Chapter 44
Chapter forty-four
The throne room was designed for obedience. Wide enough to expose, bare enough to leave nowhere to hide.
Blackened torches burned in iron sconces along the walls, their flames throwing jagged shadows across the stone scarred by centuries.
Each step Gisela took echoed on the dark floor, carrying the chill of the room with them. Dread coiled tighter with every stride toward the dais.
Four massive columns marked the corners of the chamber.
A deep crimson rug cut a straight path to the throne.
The seat itself loomed atop a low rise of stone, obsidian-backed and upholstered in blood-red fabric.
Above it, portraits of King Ravenor watched from every angle, each one more grandiose than the last.
Gisela’s lips curled with disdain.
Beside her, Zaro waited in silence, hands folded. He looked down at her with that same pleasant smile—too smooth to be comforting. He wore charm the way other men wore armor.
The doors behind them groaned open.
King Ravenor strode in with a determined step, boots striking the rug as he advanced to his throne. He sat with a deliberate slowness, and the room held its breath.
Guards fanned out at the base of the dais, stoic, waiting for their King to speak.
Zaro took his place at the King’s right, as though he’d always stood there.
“Where is Cillian?” the King asked.
The guards below him exchanged puzzled glances, while a ghost of a smirk touched Zaro’s lips.
“For someone always up my ass,” the King muttered, “he picks a convenient time not to be here.” His gaze snapped to Gisela. “I’m giving you another opportunity to tell me where Thorne Alderose is.”
Gisela stood silent, her gaze locked with the King’s. She’d rather die than betray Thorne.
But she wasn’t going to die today.
The King’s lips thinned. “Still won’t tell me, hmm?” He snapped his fingers.
A side door opened. Two guards entered, pulling a captive between them. A burlap sack was tied over their head, and the captive’s feet dragged along the floor.
Gisela’s fists clenched so hard her nails bit skin.
“I’m going to ask you again,” the King said, leaning forward. “Where is Thorne?”
The guards yanked the sack free, and Gisela’s breath caught.
Elysande.
Her face was bruised and blood-streaked, one eye already swelling shut. But her spine remained straight despite it.
Something hot and violent surged through Gisela’s body. She couldn’t breathe around it.
Couldn’t think past the red edge of it.
“Consider this encouragement,” the King said. “I hear you two are good friends.”
Zaro’s jaw tightened. A muscle jumped near his temple, gone a heartbeat later.
“Gisela,” Elysande rasped, her voice strained but steady. “Don’t tell them anything. Please.” She swallowed hard. “My life isn’t worth what Thorne’s is meant to do.”
“I can agree with that sentiment,” the King added.
Static hissed in Gisela’s ears, drowning out the voices in the room. She could freeze this room. She could bury it in storm and ice.
But the cost—
Zaro’s subtle shake of his head told her he knew exactly where her mind had gone.
“Tell me what you want with him,” Gisela demanded. “Tell me, and I’ll tell you where he is. But you can’t hurt Elysande.”
Elysande’s head jerked toward her. “Gisela, no.”
The King’s gaze slid to Zaro. “He assures me Thorne’s fire is the key.”
“Key to what?”
The King stood abruptly, intensity radiating from him like heat from a forge. “Another question, and she dies.”
The guards at the bottom of the dais stiffened, and those holding Elysande tightened their grip on her.
“You don’t understand, Gisela,” Elysande rasped. “This isn’t his plan—it’s—” Her words snagged on something unseen. Elysande’s knees buckled, and the guards released her in surprise.
Gisela lunged instinctively.
“Stop!” King Ravenor demanded.
The command hit like a boulder. Gisela froze mid-step, breath ragged, eyes locked on Elysande’s unmoving form. “What did you do to her?”
“I did nothing to the woman. She’s weak. Mad perhaps,” the King said. “Where is he?”
Gisela’s power swarmed under her skin, looking for an exit. A release.
Eira stirred inside her.
“I’m right here,” Thorne’s voice came from the entrance, calm and steady.
Gisela turned.
He walked in flanked by guards, his features composed to a dangerous stillness. The room shrank around him. The men at his back held themselves a fraction too rigid, as if aware they were escorting something far more dangerous than a prisoner.
When fire stands witness . . .
The words echoed in Gisela’s mind, a voice she didn’t recognize—but the phrase she did.
Elysande’s parchment. The prophecy threaded through blood and time.
The air was thick as she drew breath, as if the room itself recognized it.
“What are you doing!?” Gisela projected into his mind, but Thorne wouldn’t meet her gaze.
He walked past her, as though it cost him something. His attention was fixed on the King.
King Ravenor took a cautious step back. His hand twitched—halfway to an order he didn’t give.
“Let her go,” Thorne said, voice steady. He glanced briefly at Elysande on the floor, a shadowed weight crossing his features before the mask returned. “Let them both go, and I will surrender myself to you.”
Pain folded inward, sudden and vicious. It settled deep in her stomach as if something vital had been torn loose.
There wasn’t a reality where Thorne wasn’t there. No future that didn’t have him standing beside her—fire and ruin and stubborn devotion woven into her fate.
He was offering himself up without hesitation, willing to burn away everything he was if it meant she could keep breathing.
The understanding of it hurt almost as much as the choice itself.
But she’d be damned if he made this choice without her.
“No!” The word tore out of her. “He wants your power, Thorne. He believes it will help make him a Mystic King.”
Thorne’s brows furrowed, then he smoothed it away.
The King’s laugh cracked through the hall. “I do not ‘believe’, girl.” His eyes flicked to Zaro. “Tell them.”
“A Mystic King,” Zaro mused, nodding. His eyes settled on Thorne, his expression narrowing. “Thorne is very valuable.”
Thorne didn’t flinch. “Take me and let them go.”
The King considered him. “Give him the nullification potion.”
Zaro’s head lifted sharply. “Your Majesty?”
“Don’t,” the King snapped. “If he truly wants to surrender, I need to guarantee he will not burn my castle to ash.” His gaze narrowed. “Bring it.”
“It—it’s not quite ready, my King,” Zaro stammered.
“I’ll take it,” Thorne agreed. His voice was confident, yet his eyes betrayed him.
“Thorne, don’t do this.” Gisela’s knees weakened. It took every ounce of strength she had left to stand.
Thorne wouldn’t look at her. He stood unmoving, like a man who’d already made his peace with something no one else could see.
The King leaned down, whispered into a guard’s ear, and the guard left the room.
A hollow quiet settled over Gisela like dust. “Thorne, tell me you’re planning something. Please.” She stepped forward, but hands closed on her arms and yanked her back.
Through the bond, searing rage flooded through, stalling Gisela’s breath.
“Don’t touch her,” Thorne warned, his voice loud and commanding. “Or I will burn this place to the ground.”
The guards hesitated before releasing her.
Zaro continued to stare between Thorne and Gisela.
“You lied to me,” Gisela said. “You said we were on the same side.”
Zaro didn’t say a word. He regarded her for a quiet moment, then shifted his attention back to King Ravenor.
Thorne’s head turned slightly—still not to her. Still not meeting her eyes. His focus stayed on Zaro.
Before Gisela could name the emotion building in her core, the guard returned, clutching a small vial in shaking hands. He set it on the King’s outstretched palm.
King Ravenor studied it, then Thorne. “Seize him.”
Thorne’s voice entered her mind. “Go to the forest clearing behind the castle. Marina and Silas are waiting.”
“No!” Gisela’s voice broke.
She didn’t think or weigh the consequences. She threw her anger forward and frost exploded from her hands.
Guards slammed backward. Steel skittered across stone. Torches flared, then dipped, their flames fighting the sudden chill.
Zaro’s mouth thinned, his gaze lifting to the ceiling.
“Well, well,” the King said, shaking his head. “Gisela Valor is a Mystic, too.” Rage contorted his face. “Your family will die for this.”
Thorne finally looked at her, fear sitting stark in his eyes. “Why did you do that?”
Gisela swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. “Where you go, I go.”
Boots thundered again, more guards rushing into the throne room.
And then they stopped.
The guards clawed at their throats, faces reddening, lips turning blue. Their mouths opened in silent gasps. Weapons clattered uselessly to the floor.
“Tsk tsk, I don’t think so,” Adrian’s voice purred through the hall.
Gisela and Thorne’s gaze snapped to a door behind the throne.
Adrian emerged, descending the steps with the effortless grace of a man who had never doubted his place there. “See, Thorne? I told you, I could take your breath away.”
Eva followed, striding steadily with confidence.
A long-awaited warmth blossomed in Gisela’s chest at the sight.
“Now, King,” Adrian said, “should your guards go outside? Get a little air?”
The King’s body shook with fury. “You think you can—”
Wind snapped through the room.
Adrian propelled the choking guards out through the doors and slammed them shut, the impact rattling the hinges. Then he turned back, calm as if he’d merely cleared a table. “None of you will touch him,” he said. “Or that potion.”
The King’s eyes darted around the room, counting bodies, measuring threat. Realizing, too late, that he had fewer hands than he needed.
And still, Zaro hadn’t moved. He remained at the King’s side, watching the scene with the calm patience of a man waiting for a cue.
The doors opened again.