“Because we have none to offer,” she says simply, sweeping her pale hair behind her shoulder with regality. “Nymeris is built on ink and memory, not steel and blood. Our wards are strong and impenetrable to those we wish to keep out. Ourmessage lines stronger. But armies? We have nothing but the bare minimum—we have no need.” Her lips twitch in the smallest smile. “You’ll have to make do with what wedowield.”
I nod, making sure my mask of kingly authority is firmly in place, and I weigh my next words very carefully. “The Dravari royals thought the same of the dragons, you know? Placing so much weight on one defensive mechanism without appropriate offensive measures is… risky,” I assert.
Ilyra huffs a small laugh, but doesn’t falter. “We place our trust and affections in things we feel in our hearts are right, do we not, Your Majesty?” she asks, voice thick with meaning, as her eyes fix on something in the middle of the room.
I glance back toward the center of the room, where Elyssara now moves through a tide of noblemen and courtiers bowing too low, smiling too wide. My jaw tightens. They’re already circling her like moths to flame.
That’s when I understand.
“Yes,” I agree. “I suppose we do.”
“Knowledge topples thrones more often than swords,” Ilyra says, her voice like cool water against my raw nerves. “And if you wish to unmake what Thalmyr and Maldrak have built, you’ll need more than fire and fury. You’ll need truths sharp enough to gut the lies he forged.”
Her words dig under my skin, but not half as deep as the sight of Elyssara’s golden dress flashing with every step she takes. Reverence. Sin. Awe. Politics. All colliding in my veins like a war I’m barely keeping leashed.
“Maldrak readies his Marked soldiers to retaliate. Caeloria prepares to attack our shores and take our land—our riches. Thalmyr moves to march on us. Truths can’t save us from the war that’s coming from every direction,” I breathe, and the words come out like confession. Because I want to believe that we can win this. But the odds are stacked against us.
“That’s because you don’t know the truths that can serve you greater than an entire army of the finest soldiers, Kael,” Ilyra whispers conspiratorially. “Elandor knows what you need. In the morning, you’ll return to his chamber. But for now, share in the evening with friends and new allies—it will forever be known as‘The Day Before The Realms Changed,’” she announces, before spinning on her heels, her dress billowing out around her in a grand flourish. “And when this is all over, King Kael, send that General of yours here to train my Royal Guard. We won’t be Dravara, and our knowledge won’t be the dragons,” she throws over her shoulder.
I exhale a heavy breath.
My father taught me the art of politics—the way drinks loosen tongues, alliances are often forged in the company of whores and voidroot, and plying royals with gifts and compliments allows you access to their armies—or their information.
But I’m not interested in politics beyond Council Hollow.
Games are for children.
I’m interested in finality. Final breaths, heartbeats, words. I’m built for battlefields and blades. Not the pomp and ceremony of royal courts.
Elyssara, though, she’s different. She moves through the room like she was born and raised in royal courts—gracious, patient, polite. Like royalty is something beyond a bloodline—it’s stitched into the fabric of who she is. Not given, but embodied.
Her eyes flash toward me, locking on mine and not letting go.
A handsome gentleman reaches for her fingers, bowing low and pressing a modest kiss to the back of her hand.
Her eyes break from mine, and she returns a small nod to the man. He gestures to the dance area where pairs of finelydressed couples glide across the floor in delicate twirls and rehearsed movements.
She’s doing it. She’s fucking dancing with him.
They move toward the dance floor—his forearm leading her forward as if he’s won a fucking prize.
My chest tightens, my skin prickling white-hot under the layers of finery Ilyra had made for us.
Teddy sidles up beside me like a shadow, a goblet of wine balanced in one hand, a glass of amber liquor in the other. He takes one look at Elyssara on the dance floor—her golden dress glinting like Stars under the chandeliers—and lets out a low whistle, passing me the glass.
“Not your night, brother,” he says under his breath, grin all teeth and mischief. “Jealousy is unbecoming, or what was it you said to Elyssara in that tavern in Galreth?” he baits.
I don’t take my eyes off her. “Fuck off,” I murmur, the edge in my voice sharp enough to cut.
He chuckles darkly. “You just gonna stand here? Let another man dance with your woman?”
I drain the rest of my glass in a single swallow, my jaw working as the burn hits the back of my throat. “No,” I say, setting the goblet down so hard it rattles against the table. “I’m going to remind everyone in this hall that touching what’s mine is an act of war.”
Before he can answer, I’m moving—across the marble, through the orbit of watching nobles. My boots are a drumbeat on the polished floor, my gaze locked on her like a predator finally giving itself permission to hunt. The crowd parts without thinking.
The music swells. The man holding her hand looks up just as I step between them, my palm closing over hers with a claim that feels older than either of us.
“Dance with me,” I tell her, voice low, dangerous, and meant only for her ears. Not a question. A promise.
