breeches, a heavy winter cloak draped over his shoulders. Whatever warmth had lingered in his amber eyes a moment ago was now carefully shuttered, his expression guarded once more.
The space between them seemed to widen, even though they were standing scarcely inches apart.
“We have some time before dinner with the Great Lord and Lady,” he said evenly. “We could stop by the market, see if there’s anything you need. I know you didn’t arrive with much.”
Alethea managed a small smile, reaching for levity like a lifeline. “That’s a very polite way to describe kidnapping me,” she teased. “But yes, that would be lovely.”
She glanced down at her braid, already missing a proper hairbrush. A few more pairs of stockings wouldn’t hurt either.
They were saddled and ready before noon, just her and Nakir.
Balthasar would join them for dinner, but until then, he had other demands on his time.
As they rode toward the gates of Aegea, Alethea realized she hadn’t been so alone with Nakir since their brief walk in the woods the day she agreed to help him.
There had always been someone nearby, even within the privacy of their tent.
They rode in silence, side by side, Alethea on the familiar gray gelding, Nakir astride his chestnut mare.
At the open gates, the city guards stood watchful and alert, yet they neither stopped them nor asked for identification.
The ease of it made Alethea wonder if their arrival was anticipated—if the guards knew exactly who they were—or if they passed for nothing more than another well-dressed pair entering the city.
Even so, a faint wariness lingered. Alethea scanned the streets beyond, taking in the movement, the color, the layered rhythms of Aegea’s daily life.
Nakir guided them forward without hesitation, unbothered by the press of the crowd. His quiet confidence—and the anonymity it afforded them—offered a brief reprieve from everything waiting beyond the city walls.
The province of Meseira was the kingdom’s breadbasket, its fertile lands feeding not only its own people, but also countless others beyond its borders.
Aegea, its great city, commanded the most formidable military force in the region—disciplined, battle-ready, and loyal.
Securing the Imanrases’ allegiance was the first essential step toward the bloodless victory Alethea sought.
Aegea itself sprawled across the land, vast and teeming, its population of more than three hundred thousand rivaling even Hyelea. And yet its grandeur wasn’t measured by numbers alone; the city stretched wider than the capital itself, streets layered with purpose and motion.
They left their horses at the stables nearest the castle without incident and continued on foot.
Before long, Nakir drew back his hood, revealing the black horns rising just past his hairline. They earned a handful of curious looks as they moved through the market district, but no whispers followed them, no pointed fingers, no stir of recognition.
Alethea found herself drifting closer to him—partly for warmth, partly because resisting the pull between them was growing harder by the moment. When the crowds thickened, his hand settled at her waist, guiding her easily through the press. The touch sent an unwelcome heat to her cheeks.
She cleared her throat and tilted her head up toward him as they walked. “What’s it like,” she asked, “being an Aeshlien?”
Nakir’s smile turned devilish, though his gaze stayed on the road ahead. “We know far more about Aeshlien now than we did when I was born. You know the story—how Aeshma overthrew his father in a divine war for sovereignty.”
She nodded.
“In his final moments, Osiron cursed him,” Nakir continued.
“And every descendant of Aeshma after him. This”—he gestured vaguely toward his horns—“is the result. Mine’s fairly mild.
I’ve met Aeshlien with fangs. Tails. Balthasar once told me about a girl who grew her horns at twelve years old—one of the first to show the curse. ”
Alethea frowned. “What happened to her?”
“Her parents were horrified. She was cast out of her noble house.” His mouth twisted slightly.
“Though, from what I hear, she got her revenge in the end.” He let out a breath.
“For a long time, people thought it meant our bloodlines were corrupt—that families like mine were simply cursed. Now we understand it better. All Aeshlien are descendants of Aeshma. We don’t bear our own failing. We bear his.”
Alethea absorbed that quietly. “Like the Empyreans,” she said. “Descendants of Osiron.”
She’d always been able to spot them—the dark golden skin, the curls, the deep brown eyes. “Is Emi Empyrean?”
“I believe so,” Nakir said. “She doesn’t talk about it much. It only truly matters when it comes to the Imperial family. The Macierres claim Osiron chose them to rule—at least, that’s the story they tell.”
“Like the Hasans were chosen by Aeshma to rule Lenorea,” Alethea said.
He smirked, the expression brief but bright, like candlelight flickering in the gathering dusk.
“So we’ve been told.” After a beat, he added dryly, “At this point, who was actually chosen and who simply declared themselves so is anyone’s guess.
We could ask the gods, I suppose... though maybe not Osiron.
” His tone turned wry. “I’m not sure if dead gods can speak—even Primal ones. ”
“I take it you don’t keep any faith?” Alethea asked. Most who worshiped carried some small token—a charm, a sigil, a thread tied around the wrist—but she had never seen anything of the sort on him, except the mysterious pendant he wore at his neck.
As they wandered through the market district, her gaze drifted to the people around them.
If one knew what to look for, signs of devotion were everywhere.
The sun-and-scythe of Anya appeared most often, etched into pendants or painted on stall posts.
She spotted the compass rose of Diwa, god of travel and luck, and several brightly painted lyres honoring Nysos, patron of festivals and love.
Nakir was quiet for a moment before answering.
“I won’t deny my connection to Aeshma,” he said at last. “I’m his descendant, part of an unbroken line of Hasans.
My family founded Lenorea centuries before it ever bore that name.
” His voice remained even, thoughtful. “As the Primal war god of strength, justice, and retribution, I think he understands me in ways few others could. I pray to him before battle—to protect my soldiers and my friends.” He paused, jaw tightening slightly.
“But the coup against my parents was fueled by religious fearmongering. I have no intention of wielding faith as a weapon in my own cause.”
Alethea thought of Goran Arranil’s words to her mother: “Aeshma’s vengeance upon you. A curse.”
“I place my faith in people,” Nakir continued. “In their ability to change the course of fate. To shape their own destinies.”
The thought lingered, unsettling and fragile. Did he believe in her?
“I take it you do not.”
“No,” Alethea admitted. “I never really connected with any of the gods. I envy those who have faith—they seem so much more at peace with their place in the world.” She hesitated, then she added, “My mother was staunchly secular. Especially after my father died.”
“Perhaps you simply haven’t found the right one yet,” Nakir said lightly. “There are so many to choose from, it’s a wonder anyone keeps them all straight.”