“The Heart of Ashara,” someone breathes.
My stomach drops. Shock turning my blood to ice.
“So, it worked?” Daelen asks, confused.
“He does feel different,” Therion confirms simply. “I thought it was because he’d died. But perhaps it’sthis. He feels… older, somehow.”
Older?
But before I can say anything, ragged breaths cut through the fragile peace, approaching at speed.
Therion stands, stalking towards the sound like a duskprowler on the hunt.
“It’s Rowan,” Therion announces, releasing his hand from the haft of his axe.
The young Mindweaver barrels towards the campfire, and Kael’s jaw clenches in anticipation. No one runs like that without good reason.
In a heartbeat, the lover-stare fades, and something older—command, calculation, a king’s weight—slides into place.
“Sir,” Rowan pants as he rests his hands on his knees in exhaustion as he arrives. “Sir, we’ve received missives. Lady Sylvaine. Eldric. They’ve sent word,” he finally gets out between breaths in a staccato rhythm.
Kael’s posture shifts in an instant. No longer a lover, a friend, a warrior. No. Now, he’s a king.The True King of Zerynthia.
“Assemble the war council. Bring Correk and Mavyrn—leave Morrathys to rest. We meet at the moon’s peak,” he commands, tone clipped and direct. He stands, tips his ale into the fire, and looks around the group—his trusted council. “It’s time for war.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
KAEL
Council Hollow smellsof oak and harsh liquor, and the air is a dense mixture of both apprehension and eagerness.
Therion claims his seat to my right—the seat of the General of War. The Zerynthians on the council file in, claiming their assigned seats around from Therion. With Eldric and Lady Sylvaine gone, Seren and Ronyn take their seats directly across from me. The very act of Dravari natives at our table rewrites history—a symbol of the peace we aim for. Correk and Mavyrn stand to the back of the hollow, pressing themselves into the walls as if they can melt into them. Elyssara is the last to enter the room. She’s changed into her fighting leathers, Starforged Blade sheathed at her thigh once more, boots laced firmly, and her hair tightly styled in twin war braids like the ancient female warriors of Aevryn. She’s mesmerizing. A force.A prayer made manifest.
Without a word, she sits to my left on the thick stump of oak—unaware, unknowing of the significance. No one has sat to the left of the king since my mother flanked my father around Kryntar’s war table. Daelen sits up straighter, eyes darting around the room looking for how to respond. Jax lets out a scoff, muttering something under her breath that I can’t discern, butis undoubtedly venomous. Merrik leans back, pressing his lips into a thin line. But Therion? He doesn’t flinch, and I notice the way his eyes crinkle at the corners—suppressing a smile.He knows what this means.
Elyssara’s eyes narrow. She can feel the weighted stares on her, glaring, disconcerted.
“Obviously I’ve pissed someone off. What is it?” she asks indignantly, her brows pinching together.
No one speaks, and tension blankets the air. I can’t help the smirk that graces my face. Because having her to my left is exactly where she should be.
“Would someone just fucking say it?” she snaps, annoyance trumping any curiosity.
But no one speaks. They only look to me, expectantly.
I lean forward, resting my arms on the table and slowly, I let my gaze meet her face. The faint freckles that sweep across her nose. The emerald-green eyes that inhabit my dreams. The furrowed brows that frame her face when she fights.
I clear my throat.
“In Zerynthian tradition, it is custom for the King’s Sword to sit at his right, and the King’s Heart to sit at his left,” I say, and I can’t hide the amusement I feel at her sitting there unaware.
Her trepidation snakes down the tether, but she doesn’t yield. Not completely.
“So, just tell me to move, then,” she scoffs, and moves to stand.
I throw my hand out to her shoulder, pressing it down firmly to stop her.
She eyes me warily.
