“My truth,” I say, too smoothly, too easily, “is that I must protect Elyssara at all costs.”
A traitorous fucking lie.
Stars help me, but I won’t destroy her. Ican’t.I won’t.
And the worst part? I don’t know if I just defied fate, picked a fight with it, or doomed us all. Therion barely keeps his rage on a leash, his hands balling into fists that turn his knuckles white, clearly livid at how this will affect our plans. This has been his greatest fear all along—that I’ll fall for her and it’ll change everything.
He’s fucking right. Looks like I’ll be having that conversation later.
“Not quite as fun, but I guess it works,” Ronyn says flippantly.
Seren exhales in relief. “Okay, that’s a lot to take in. All of it.” She inhales, expression terse, “We should go—the Vaythari will be waiting.”
We all mount our horses, Nyx seems to have relaxed slightly around the Velmara now, and we settle into a rhythm at the back of the group, the Velmara now leading Therion at the front.
We ride in relative silence for a few hours, the weight of everything settling into our bones—Elyssara’s role with the Vaythari, the reunion with their kin, the god magic in her veins, her role in their fate. Elyssara hasn’t spoken, and I respect her need to process it all.
The first sign of the Vaythari camp is not the firelight—but the music.
A deep, steady drumming pulses through the night, low and insistent, like the earth itself is speaking. The air hums with it, a resonance I can feel beneath my ribs, in my blood. It’s not the formal cadence of a military march, nor the orderly rhythm of temple bells. This is raw, untamed, older than discipline, older than kingdoms.Primal.
Then comes the whistle of skyflutes, threading through the percussion in sharp, breathy notes—haunting, dissonant, beautiful. They weave through the air like wind over ruins, like voices calling from the past.
The scent reaches us next. Charred meat. Spiced smoke. Something sharp and herbal, almost metallic. Not just from the fire—from the land, from the people themselves.
A plume of silver-gray smoke curls skyward in the near distance, rising in soft, spiraling tendrils against the blackened sky. And beneath it, flickering in the dark like embers scattered by the wind, golden glows of torchlight pulse and sway.
The Velmara see it first. Their ears flick, their bodies tensing for half a heartbeat—then, just as suddenly, they run.
They know this place. They know their kin.
I feel Elyssara straighten slightly in the saddle, a subtle shift, but enough to tell me she’s alert. Her breath is steady, but I don’t miss the faint hitch in it.
Anticipation. Wariness. The weight of expectation on her shoulders.
“Are you alright?” I ask, my voice low enough that it doesn’t carry.
“Yes.” A pause. “And no. It’s just...” She exhales, then nods once, more to herself than to me. “Yes. I’m alright.”
She’s not. Not fully.
I smile to myself, but I don’t let her see it.
“I can feel your stupid face and your smug smirk behind me, Kael. Even if I can’t see it.”
My smile deepens. “My blade is your blade, your majesty,” I say it with sarcasm, but the truth in it bleeds through, regardless. Then,quieter—meant only for her—I add, “I won’t leave your side. If you want to leave, say the word and we’re gone.”
She doesn’t answer. She just breathes, and we fall into silence, the only sound is the distant music of the Vaythari, our breath and the horses treading through the snow.
The camp emerges from the dark, sprawled in the natural basin between ancient, jagged stones, as if the land itself carved out a space for them.
The fire at the center roars with life, fed by something unnatural, burning higher than any ordinary kindling should allow. It casts shifting shadows against the rock, distorting figures as they move, dancing wildly, their bodies twisting in a fevered rhythm.
The Vaythari move like both predators and spirits. Some are bare-chested, their skin streaked with ash and shimmering gold dust, muscles flexing as they beat at the ashdrums. Others move with sharp grace, wielding knives mid-dance, the steel flashing with each flicker of firelight.
And then, there is the sound.
It is laughter and song, sharp bursts of it woven between the music—not careful, not restrained, but full, open, alive, completely uninhibited. It doesn’t belong to the halls of kings or the courts of lords. It does not ask permission to exist.
