Chapter 33 Kess
Kess
The morning of the ritual dawns grey and heavy, clouds pressing low against the mountains like the sky itself is holding its breath.
I wake alone in my chambers, though the sheets beside me still hold a trace of warmth. Rhystan was here—must have slipped in after I fell asleep, slipped out again before dawn. I should be angry about that. Should resent the presumption.
Instead I press my face into his pillow and breathe him in, just for a moment. Smoke and stone and the particular musk that's become as familiar as my own heartbeat.
Today I either save my daughter or die trying.
The twins are restless, have been all night. My son kicks sharply against my ribs—harder than usual, more aggressive. The curse stirring in his blood, maybe. Recognizing that its time is running out.
My daughter's movements are softer. Fluttering. Like she's trying to make herself small, to hide from the threat growing beside her.
"Hold on," I whisper to her, pressing my palm flat against the swell of my belly. "Just a few more hours. I'm going to fix this."
She kicks once, gently. Like she heard me.
I dress simply—soft linen that won't restrict movement, nothing I'll mourn if it gets destroyed. Braid my hair back tight against my skull, the way I used to wear it for battle training back home. Check my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back.
Five and a half months pregnant, belly heavy and round. Purple shadows under my nails where the contamination is advancing. A faint iridescent sheen along the scars on my arms, scales forming beneath the skin. Red ring around my irises when I look closely enough—dragon's eyes beginning to emerge.
I'm already changing. The ritual will just... accelerate things.
If it doesn't kill me first.
I touch my reflection's face, trace the lines that used to be familiar.
"You can do this," I tell her. "You've survived everything else. You'll survive this too."
She doesn't look convinced.
The throne room has been transformed.
Silver dust forms intricate patterns across the stone floor—geometric shapes nested within shapes, sacred geometry that makes my eyes ache if I stare too long.
Candles ring the outer edge, unlit but waiting.
Braziers hold herbs the mystic prepared, ready to burn.
And in the center, the binding circle itself—a perfect ring of blessed silver wide enough for two people to stand inside.
Rhystan is already there when I arrive, shirtless despite the morning chill, checking every line of the circle for imperfections.
His back muscles shift as he moves, dragon-scale scars catching the grey light from the windows.
The knife he'll use to cut his palm sits on a cloth nearby, blade gleaming.
He looks up when he hears me enter. Something fierce and desperate flashes across his face before he controls it.
"You should be resting."
"I've been resting for weeks." I walk the outer edge of the circle, studying his work. Perfect lines. Perfect geometry. He's been meticulous about this. "Everything ready?"
"Almost. The mystic is preparing the stabilizing herbs. We'll start the braziers an hour before sunset—gives the smoke time to saturate the room." He pauses. "How do you feel?"
"Like I'm about to absorb three centuries of divine curse." I stop across the circle from him, silver dust between us like a river neither of us can cross. "So. Fine."
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "You're a terrible liar."
"I learned from the best."
The words land sharper than I intended. His almost-smile fades.
"Kess—"
"Don't." I hold up a hand. "Whatever you're about to say—apology, declaration, last words—don't. I can't have that in my head when I'm trying to concentrate on not dying."
He's quiet for a moment. Then nods.
"Fair enough." He returns to checking the circle. "After, then. All the things I want to say—I'll tell you after."
"After," I agree. "When I survive."
"When you survive." He says it like it's already fact. Like my survival is something he's decided and the universe will simply have to comply.
I love him for that certainty. Even now.
The mystic arrives an hour later with armfuls of herbs and a severe expression that doesn't soften when she sees me.
"You're not resting."
"I'm not capable of resting." I help her arrange the herbs in the braziers, careful not to disturb the silver lines. "My daughter's life depends on what happens in this room tonight. Sleep isn't really an option."
"Hmm." She doesn't argue, just adjusts my grip on the herb bundle I'm holding. "This one goes in the eastern brazier. It needs to burn first—prepares the body for magical trauma."
"Comforting."
"It's not meant to be comfortable." She fixes me with those too-knowing eyes. "It's meant to keep you alive. The comfort comes after. If there is an after."
"You're a delight. Anyone ever told you that?"
"Frequently." She moves to the next brazier. "Usually right before they die."
Rhystan makes a choked sound that might be a laugh. The mystic ignores him.
We work in relative silence after that, preparing the room, checking components, running through the ritual sequence one more time.
The words are carved into my memory now—I could speak them in my sleep, probably have been speaking them in my sleep.
Every harsh syllable, every guttural stop, every precisely stressed consonant.
The sun climbs higher, hidden behind clouds but marking time regardless. Morning becomes midday. Midday stretches toward afternoon.
Six hours until sunset.
Then five.
Then four.
I'm reviewing the sequence with the mystic when the air pressure changes.
It hits like a physical force—compression against my eardrums, a weight settling over the room that has nothing to do with the clouds outside. The candles along the walls gutter despite there being no wind.
Rhystan goes rigid.
"What—" I start.
"Dragons." His voice is flat. Hard. "Multiple. Coming fast."
He's moving before I can respond, heading for the throne room entrance with purpose in every stride. I follow despite his obvious desire for me to stay put—I'm not hiding in a corner while unknown threats approach.
The mystic doesn't move. Just sighs and continues arranging herbs like incoming dragons are barely worth acknowledging.
"Your father," she says without looking up. "I was wondering when he'd arrive."
The courtyard is chaos by the time we reach it.
Six massive dragons in tight formation, circling lower with each pass.
War God priests in blessed silver armor that catches the grey afternoon light and throws it back wrong—too bright, too sharp, designed to hurt dragon eyes.
They're mounted on the smaller dragons, weapons drawn, movements coordinated with military precision.
And at the center of the formation, larger than all the others, scales the deep crimson of old blood—
"Father." Rhystan's voice carries no emotion. None at all.
The crimson dragon lands hard enough to crack flagstones, sending guards scrambling backward. The shift happens fast—one moment massive wings and deadly claws, the next a man standing in the crater of his own landing. Tall, broad-shouldered, golden eyes exactly like Rhystan's but colder. Crueler.
He's wearing armor too. Not blessed silver—dragon-forged steel, black as his son's scales, fitted to a body that's clearly seen centuries of combat.
"Son." The word drips with contempt. "I hear you're planning something foolish."
"Father." Rhystan positions himself between me and the approaching threat. "I wasn't aware you were invited."
"Invited?" A cold laugh. "This is my kingdom.
My bloodline. My curse you're apparently trying to destroy.
" His gaze slides past Rhystan to find me, standing behind him with my hands pressed to my belly.
"And this must be the contaminated omega.
The wild bloodline throwback who should have died on your altar. "
The other dragons are landing now, priests dismounting with weapons ready. We're surrounded. Outnumbered.
Rhystan doesn't flinch.
"Her name is Kess. She's my mate. And you'll address her with respect or you won't address her at all."
"Mate?" His father's lip curls. "You bonded this—" He gestures at me dismissively. "This breeding stock? This vessel for bastards who'll probably kill each other in the womb anyway?"
Heat floods my chest. My own anger, Rhystan's through the bond, tangled together until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
"Watch your tongue." Rhystan's voice drops to something dangerous. "That's your grandchildren you're talking about."
"Grandchildren." His father laughs again, harsher this time.
"Cursed whelps from a contaminated bitch.
One of whom will murder the other before they're even born, if the bloodline holds true.
" He spreads his hands, encompassing the courtyard, the castle, the priests with their gleaming weapons.
"Is this what you're destroying everything for?
Two children who probably won't survive anyway? "
"They'll survive." Steel underneath Rhystan's words. "The ritual tonight will break the curse. Save our daughter. Save our son from becoming what the curse would make him."
"The ritual." His father's expression hardens into something truly ugly.
"Yes. I've heard about your little ritual.
Breaking the curse that's protected this kingdom for three hundred years.
The curse that made us feared. That kept our enemies cowering behind their borders because they knew what would happen if they faced us. "
He takes a step forward. The priests shift with him, weapons angling toward us.
"Do you have any idea what you're doing, boy? The curse isn't just punishment—it's power. Divine gift wrapped in divine rage. Our berserker strength, our battle fury, our ability to destroy armies single-handed—that all comes from the curse. Break it, and we're just dragons. Mortal. Vulnerable."