And despite everything—cannons, castles, culling—this feels like the rebellion.
Thisis the reason we need to remake the realms.
“I’d hug you, but ahhh… you’re naked,” I choke out through my laughter.
His hands shoot to his hips, and he lifts his chest proudly. “I have a theory, dear El, that clothing is just a way for men with small dicks to hide. I, on the other hand, would proudly go everywhere like this,” he throws his arms out in a theatrical flourish, as if we’re not in the midst of war.
“I fucking believe it, brother,” Kael laughs, clapping Ronyn on the back.
I bury my face in my hands, shaking my head at his ability to have this charming effect on everyone.
“I wouldn’t want to embarrass all the lads, though,” he says, rummaging through the halls to find trousers, and pulling the boots from dead soldiers.
“Why were you even out here, Ronie?” I ask, voice transforming into calculated calm.
“Looking for you, actually. You were taking a while, and Teddy sent me on a mission. Bloody lucky I turned up, eh?” he bounces his eyebrows up and down irreverently.
“Is everyone okay? Do you have Maldrak?” Kael snaps, ignoring the joke.
Ronyn’s face shifts into something serious. Something loaded. “We’re ready to perform the spell,” he answers with gravitas.
I look around at the rubble, the path to the prayer chamber blocked with crumbled stone.
“Before you put on more clothes, do you think you could clear the path to the chamber?” Kael asks, face a feral invitation.
Ronyn’s mouth presses into a thin line of annoyance. “The dragon says he’ll only do it if El asks. Soul-bound to each otherand all that,” he says, voice indignant. “Not sure he really likes you, Kael.”
Kael huffs a laugh, but raises his hands in mock surrender.
“Tarrakai, will you please clear the path?” I ask, barely containing my smugness.
Without a word, Ronyn struts toward the rubble, hands back on hips, chest lifted proud.
“Now would be good, Tarrakai, my friend,” he beckons, as if talking to a barkeep.
The air shifts instantly.
The scent of brimstone coils through the hall—smoke, sulfur, and stormfire.
Ronyn whips his gaze to us and throws us a playful wink.
Then his flesh ruptures, making way for a great beast.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
ELYSSARA
The silenceafter destruction is almost worse than the noise—pregnant with potential for good and evil.
Ash drifts like snow through the fractured corridors, catching in my lashes, tasting of smoke and endings. The roar of cannons still rumbles like thunder, and the castle still bleeds—cracks spidering through the stone as if the very bones of Kryntar Castle are giving way.
We descend what’s left of the stairwell, the air growing colder, heavier. Kael pretends he’s hurting less than he is, though his labored breathing and uneven gait gives him away. Ronyn is clothed in ill-fitting leathers and too-big boots, though his zarethite arrows and bow still sling from his shoulder, and any signs of Tarrakai are tucked away inside his chest.
And me? I’m ready for a reckoning.
The scent changes the further we sink into the castle’s labyrinths—the smell of sulfur giving way to the tang of old magic, to incense trapped in the stones since the dawn of kings. The prayer chamber waits below, ancient and alive, humming like something half-awake and listening.
By the time we reach the carved archway, the others are already there. Teddy stands guard at the threshold, facestreaked with soot, barking orders to Morrathys as they prepare the chamber for a ritual of ancient witches.
