Darian nodded. “Walked right into the heart of enemy territory and executed them at their own feast. Left their bodies on display with a single message burned into the wall.For Raivelle.”
“Who was he… Stormborn?” I asked.
“Nyxaria’s second in command. Merrick’s his real name, but I suspect any history you’ve read uses the prick’s war title.”
He wasn’t wrong. I’d seen the title a few times, a warning in legends.
“He wasn’t there that day,” Darian said, bitterness tinging his tone. “Shame, really. Varyth would have made his death particularly memorable.”
I swallowed, trying to process the image Darian had painted of Varyth slipping into the heart of Nyxaria’s court, of himcutting through their ranks, those forty-five bodies left behind as a message.
It wasn’t a story of honour. It wasn’t a tale of justice.
It was vengeance.
I thought of the man who had held me after the nightmare, who paid me the most unfortunate compliments of my life. I thought of his lips on the edge of a smirk, the heat in his eyes. And now, I saw him standing over a feast of corpses.
I didn’t know which version scared me more.
Darian studied me. “You’re thinking too hard.”
I blinked, dragging myself out of my thoughts. “I’m just trying to picture it.”
“What, Varyth going on a murderous rampage? Not hard to imagine, really. He’s always had a bit of a flair for the dramatic.”
I snorted despite myself. “Dramatic?”
Darian smirked at my expression. “I mean, personally, I would have gone even more ominous. Maybe a crown made of their teeth or something equally unsettling.”
I groaned, shoving his shoulder. “Gods, Darian.”
He let out a bark of laughter. “What? If we’re going full cold-blooded revenge, might as well commit to the aesthetic.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think anyone needs you in charge of vengeance planning.”
“Probably not,” he admitted, “but it’d be memorable.”
“And deeply disturbing.”
“That’s the fun part.”
I couldn’t help but smile. But even through the grin, the image stuck. Forty-five bodies in a banquet hall. A message carved in flame. And Varyth—calm, composed, watching it all burn.
Darian’s expression shifted, a seriousness settling over his features despite the lingering amusement in his eyes. “My point is, Varyth has a whole list of reasons to fight back againstNyxaria. A very long, very bloody list that predates you by centuries.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but he kept going.
“And Nyxaria wouldn’t be sitting sweetly by if you weren’t here. Our courts...” He paused, searching for the right words. “Peace between them is rare. Fragile. Yes, your presence has certainly increased their activity. But as you can see—” He gestured to the scar bisecting his chest. “Nyxarians have made a habit of stabbing me. So you’re not special. I’m frequently stabbed.”
I stared at him. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“It’s supposed to make you stop blaming yourself.” His voice lost its teasing edge, becoming rougher, more honest. “You didn’t start any of this, Isara. You’re just... caught up in it now.”
The words should have been comforting. Should have eased the weight pressing against my ribs. But they didn’t. Because even if I hadn’t started this war, my presence had escalated it. My magic, my children, my very existence here had turned a simmering conflict into something that could boil over at any moment.
“They nearly killed you,” I said quietly, my fingers twisting in my lap. “You were bleeding out in my arms.”
Darian was quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting to the window where grey morning light filtered through. When he looked back at me, something softer had crept into his expression.
