“I need you to march on Kryntar,” he says without flourish or pretense.
Gellesk’s face hardens, determined. “How many soldiers do you want?”
“Every soldier you have, except those with children who’ll need to leave one parent behind,” he answers, unyielding, direct.
“We have barely one thousand soldiers. And you expect us to take on Maldrak’s entire Marked army?” Gellesk asks incredulously.
Kael’s eyes darken in unwavering authority. Gone is the man who caressed my skin, and begged me to unburden my shame. In his place is the King of Zerynthia—powerful, irrevocable.
“Caeloria and Dravara are allied—if you remain here, what good will that do anyone? What are you defending? Any dissent is squashed within heartbeats by Thalmyr. You need resources. Numbers. If you march, we have a chance of taking out Maldrak, regaining the Marked soldiers, and having the stronghold of Kryntar Castle to defend from. We need you to meet rebels in Vyrhal and Galreth, then march on to Kryntar. Do you understand or not, soldier?”
Gellesk’s cocoa-brown eyes stare down Kael, though I see the way his breathing quickens under Kael’s gaze. “I understand, Your Highness. Though, I have concerns, if I may speak freely?”
And just like that, Gellesk bows—not with a gesture, but with his words.
Kael nods graciously—a king holding counsel. “Of course.”
“We’re to leave Virellin undefended? With all due respect, this is our home, and we’ve fought for as long as memory allows to protect it.” Gellesk’s voice breaks on the last word, and I see through the man I knew him to be, and see the real one that’s always lived beneath the surface: the Dravari loyalist who would bleed for his kingdom.
“There will be no Dravara to speak of if we don’t draw the fight to Kryntar. By staying, you guarantee Virellin’s erasure,” Therion asserts, voice stark and dangerous. “We’ve heard reports of Caeloria’s advanced weaponry. They have the largest army in the known realms, and the coin to fund an enduring war. Can you say the same of the rebellion?”
Gellesk runs his hands through his coiled, black hair. “You fuckin’ know I can’t,” he admits.
“Nor do you have an entire army of indoctrinated Starborn who’ve been trained to eliminate any threats to the throne fromtheir fifth summer,” Therion snaps, seemingly not done with this tirade. Though I can hardly disagree with his points.
But Kael pushes on, eyes firmly trained on an outcome. “We draw the fight to Kryntar, away from Virellin and Thornewood. We break the spell on the Marked, we bring down The Decay, and we take back Zerynthia—then we turn our gaze to Dravara. It’s the best plan we’ve got,” Kael commands.
“I’m pretty sure it’s theonlyplan we’ve got,” Ronyn drawls, ankle crossed over his knee lazily as if he hasn’t a care in the world.
As the Heart of Zerynthia and the rightful Queen of Dravara, do you agree?Kael’s voice trickles down the tether.
I do, I agree without hesitation. And with emotion thick in my throat, I add:Thank you for wanting to protect my Kingdom.
His low, rough timbre trails back to me.For you, my love, anything.
My heart stumbles, sharp and certain, because finally, I’m starting to see that he really would.
“I can hear the Codex,” Seren’s words split through our silent conversation.
“You canheara book?” Ronyn clarifies.
Gellesk and Correk look utterly bemused, searching the group for explanation.
“Veilborn,” Jax says casually by way of explanation. “Some old line of magic wielders from the lost kingdom, supposedly.” Her voice is almost bored.
“I haven’t heard any whispers of Veilborn for decades,” Correk breathes in awe. “The Archivist will know more.”
Who is this Archivist?
Seren looks hopeful at Correk’s words. “The Archivist in Nymeris?” she says, voice pitched high in hope.
“They call him the Aevryn Archivist,” Gellesk says. “Has a particular fascination with our continent, apparently.”
Seren moves to speak, to ask more questions, but Therion pushes on. “What can you hear?”
“I can hear it…speakingto me,” she explains, hesitant. “It wants me to open it.” Her wild, blond curls frame her delicate face as she looks around, waiting for someone to speak. To let her know it’s okay.
I move to comfort her—to be the anchor in her wild storm—but Therion’s hand shoots out, wrapping her dainty fingers in his giant palm.
