Chapter 33 Kess #2
"We're also not murdering children in the womb," I cut in before Rhystan can respond. "Seems like a fair trade."
His father's attention snaps to me. Cold assessment, like he's measuring livestock.
"The omega speaks." Flat. Dismissive. "How charming."
"The omega has a name. And a warrior bloodline older than your curse." I step up beside Rhystan despite his obvious desire for me to stay back. "My ancestors were metabolizing divine power while yours were still figuring out how to shift without tearing your own wings."
Something flickers in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or the beginnings of respect, quickly smothered.
"Bold words from someone about to die." He turns back to Rhystan.
"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to stop this ritual.
Send the priests away. Let the curse run its course.
If the girl-child dies, so be it—you'll have an heir, which is more than you had before. And the kingdom stays protected."
"No."
"No?" His father's voice goes soft. Dangerous. "Think carefully, son. I have six war dragons and two dozen priests. You have—what? A pregnant omega and some household guards? The math isn't complicated."
"The math is irrelevant." Rhystan's hand finds mine. Squeezes once. "I'm not letting my daughter die. I'm not letting the curse turn my son into a monster. And I'm not letting you threaten my mate in our own home."
"Then you're choosing them over your kingdom."
"I'm choosing them over you." Rhystan steps forward, putting himself fully between me and his father. "Over your legacy of pain and death and calling it duty. Over three hundred years of murdered omegas and cursed children and pretending it was all worth it for power."
His father's expression doesn't change. But something shifts in those cold golden eyes.
"You'd kill your own father? For her?"
"If you make me." No hesitation. "If you force the choice."
Silence stretches across the courtyard. The priests are motionless, waiting for orders. The clouds press lower. Somewhere inside, I feel our son kick sharply, aggressively—the curse responding to the tension, maybe. Recognizing its own.
Then his father smiles.
It's not a pleasant expression.
"You always were weak," he says softly. "Sentimental. Your mother's influence, I suppose—though you took care of that problem yourself."
Rhystan's hand tightens on mine hard enough to hurt.
"Don't."
"Twenty-five years old." His father's voice goes silky with cruelty.
"Your first rut. That omega girl we brought for you to practice control—your mother stepped between you and her.
Trying to protect the child." A pause, letting it land.
"And your beast tore her apart. I watched my mate die under your claws while you were too lost in rut-madness to even know what you'd done. "
"I said don't."
But his father keeps going, circling closer.
"When you came back to yourself—when you saw her body—you didn't even remember doing it.
Just stood there covered in her blood, asking what happened.
" His lip curls. "Three hundred years and you still can't control yourself.
Still killing omegas. Still pretending guilt makes you noble instead of just weak. "
"He won't be a weapon." The words tear out of me before I can stop them—before Rhystan has to keep absorbing this poison alone. "Your grandson won't become what you tried to make Rhystan. He'll be a child. Loved and wanted and free of this legacy. Both of them will."
His father looks at me. Really looks, for the first time.
"You actually believe that." Wonder in his voice, and something like pity. "You actually think you can save them. That this ritual will work. That you'll survive absorbing three centuries of divine rage."
"I know I'll try."
"And when you die? When your body tears itself apart and your children die with you?"
"Then at least I'll have died fighting for them." I lift my chin. "Which is more than you've ever done for your son."
The silence that follows is absolute.
Then his father laughs—a real laugh this time, edged with something that might almost be respect.
"She has fire, I'll give her that." He looks at Rhystan. "You chose poorly in many ways, boy. But at least you chose someone with spine."
"I chose someone worth dying for." Rhystan's voice is steady. "Worth killing for. Worth destroying everything for, if it comes to that. So make your choice, Father. Leave now and let us do what needs doing. Or stay and find out exactly how far I'm willing to go."
Father and son stare at each other across the cracked flagstones.
The priests wait.
The clouds press down.
And I stand with my hand in Rhystan's, my children shifting in my belly, my fate balanced on the edge of a blade.
"Three hours," his father says finally. "You have until sunset. If the ritual fails—if she dies, if the children die, if any part of this foolish gamble doesn't pay off—I'll be back. With more than six dragons."
He shifts without waiting for a response—bones cracking, scales erupting, wings unfurling into something massive and ancient and terrible. The other dragons launch with him, priests clinging to their backs, blessed weapons glinting as they spiral upward into the heavy clouds.
Within moments, they're gone.
Rhystan doesn't move. Just stands there staring at the sky, his hand still gripping mine, his whole body vibrating with tension.
"Three hours," I say quietly.
"Three hours." He turns to look at me, and there's something fierce and desperate in his expression. "Are you ready?"
I think about everything that's led to this moment.
The claiming that should have killed me.
The contamination slowly transforming my body.
The pregnancy I didn't know about, the tea that was poisoning our bond, the betrayal that shattered my trust. The weeks of research, the nights of practicing ancient words, the slow painful rebuilding of something I thought was destroyed forever.
I think about my daughter, fragile and fighting inside me.
My son, carrying a curse he never asked for.
The man standing beside me, who destroyed my trust and has been trying to earn it back ever since.
"Yes," I tell him. "I'm ready."
His hand tightens on mine.
"Then let's end this curse."
We walk back into the castle together, toward the throne room and the silver circle and whatever comes next.
Three hours until sunset.
Three hours until everything changes.