“Hmm.” Eldritch nods, and I feel my tension loosen. “You’re very skilled.”
Her smile is fleeting, as if it isn’t a compliment. “Failure isn’t permitted in Solvandyr. Not even in training.”
“Were you punished for failure as a child?” The question comes from Kaelen, and I shoot a sharp look in his direction. Awarning. We don’t particularly want anyone looking too closely at her background. Since he’s very carefullynotlooking at me, he doesn’t see it.
When she pushes the food around her plate, lingering over her response, he leans over and adds another spoonful of meat to her plate. “That’s not a full helping. Were you?”
“All Lightbringer children are punished for failure. I was not an exception.”
My gut tightens. In the nightmares Darian saw, he didn’t mention that she was young. But Lyra is looking around the hall now, faint lines appearing on her forehead. “There are no children here.”
The table turns silent. Tension sweeps across us as a group. Sera’s hand tightens on her cup, her knuckles bleaching.
And Valcor half-rises from his seat, his face reddening. “Don’t act the fool, Lightbringer.”
“Valcor,” Kaelen says, quiet but firm. “Not now.”
“I don’t understand.” Lyra looks at Valcor, at Kaelen, and then to me, her brows knotting together. “But I apologize. I didn’t mean to cause any offense.”
My lips press together. She served in the Solvandyr military, went through her training, however briefly. And yet she seems genuinely confused.
Nythen’s eyes turn to flint, suspicion filling them. But Valcor smashes his hand down against the table hard enough that his cup tips, spilling dark wine into the remains of his food. His hand trembles when he points it at Lyra. “Lying, Lightbringerbitch. You know what you did. What you’re still doing. Don’t youdaresit there and play the innocent at this table when my Elerie is dead because ofyourwar tactics.”
The chairs beneath us scrape against the stone floor as we push to our feet. All of us. Only Lyra remains in her seat, her back straight and face frozen. And Darian. He looks atSera instead. At the struck, pained look on her face. Kaelen’s hand swipes through the air, his voice a whip that captures us unwanted attention from some of the other tables, faces looking our way. “That's enough. I understand your grief, Valcor, but Lyra is not responsible for it. If you can’t control it, perhaps some air might help.”
“Controlit?” He laughs, though there’s no humor in it. “Like they do, you mean? Bad enough to have a witch walking around, but I won’t sit here and listen to lies. And all of you have been taken in by her—”
He falters when Sera shoves to her feet. She glares at her father. “I’ve heard enough. I’m going to see if Elspeth needs any help.”
His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring. “You shouldn’t be going on patrol at all!”
“Better than staying here and waiting around to die.” Sera pushes her chair back. Her eyes flicker to us, and down to Darian. He tenses when her hand squeezes his shoulder. “See you when I get back.”
She doesn’t look Valcor’s way as she circles the table and pushes through the hall doors, vanishing behind them.
“Valcor.” Nythen’s nasal tones filter through the ensuing silence. “Perhaps Kaelen is right. Now is not the time.”
Unusual for Nythen to agree with Kaelen in any capacity. Valcor grips the table tightly, his breathing heavy and head bowed.
“Maybe,” Valcor says finally, his voice tightly controlled. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Nythen stands, following him out. And Lyra exhales in the quiet that follows. “I didn’t mean to cause any upset.”
Kaelen’s eyes meet mine over her head, dark and troubled. As if he’s been reminded of everything we’re losing. Eldritch clearshis throat, pushing to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some things to do. Lyra—you’re welcome at the ring tomorrow.”
Darian follows him without a word. Kaelen stares after him, Lyra still sitting and the three of us left alone at the table.
“Eres,” Lyra looks up at me. Her head tilts toward Kaelen. “Will you take me back to my cell?”
Kaelen presses his lips together, lowering his body back into his seat. His shoulders fold forward, almost sagging as he reaches for his cup without saying a word.
He looks… tired. All of us do, and more so with every day that passes with this weight of expectation hanging over us, this sword that hovers, ready to drop at any moment when Vaelion decides to wipe us out for good. But Kaelen’s exhaustion is written into every curve of his body, into the faint tremor of his fingers as he sets the cup down and stares out at the frightened, drawn faces of the people he’s tried so hard to keep alive for as long as he can.
My throat aches as I swallow, turning to Lyra. I don’t want to take her back to that fucking cell. I want her with me—but that means being withhim, because I can’t leave him like this. And he’s not ready. “Of course. Whenever you’re ready.”
He might never be, not in whatever brief amount of time we have left. And I can’t force this, not when he’s already on the edge of breaking from the sheer amount of pressure forced upon him.
“I think I’d like to go now,” Lyra says quietly. Perhaps she sees it too, that strain in his face. She stands. “Goodnight, Kaelen.”
