Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
REIYANA
C aptain Marzius’s men erected a yurt for them, sturdy and round; its wooden frame wrapped in thick canvas to keep out the desert chill.
Inside, woven rugs in jewel-toned hues lined the floor.
Colourful cushions were scattered near a low table holding a basin of cool water for washing.
A stack of clean towels lay beside it. Animal pelts covered a bed, the fresh linens tucked beneath them, offering both warmth and a hint of indulgence.
After so many nights spent under the stars or crammed into a wagon, these simple comforts felt decadent. Beyond the canvas walls, the desert stretched endlessly, but here, in the quiet glow of a swaying lantern, they’d been granted a rare and precious reprieve.
Kaelen lay motionless on the bed, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The healer Captain Marzius brought had administered the sandshrike venom’s antidote, stabilizing him, and wrapped him in fresh bandages.
Relief flickered through her as she watched him. His breathing was stronger now, calm. His Sunborn tattoo pulsed with a steady glow.
For the first time since the Féraveli festival, he seemed truly at peace.
Yet, unease twisted in her gut .
She turned the arrow shaft over in her palm. She’d asked Captain Marzius for it earlier, unable to ignore the suspicion nagging at her chest. He’d handed it over without question, though his light hazel eyes lingered, quietly assessing.
Now, the arrow lay in her grasp, its weight heavier than mere wood and steel.
The tent flap lifted, and Alarik stepped inside. His broad frame cast a shadow over the cot, gaze flicking to Kaelen before settling on the arrow in her hands.
He approached her. “I’ve interrogated the rest of the mercenaries. Every single one swore they knew nothing of Castiel’s or Jodhar’s plans beyond capturing you.”
She exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around the slender wood. “They were just pawns.”
His eyes returned to the arrow.
“You’ve been staring at that for a while,” he murmured, crouching beside her. “Did something catch your eye?”
Her thumb brushed over the braid tied below the fletching. “This knot is Aethonian work.”
His brow furrowed. “You’re sure?”
She rose, moving toward a torch, and held the rope over the flame. The fibres blackened, curling in the heat. Then, as the fire licked at the strands, faint streaks of silvery white appeared amid the ash—like scattered moonlight. A distinct scent rose with the smoke, crisp and sharp.
Her heart sank.
“This rope . . .” she murmured. “It’s treated with silversage sap.”
Alarik stepped closer. “Silversage?”
“A plant native to Aethonia’s shores. The sap strengthens fibres, makes them resistant to wear. When burned, it leaves this pattern, this scent. Only true Aethonian rope does this.”
His frown deepened as he studied the singed strands. “And the knot?”
“A Tidebinder’s knot. Used by Aethonian sailors for securing rigging. I’ve tied it hundreds of times, mostly in bracelets and decorations to sell at the Xians’ stalls.” Her fingers tightened around the rope. “This isn’t an imitation. It’s genuine. ”
He exhaled sharply. “Then you’re saying the archer was Aethonian?”
Reiya hesitated, the words heavy in her throat. “It might’ve been Castiel.”
His gaze snapped to hers, darkening. “Castiel? Here? In Numeria?”
“I don’t know what to think,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly. “Is this just a coincidence, or has Castiel been following us all along? If he was trailing us, why act now? To silence Jodhar the moment he became a liability?”
Alarik’s jaw tightened. “It was no ordinary shot. A clean, precise kill—fired from a distance, unseen. That kind of skill . . .” His eyes narrowed. “Is he capable of this?”
Reiya didn’t answer, her mind wandering to the Castiel she’d known as a young boy.
“He never seemed the type,” she said slowly. “He always played the peacekeeper. Hated conflict. Wouldn’t kill an insect if he could help it. I’ve never even seen him with a bow.”
But even as she said it, unease crept through her veins.
“He fences—only for sport. And even then, he never pushed too hard. But . . .” She trailed off, her pulse drumming in her ears.
How much did she truly know about Castiel? About the man beyond the Beta with his perfect manners and carefully measured words?
Was his aversion to violence real—or just another mask?
Her voice dropped, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t think I know him at all.”
Alarik held her gaze, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Without a word, he reached for the arrowhead and knotted rope, tucking them into his belt.
“I’ll warn Marzius,” he said firmly. “We need to secure the camp, increase the watch. If Castiel himself—or his agents—are this close . . .”
He sighed, the sound heavy with frustration. Then, his hand found her shoulder, his grip steady. Without hesitation, he pulled her into his embrace.
Reiya let herself sink into him, the weight of the day pressing down on her. She closed her eyes, resting against him, taking solace in his warmth.
‘Just for a moment,’ she told herself. ‘Let me find haven before I have to face my enemy again.’
His lips brushed her temple, breath warm against her skin.
“I hate what he’s doing to you,” he murmured, his voice low and fierce. “Hunting you, shadowing your every step. I swear, Reiya—we’ll find him. And we’ll end this.”
Her chest tightened at the promise, her fingers curling briefly into his tunic.
As much as she wanted to hold onto the moment, she knew the reprieve wouldn’t last. Castiel’s shadow loomed too large, his intentions shrouded in danger and mystery.
They still didn’t know what he wanted, what he was willing to do, or what lines he’d already crossed.
When Alarik finally stepped back, his forefinger traced the dark circle beneath her eye.
“Rest, I beg you.” His tone left no room for argument. “Leave this to me.”
Reiya nodded, but her mind churned as she watched him leave. Alone, she shook her head to clear her thoughts, drew a deep inhale and released it. She must remain calm, sort out her thoughts with clarity, not impulse.
Yes, perhaps Castiel wasn’t the man she thought he was—but she hadn’t been the woman she thought she was, either.
In that regard, they were more than evenly matched.
The tent flap lifted again, and she looked up. “That was quick?—”
She froze, her breath hitching. The person who entered wasn’t Alarik. He was a stranger, moving with quiet precision. His face was shrouded in shadows, but the glint of steel at his hip confirmed he wasn’t unarmed.
Her heart pounded as she slowly rose and stepped forward. Gripping the blade in her pocket, she slipped it free and asked, “Who are you?”
The figure turned slightly, the dim light catching the sharp planes of his face—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, the regal bearing of a man accustomed to command. His features were hard, but not unkind, the deep lines at the corners of his mouth hinting at both sternness and experience.
“Who are you?” she pressed, fingers curling tighter around the blade handle.
The figure didn’t answer, his silence unnerving as he turned fully toward her, showing no sign of distress.
He was well-dressed—his cloak fine and expertly tailored, the hilt of his scimitar gleaming at his side.
Despite the travel dust clinging to his boots, his grooming was impeccable—beard neatly trimmed, dark hair streaked with silver at the temples.
Before she could react, another shadow moved at the tent entrance.
“Reiya,” Alarik’s calm voice cut through the tension. “It’s alright.”
She froze, her gaze darting between him and the stranger. “Alarik, who is this?”
He stepped inside. “Not an assassin,” he said, then added gently, “He’s my father.”
Recognition struck like a lightning bolt, the realization stealing the air from her lungs. Kaelen’s jawline. Alarik’s chin. The golden eyes, so much like theirs. The pieces fit together with jarring finality.
“Princess Reiyana, I presume,” the man said, his voice low yet steeped in authority. “I am Azarion. We meet at last.”
Her blade slipped from her fingers as she dropped into a swift curtsy, heat creeping up her cheeks. “Apologies, Your Majesty. I thought?—”
“That I was an assassin sent to slaughter the Ethereal Sovereign, Tazahrin Kaelendrin Asad, in his sleep?”
The sharpness in his tone sent her heart tumbling, but she met his gaze with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Yes,” she admitted. “I did think that.”
Azarion’s brow lifted, his head tilting slightly as if appraising her. “It’s been some time since anyone dared to point a blade at me. The sensation . . . is surprisingly nostalgic.”
“She was protecting Kaelen,” Alarik interjected, his tone bristling with thinly veiled defensiveness. “Don’t turn it into something else.”
The king’s lips twitched into the faintest shadow of a smile. “Did you hear criticism in my words, my son? Far from being offended, I applaud her.”
Her breath stalled. His amusement, even at her expense, was unexpected.
He was every inch the commanding Alpha she’d imagined—the father of her beloved.
A just ruler, if rumours were to be believed, and also the man who’d allowed his young sons to endure the Sunborn Trial, see if either could be propelled into an even greater height.
Before she could respond, a low groan from the bed broke the tension.
They turned as Kaelen stirred, eyes blinking against the dim lantern light.
“What’s with all the noise?” he muttered, his voice rough but carrying a trace of humour. His gaze landed on his father, narrowing slightly. “Well, this is a surprise.”
“Marzius sent a Sparo, telling me you’d been wounded.”
Kaelen shrugged. “As you can see, I’m well looked after.”
Azarion stepped closer, surveying him critically. “Still, you look like hell, Kaelendrin.”
“Feels like it too.” Kaelen pushed himself upright, but Reiya moved to steady him.