She could feel the war in him then the way his muscles tensed, the way his breath caught. He hated what he’d done. Not because he regretted her presence. But because part of him had stolen something soft from the world, and Kael was not made for soft things.
He brushed her hair back slowly, fingers catching in the strands like he couldn’t bear to let her go. “You weren’t meant to be ordinary,” he murmured.
-Kael-
She breathed slower now.
Her heartbeat had steadied where it rested against his ribs. He could feel it. The quiet drum of a mortal pulse — but one that shimmered in his magic like a silver thread strung too tight.
He watched her fall asleep.
It was a terrible thing, how badly he wanted to protect that moment. To bottle it like wine. The way she looked now, bone tired but trusting, soft-lipped and flushed with sleep.
As if he were safety.
As if the predator could ever be the shield.
He ran a hand down her back once. Just once.
Then stilled.
And stayed awake long into the hours past midnight. Because she slept in his arms. And for the first time in centuries, Kael did not feel alone.
Chapter sixteen
Serpent’s Smile
-Alarik, King of Calanthe-
The gates of Nerium thundered open just before dawn, the stone moaning on its hinges. Hooves struck the cobbled path with violent rhythm — black as pitch, the rider cloaked in shadow and ash, bearing no banner or colors. The guards moved aside without a word. Whatever message this rider carried, it was meant for no one but the crown. Through the winding marble corridors and down into the underbelly of the palace, the horseman dismounted without slowing. Steam rose from the beast's flanks, sweat beading on its velvet black hide as the male moved like a knife through the palace — not toward the throne room, but through the kitchens.
Startled servants stepped back, spoons stilled mid-stir, the scent of spiced broth hanging thick in the air. Flour dusted the rider's boots as he pushed forward. None stopped him. At the far end, in a tucked away hall lit by moonstone scones, Alarik's personal attendant waited — a slender man in ink-blue robes, eyes too sharp to ever be mistaken for a servant's alone. He said nothing as the rider reached him, only held out his hand.
The paper was thick and ivory, sealed in dark wax, the color of dried blood — no seal was pressed into. The shade alone indicating it had came from within the Nythra's court. The servant turned, robes whispering over the stone as he vanished into the heart of the palace.
At the top of on of the palace's peak the attendant located King Alarik within his storm-lit private chambers. His tall muscular frame stood shirtless at his balconies edge, his short pale white hair — tousled and damp from a sleepless night. His bare chest gleamed in thedim light. A silver chain around his throat slipped forward, catching the moonlight as he leaned over the ledge — his blue-violet locked on the storm-stirred waters that writhed beneath the cliffs before him.
He didn't turn as the servant entered.
"From Nythra," the male spoke softly, extending the letter into waiting fingers.
Alarik took it. His hands were graceful — calloused from combat, but cool and precise as they broke the seal. The storm out to sea cracked. He sipped the amber-colored wine as he began to read.
A slow smile curled at the corner of his mouth as his eyes scanned the page, the inked words settling like sparks in his chest. Behind him, the attendant withdrew without a sound, the soft click of the door a distant echo against the hush of the room. The chamber was empty now — save for the letter in his hands and the faint glint of satisfaction blooming in his eyes.
The inked words sharp and slanted — furious, unmistakably written by high born female. He chuckled under his breath, thumb grazing the edge of the parchment.
"The hells envy a female who chooses to ruin a king — Kael always did love playing with fire." He swirled his wine retreating from the balcony.
He let the letter fall to the table, parchment curling slightly as the corners from the heat of the fire burning within the hearth. The words echoed in his mind — sharp, burning. A defiance from within Kael's inner circle. Alarik moved through the chamber with measured grace, he replaced his tunic as sleep would not find him now. This information confirmed the seers vision he'd been given.
The mortal woman — the sleeping goddess. Kael mistaking his arrogance for intellect— failing to fully comprehend what he has within his keep.
For years, he had clawed at prophecy, desperate for an answer, a path to undo the ruin seeping through Calanthe's soil. Andnow—
The final piece, placed in his hand by fate.
"It's poetic," he murmured to himself.
