“Who goes there?” A surly voice bellows, shielded from sight by overhanging trees, and the curve of the well-worn path.
The rasp of my zarethite swords cuts through the morning calm, birdsong stilling at the warning of violence.
Ronyn’s god metal arrow is nocked, and Teddy’s already dropped low with his axe brandished over his shoulder. Elyssaradoesn’t unsheathe a weapon—but her palms turn translucent as Lightborne magic races down her veins.
“King Kael Thorne of Zerynthia and Queen Elyssara Dawnmere of Dravara,” I command, voice sharp and clear.
The clatter of weapons leaning against walls travels on the morning breeze, and two guards with wide smiles round the corner.
Our weapons are angled at their hearts, but they seem unperturbed.
“Ah, Your Majesties. We’ve been expecting you. Queen Ilyra has already prepared an intimate table for the dawn meal. She awaits your company with Lady Sylvaine,” one guard says, completely disarmed and relaxed, despite the weapons aimed to kill.
Surprised, I sheathe my blades. “Stand down,” I command the others, who follow my orders and sheathe their weapons, too. “I didn’t expect an audience with the Queen would be so easy to attain,” I remark.
“King Kael, we may not be a land of warriors like old Zerynthia, but we are a proud nation of scholars; our wards know every boot that sets foot on our land, and even if our wards falter—which they don’t—our spies are the best in the known realms. Your arrival was both expected and known,” the guard states with an air of superiority.
I fight the urge to intimidate the overly-confident man into humility—he’s evidently used to saying what he likes without repercussions. But I stay my hand. This is politics.
He spins on his heel, waving at us to follow.
The guard leads us through an archway, where pale limestone pillars stretch heavenward, carved with runes so intricate and fine they’re almost imperceptible. Lanterns spill honeyed light across the terrace, where the scent of cinnamon and spiced wine drifts through the air.
We’re ushered into a smaller courtyard, enclosed by walls draped with ivy and open to the sound of the waterfall cascading beyond the walls. The table here is not banquet-long or ostentatious. Instead, it’s set with deliberate intimacy—polished oak, cut crystal, bowls of ripe pomegranates and steaming bread. The kind of table meant to breed trust rather than distance.
Which makes me trust it even less.
Two women rise as we approach.
Lady Sylvaine, austere in silver-gray robes, her sharp eyes catching everything, missing nothing. She embodies restraint, her movements exact, her expression carved of resolve. A politician through and through.
And beside her, Queen Ilyra. She is the castle personified—graceful as the arches above, her snow-white hair cascading over her shoulders like the waterfall beyond the walls. Ice-blue eyes linger on me with a heaviness that unsettles me.
“Dravara’s lost daughter,” she says softly, but the words strike with the weight of prophecy. “And Zerynthia’s forgotten king. At last, the tether threads you here.”
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear the shuffle of leaves in the courtyard.
Then she gestures to the table, hands delicate but sure.
“Sit for the dawn meal. You carry war on your shoulders, but in Elarion, we begin with bread and story.” Her voice doesn’t carry the unwavering authority of other royals, though it’s not tentative either. It’s unassuming.Underestimating.
The guard bows himself away, leaving only our group in the courtyard with Lady Sylvaine and Queen Ilyra. A dawn meal, and the weight of history in the air.The fate of the realms, too.
Ilyra sips at herbal tea, her eyes landing on mine with gentle assessment. “There’s much you don’t know,” she begins, though there’s no condescending tone, only fact.
“Such as?” I ask, reaching for bread, as I hear the others suck in a breath.
Ilyra has dropped all pretenses—typical Nymeris going straight for knowledge.
“Such as Dravara’s memories,” she answers simply.
“What of them? What do you know?” Elyssara demands, hot and insistent.
“We know most things, Elyssara,” Ilyra admits patiently, pursing her lips in a small smile.
Elyssara rolls her eyes, uninterested in the political games of the Elarion court.
“May I?” Lady Sylvaine asks Ilyra, noticing Elyssara’s agitation.
