I nod briefly, just to let him know I heard.
I drop my sword, blade clanging against the wooden ground, rushing to Elyssara.
Her leathers hang off her in shreds, baring skin that was never his to touch. I cover her with my cloak, shielding what he tried to steal. “Get out!” I yell, commanding the others who have followed, weapons drawn in preparation. “String him up in the village square!”
She’s limp in my arms, and I can’t help but soothe her despite knowing she can’t hear me.
“I’ve got you. You’re safe now. I’m here.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
KAEL
The moon hangsheavy and bright—almost at its peak. Watching. Waiting.
I asked Merrik to watch over Elyssara in my room and sent Rubi to heal her, though I know the worst of the attack won’t be physical.
I stride into Council Hollow, and the war council members have already taken their seats. There’s a heaviness in the room. A palpable tension.
They all stare at me, breaths held. Assessing.
There’s no time to grieve. No time to feel the full weight of everything. Not when war looms.
Therion, Jax, Varian, Daelen, Rubi, Lady Sylvaine, Eldric, and Rowan. Ronyn and Seren stand on the edge of the room, faces solemn. I invited them here tonight—Seren is our best planner, and Elyssara needs Ronyn wherever she goes; that much is clear.
I sent word for Rhyven to join us, too. I need to know if he’s a threat after everything that happened with Zak. He’s the last one to arrive, looking regretful, and he averts his gaze when I try to make eye contact.
I clear my throat, “I’ve called the war council together tonight for a few reasons.” My voice is commanding and unwavering—askill I learned from my father. “Much has come to light since our journey to Starlit Grove, and I owe you all an update. Secondly, we need a comprehensive plan for the next journey to the fourth relic,” I pause for a heartbeat. “And finally,” I turn to Rhyven. “We need to discuss the events from earlier this evening.” I stare at him unflinchingly.
Without hesitation, he kneels with the symbol of Zerynthia pressed between his hands—like a man asking not just for forgiveness but for a future, “I beg for your mercy, my prince.”
I regard him with the full weight of my scrutiny, my stare unrelenting.
“Zak chose his path. And paid the price,” I let the loaded words hang in the air for a beat. “But I won’t have this council splinter further, and I won’t be questioning where your loyalties lie again,” he lifts his head, his gaze meeting mine. “If you’ve something to say, speak now, Rhyven.”
He inhales, steadying himself, but his trembling hands don’t escape my notice. “All I ask, Your Highness, is that you give me an opportunity to prove my undying loyalty to Zerynthia and my fealty to you,” he stammers the words.
I look around the room at the war council—Eldric, who has been on this council with my father since before I was born and who has always been a wise and just servant, nods his acceptance and approval. Lady Sylvaine nods tightly, and her approval carries merit—she’s masterful in court politics and judging one’s character.
Therion doesn’t move, still weighing Rhyven’s words and integrity.
Varian nods predictably, though his judgment lacks the weight of the others. There’s always an angle with him.
Jax shakes her head, though I expected that. Jax is critical and often beyond reproach, even if wrongdoing is by association alone.
Daelen nods, and though he can be brash and shameless, his opinion is one I respect.
“Please, my prince,” Rhyven begs. “Don’t judge me by my brother’s actions. I know better than anyone how overindulgent andmisguided he could be. I beg you—see me for who I am, not who I’m tied to,” he pleads the words, voice cracking in desperation.
I look to Therion again. His nod is nearly imperceptible—so faint I almost doubt seeing it. But it’s enough for me.
“Very well,” I say with a nod. “You’ll get your chance to prove your loyalties, Rhyven, but they’ll need to be earned.” Despite being Zak’s brother, he’s also his father’s son. Brannon was a good man, a loyal soldier, and most importantly, a Zerynthian through and through. Rhyven is no different—though his loyalty will soon be tested by the sight of his brother’s body hanging in the village square.
“Thank you for your mercy, Your Highness,” Rhyven stands, backing towards the door as if hoping for a swift exit.
“I don’t offer mercy. I offer an opportunity to prove your loyalties,” I announce. “Sit down,” I say with fierce command.
He nods quickly and stammers, “Of course, of course. Anything you need.”
