I eased onto the bed beside him, mindful of his injuries, and settled against his good side. His arm came around me right away, pulling me close despite the effort it clearly took.
“The guards who did not make it back,” he said after a moment, his voice heavy. “Their families will be taken care of. I will see to it personally.”
“I know you will,” I murmured. “You always do.”
We fell quiet for a moment, both of us processing everything that had happened. The fear, the victory, the cost. Outside the infirmary window, dawn was breaking over Lytopia. A new day.
“Killian is going to want to see you,” I said eventually. “Sorcha’s been keeping him distracted but he knows something happened. He’s worried.”
“Bring him,” Mal said without hesitation. “I want to see our son.”
“After you rest,” I said firmly. “A few more hours.”
“You are very bossy when I am injured,” he observed.
“Someone has to be. You’re terrible at following orders.”
“I am the king. I give orders. I do not follow them.”
“Not in my infirmary,” I said sweetly. “Here, I’m in charge. And I say you rest.”
He smiled, his eyes starting to drift closed again, exhaustion pulling him back under. “I love you,” he said quietly.
“You’d better,” I replied, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Now sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“You always are,” he mumbled, already half asleep.
“Always,” I agreed.
And I meant it. For as long as he needed me, for as long as we both lived, I’d be here.
19
— • —
Wen
Three days later, when Mal was finally healed enough to stand without wincing every time he moved, we called a council meeting. Not just our internal council, but representatives from all the other allied kingdoms as well. The throne room was packed, bodies crammed in shoulder to shoulder, the air vibrating with anticipation. Word had spread that something significant was happening, though we’d kept the details carefully vague.
I stood beside Mal’s throne, watching the assembled nobles and rulers file in and find their places. People kept shooting glances at each other, fidgeting with their sleeves, shifting their weight from foot to foot.
I leaned close to Mal and muttered, “This should be interesting.”
“Interesting is one word for it,” he replied just as quietly. His hand found mine briefly, a quick squeeze of support.
The doors at the far end of the throne room opened with a ceremonial boom that echoed off the high ceilings. Every head turned in perfect synchronization. Prince Gregyor walked in, and I had to admire his timing. The man knew how to make an entrance.
Murmurs erupted immediately, spreading through the crowd like wildfire. Gregyor was every inch the imposing prince, flanked by his own councilors and noblemen, all dressed in Igryside’s royal colors. His face was impassive, studiously neutral, but that prominent scar running down his face made him appear dangerous. Intimidating. Like he could be walking into battle instead of a political meeting.
The noise grew louder as people recognized the Igryside crest on his councilors’ clothing. Confusion, alarm, fear. It rippled through the assembled nobles like a wave.
Mal stood from his throne, his presence commanding immediate silence. “Kings and Queens of the allied realms,” he said, his voice carrying to every corner. “I present to you Prince Gregyor of Igryside.”
You could have heard a pin drop. The stillness was absolute, shocked, heavy with disbelief.
King Mortimer Goldridge of Duskmere recovered first, his voice sharp with suspicion. “Igryside? The kingdom that has been hunting portal casters? Hunting Ravenor’s Queen and Prince Heir?”
Mal’s response was calm, measured, unbothered by the accusation in Goldridge’s tone. “Yes. And the kingdom whose king is now dead.”
