Chapter 40
THE STORM brEAKS
Ky was shoved into the tent, two large bandits holding his arms. He didn’t know what was happening, only that he had been hauled from the darkness of the stockade into the oppressive, lamp-lit interior of Polan’s command tent.
The scene that greeted him sent a wave of white-hot rage through his veins.
Gessa stood in the center of the room with the unnatural stillness of a statue.
She wore a cold iron collar, and her hands were clasped in front of her, white-knuckled.
Polan was there, circling her, a glass of wine in one hand, looking like an artist inspecting a damaged sculpture.
“Ah, Instructor Ky,” Polan said softly. He gestured to a spot near the entrance. “Bring him in. I want him to witness the treatment.”
The guards forced Ky to his knees. He didn’t fight them yet; his eyes were too busy tearing the room apart, looking for an angle. He clocked the position of the guards. He saw Gessa, pale and rigid, illuminated by the flickering golden light of a brass oil lamp sitting on the corner of the desk.
“You broke her, Instructor,” Polan said, his voice ripe with mock disappointment.
He moved to stand behind Gessa, placing his hands on her shoulders.
Ky saw her flinch, a faint tremor, but she didn’t pull away.
“You filled her head with noise. You dragged her through the dirt. And now, I have to scour it out.”
Polan’s hands slid down her arms. Gentle. Possessive. “She is magnificent, isn’t she? A fine instrument. But she is vibrating with chaos. She needs to find her center again.”
He looked at Ky then, his eyes flat and pitying. “You Spurs... you treat your charges like skittish foals. You whisper to them. You stroke their manes when they tremble. You teach them that it is acceptable to fear the whip.”
Polan shook his head slowly. “I see a thoroughbred. And when a high-spirited animal shies at a shadow, you don’t whisper sweet nothings in its ear. You tighten the reins. You force it forward. You break the panic before it breaks the horse.”
Polan moved around to face her. He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “We had such a future, Gessa. A legacy. A son to inherit these mountains, to restore the power my family lost.”
He looked at Ky, his voice dropping to a proprietary purr. “You tried to steal that from her. You tried to turn a mother of kings into a fugitive. But we can repair that. Once her mind is clear... we will resume our work on the heir. Won’t we, my dear?”
“You coward,” Ky snarled, the word scraping out of his throat. He surged forward, testing the grip of the guards. “Don’t you touch her.”
“I can touch her,” Polan corrected calmly. He didn’t look away from Ky as he reached out, his hand sliding up Gessa’s arm to cup the nape of her neck. He squeezed—a firm, possessive pressure.
Gessa didn’t pull away. She didn’t even flinch. As his fingers dug into her skin, she went unnaturally still, her eyes slipping shut.
Polan smiled, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind her ear as if rewarding a pet. “Because I am the only one who knows how to fix her.”
He turned back to his desk and picked up the Stone. It was grey, smooth, and innocuous.
“Now, my dear,” Polan whispered, pressing the stone into Gessa’s palm and closing her fingers around it with his own hand. “Focus. Let the noise go. Give it to the stone.”
Gessa’s eyes snapped to Ky’s.
It was instantaneous. Her body went rigid. A sheen of sweat broke out on her forehead, and her jaw clamped shut. The cords in her neck strained against the iron collar. The stone was feeding on her power, twisting her own magic into a searing feedback loop of agony.
But she didn’t look at Polan. She locked her gaze on Ky, her eyes wide, burning with a desperate, silent message. I am here. I am yours.
Ky saw Polan stiffen. The anticipation on the man’s face soured into confusion when the scream didn’t come. He frowned, looking down at the stone in Gessa’s hand, then up at her face. He traced the line of her unblinking stare across the room until his cold eyes landed squarely on Ky.
He realized what was holding her up.
“No,” Polan hissed. The veneer of the therapist cracked. “Look at me.”
He squeezed her hand harder, amplifying the stone’s effect.
Gessa gasped, but she kept her eyes on Ky. He felt her pain like a physical blow, a phantom echo through a bond that shouldn’t exist but did. He pulled against the guards, a low growl building in his chest.
Polan didn’t shout. To Ky’s horror, he did something worse. He leaned in, invading her space until his face was inches from hers, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating sound that carried across the silent room like the rattle of a snake.
“Look at me,” Polan ordered, the words brittle with a fury he was barely containing. “I am the one saving you. Do not look at the disease. Acknowledge the cure.”
Gessa let out a shattered sob. Her eyes squeezed shut, breaking contact with Ky. She swayed, her resistance finally crumbling under the assault.
“Please...” she whispered, her head bowing. “Please, my Lord. It hurts.”
Polan’s expression smoothed. The fury vanished, replaced by a look of sickening, benevolent triumph. He stepped closer, moving right into her space, his voice dropping to a hypnotic soothe that made Ky’s skin crawl.
“I know it hurts, my love. The pain is the weakness leaving the body. Give it to me. Let go of him. Come back to me.”
“I can’t...” she sobbed, her body trembling violently. She slumped toward him, looking defeated. “Help me. Please. Make it stop.”
“That’s it,” Polan cooed. He released the pressure on the stone but didn’t let go of her hand. He stepped in to embrace her, to claim his victory, his arrogance blinding him to everything but his own narrative. “I have you. You’re home.”
Ky froze.
He saw the slump of her shoulders. He heard the shattered plea. But he looked closer, past the performance.
He had held this woman in the dark when the memories of this very thing woke her screaming. He knew the frantic, erratic rhythm of her breathing when the terror was real. He knew what it felt like when she was truly breaking against his chest.
This was different.
Beneath the trembling, her breath was steady. Measured. She wasn’t falling. She was coiling.
Ky understood.
The rage didn’t leave him, but he buried it deep, under a mask of devastation. He let out a long, ragged exhale and stopped pulling against the guards. He slumped forward, his head bowing, his shoulders dropping as if the sight of her surrender had finally severed his own will.
He gave Polan exactly what he wanted: a broken man witnessing the end of his world.
Polan watched him fall apart and smiled—a look of supreme, validated ego. He believed he had broken them both in a single stroke.
“See?” Polan murmured over Gessa’s shoulder, his eyes locking with Ky’s defeated form. “Even he accepts the truth now.” He flicked a hand at the men holding Ky. “Release him. Let him watch her come home.”
The guards hesitated for a second, then stepped back, releasing Ky’s arms. They saw what Polan saw: a man who had nothing left to fight for.
Polan had just given her the opening.
“Thank you...” Gessa whispered against Polan’s chest.
Her free hand didn’t reach for him. It snapped out, seizing the oil lamp from the table beside them. In one fluid motion, she smashed the lamp into his face.
Oil and fire exploded.
Polan shrieked—a sound of pure, high-pitched agony that shredded the tent’s silence. He reeled back, clawing at his burning tunic, the stone dropping from his hand.
But the fire didn’t stop with him. The splash of burning oil arced across the desk, soaking the ancient parchment maps.
They ignited with a violent whoosh, the dry paper curling into ash in a heartbeat.
The flames leaped hungrily to the thick southern tapestries hanging behind the desk, climbing the fabric like a living thing.
In seconds, the sterile opulence of the command tent vanished, replaced by a roaring, blistering inferno. Black smoke pooled against the silk ceiling, choking the air, while the heat rose to a furnace blast that Ky could feel even from across the room.
“Ky!” Gessa screamed, her voice cutting through the roar of the blaze.
Ky was already moving.
He drove his elbow back into the gut of the guard behind him, snatching the man’s sword from its sheath before the soldier hit the ground. He spun, slashing the legs of the second guard, and vaulted the table, shielding his face from the heat.
Polan was on the floor, thrashing, a living pillar of flame amidst the burning ruin of his maps. The tent flap tore open as shouts erupted outside.
Gessa, coughing in the thick smoke, lunged toward the burning man. With a cry of fury, she reached into the heat and ripped the dagger from his belt.
“Go!” she yelled, scrambling back, the blade clutched in her hand, her face smeared with soot.
Ky was already at the rear wall. The fire was racing up the support poles now, the canvas groaning as it began to melt. He didn’t hesitate. He swung the captured sword in a wide arc, slashing the cords and fabric from top to bottom.
“Move!” he roared, grabbing her arm.
They burst out the back of the tent into the cool night air, the structure behind them collapsing inward with a crash of sparks and timber. Behind them, Polan’s screams were swallowed by the roar of the fire and the chaotic shouting of guards.
Ky didn’t look back. He tightened his grip on the sword, his eyes locking onto the dark shape of the wagon in the distance.
He didn’t waste breath on words. He grabbed Gessa’s arm and ran for the shadows where Night was waiting.