CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Ronan
RONAN HAD KNOWN THE NAME KILLIAN RAMSAY long before he ever saw the man himself. The surname carried centuries of blood before it soured and branded itself into history.
But rumors spread faster the more they have to offer. And finding out the legendary warrior was instead a dishonored Angel shifted his strategy.
So, when Ronan stormed through the door of the rebels’ cabin and found the Angel waiting there with his blade, his legacy, in Killian’s grip, something like wrath had licked up his spine.
He could have ended him then—the man, the name, the last fragment of Ramsay blood.
But Killian had spoken of the Viper, of what had been done to her…
And it changed everything.
Plans. Priorities. Perspective. The axis of his fury.
Perhaps Killian’s name would still meet its end one day. For now, Ronan bit back the memory of what that family had cost him. He’d let those little Faelings believe he stood beside them for noble reasons. For now, he’d wear every skin of any ally.
Killian had seen it, the way Ronan’s gaze locked on the sword, drinking in its pulse. Yet he never reached for it. Never claimed it.
You’ll have it when she’s free, Killian had told him.
But Ronan had already known before Killian had even said it, already decided. He could have crushed the Angel for the audacity, for daring to bargain with what was his by blood and right.
Yet, for reasons he refused to name, he didn’t.
He let Killian keep his heirloom. Because the truth was simpler than all the rest: The only thing that had mattered was getting her back.
Winter had finally settled in Csolenia, the chill gnawing straight though fabric and flesh.
Ronan stood shoulder to shoulder with Elysian, both cloaked in the Roux Forest’s shadows as dawn peeked just above the tree line. Light split over the valley, coaxing silhouettes to drift over its curves as they waited.
“Movement ahead.” Elysian drank in the air. “It’s them.”
Steel hissed as Ronan drew his dagger. “Be ready,” he said. “We make contact, then we sift. Does he carry it?”
Elysian’s eyes widened, pupils blown wide with recognition. “Yes.”
A smile broke on Ronan’s mouth, fingers flexing, already feeling it in his palm. His weapon’s soul was calling to him, singing from across the valley as three figures crested the ridge.
That wasn’t right.
Callum stumbled first, knees buckling before Nezra caught him, dragging his weight across her shoulders with a grunt of effort. Behind them, Killian sprinted alone, but not empty-handed. He bore another body, slung limp over his shoulder.
The Viper. Verena.
Ronan didn’t let his pulse falter. Even when Killian reached the base of the hill, Ronan only raised a hand, stilling him with a gesture. “Where is the other guard?” Duke.
Killian’s stride hitched, eyes darting back. “We ran into trouble. He stayed, told us to go without him if he didn’t make it in time.”
Elysian barred Killian’s path with one arm as he angled toward the tree line.
“My heirloom, Lord Ramsay.” The name dragged through Ronan’s teeth. “I’ve kept my end. Now, my patience is spent.”
Glare clashing against Ronan’s, Killian’s lip curled in disfavor. But slowly, reluctantly, he eased Verena from his shoulder, setting her down with a care that almost seemed reverent.
Her body lay still, hair falling like a curtain, matted and tangled, veiling her face, while the rest of her was soaked through in blood and grime.
Without breath, Ronan’s stare devoured every detail, searching for proof of life. Her chest did not rise. Her fingers did not twitch. Even the ink of the Viper’s mark lay hidden beneath filth, as though it had been erased.
He didn’t regard Killian’s hand extending the sword. Didn’t notice when he lowered it again. Ronan’s eyes were fixed only on her.
He wanted to reach for her, brush the hair tangled across her lashes, wipe the dried blood from her lips.
“She’s alive,” Killian said at last, shielding her from him. “I had to destroy the nix binding her. It was stronger than I anticipated.” he exhaled, jaw tight. “She passed out from the pain. I’m keeping her mind asleep.”
“Why?”
Still nothing. No flutter of lashes. No rise of breath. But if he listened deep, he caught the faint beat of her heart, fragile as a drum in the distance.
The aroma of her lingered too, vanilla and amber clinging beneath the wreckage. And something else, scorched violets, like starlight dragged from a mountain’s peak. The same scent seeped from Killian’s skin when the wind shifted just right.
“She deserved the peace.” Killian said. “If only for a little while.”
Finally, Ronan’s gaze shot to the blade still caught in Killian’s grasp, the steel balanced between them as Killian extended it.
The world thundered as Ronan closed his palm around the bronzed hilt. Heat ripped through his veins, searing, embedding itself as its stone flared wild, his power drinking it in. His chest rose once, slow, as if the weapon had reminded him of what he was.
Branches snapped where Nezra finally broke into the clearing, Callum half draped across her, his breath ragged, blood painting the grass with each cough he gave.
“We need to move,” she panted. “Now.” The ridge behind them shouted, steel flashing through the trees.
Ronan looked to Elysian. “Take the Liraern and commander.”
Without question, he nodded. A grip, an inhale, and the three were gone, snatched into the void, just as sunlight reached into the trees.
Killian slipped closer to Verena, his hand hovering near the sword across his back. “I’m guessing your plan is to leave us behind?”
Fingers trailing his heirloom Ronan smirked. “Not today.” He flicked his chin toward Verena, sheathing his sword across his back. “Take her.”
Killian bent low, lifting her close, not slung like a burden but cradled as though she might fracture further.
Over the ridge, soldiers poured, armor clattering, war cries bursting.
Smoke hissed between their skin as Ronan gripped Killian’s arm, the Angel stiffening under his touch. The forest bowed around them as Ronan exhaled, the faintest fragment of his roused power drifting toward the oncoming chaos.
Soldiers crested the hill, then faltered. Shouts cracked as their armor clattered, their charge dissolving into stillness. One by one they fell like a tide, and whatever remained of them drifted away with the wind.
Ronan didn’t look back as the world warped, shadows folding in on themselves. And in a blink—they were gone.
The camp Nezra had promised lay buried deep within the Firen Forest, where no wise creature, Fae or mortal, risked treading.
Ronan released Killian the moment they landed, watching him vanish between tents, still cradling the Viper against his chest.
His attention stayed fixed on Nezra now, where she lifted her hands in slow arcs, threads of illusion spinning from her fingers, layer upon layer, until a veil rippled across the camp.
From within, the world outside remained clear. But beyond the barrier, it was only untouched forest. No rebellion or dragons. No sound. No trace.
Brilliant, dark magic.
Elysian stood several paces away from her, his posture relaxed in appearance only. “Answer,” he snarled. “How did you get into that palace?”
Nezra’s chin tilted up a fraction. “You don’t need to threaten me to get the truth.”
Ford, who had annoyed Ronan from the moment they landed, let out a quiet scoff from where he lounged on a nearby rock. “Her first lie.”
Ronan shot him a look. Ford only shrugged, unbothered.
Nezra’s eyes didn’t move from Elysian. “I was already there when it happened.”
“They would have thrown you in those dungeons as well if that were true.”
Smiling, she said, “The guards can’t see what doesn’t want to be seen.”
His expression didn’t change. “You can cast illusions on yourself, then.”
“Among other things.” The words floated in an oceanic pull, the kind that lured men from ships. The kind that once dragged kingdoms beneath waves.
Ford blinked, then muttered, “And we’re sure this isn’t one of those Liraern traps, right? Because if I start walking into a lake naked, I’d like a warning.”
Gus, who hadn’t made a sound since they arrived, didn’t even hesitate. “You’d likely make her the first to regret her meal.”
Ford threw his hands up. “Oh, come on. I’ve been told I’m an acquired taste.”
Nezra’s lips moved up, not quite a smile, more like a secret she didn’t mind him knowing.
Ronan nodded toward her hand. “And the runes?”
She sighed, “The glove helps me control the song when I’m not near the sea.” Subtly, her fingers flexed. “The runes feed off the core magic here. It keeps me anchored. Without them, I’d lose form.”
“Lose form?” Elysian repeated, knowing all too well how that felt.
Her eyes shone. “Drown in myself.”
Smoke drifted at Ronan’s boots. “Why did Killian find you in that cottage?”
“Because I heard what they planned for the fire wielder and Verena,” she said. “And because…” Her focus moved to the tent where Verena lay unconscious. “The moment I saw her in that tavern, every rune on my body burned.”
Ford leaned forward on his elbows. “So, naturally, you decided to risk your life for total strangers. Sounds perfectly reasonable.”
Nezra didn’t look at him. “It wasn’t a choice.”
Elysian stepped closer, tension snapping in his jaw. “What does that mean?”
“The call of the curse,” she murmured. “It pulled me here. I’ve spent years trying to reach this place. To reach her.”
Ronan’s eyes sharpened at that. “And what, something whispered it to you, a divine voice hidden in your spells?”
Nezra’s eyes shot toward him, steady and bright as moonlight on water. “Not divine.”
Ronan let out a strenuous exhale through his nose. “You said the glove anchors you, that it feeds your song. Does that mean it feeds on us?”
Her head tilted. “Only if I want it to.”
Elysian’s growl was quiet. “Try it and see what happens.”
Nezra didn’t answer as the symbols on her glove dimmed with light.