I pause, weighing my words carefully. We’re in a delicate truce—somewhere between acceptance and forgiveness. I don’t want to scare her off. I also want to claim her so fucking thoroughly that she forgets Kryntar ever existed.
“I don’twantyou to move—you’re exactly where you belong, Duskae,” I say, and I mean it.
Elyssara is unmoving, eyes locked on mine. She swallows thickly. And her brows relax just slightly. Almost imperceptible, but I notice.
The air prickles. As if every man and woman in this hollow has realized what her presence means: that the heart of Zerynthia beats Dravari.
“The King’s heart,” she murmurs, and I’m not sure if it’s a question, but I treat it like one.
“The Sword makes war. The Heart makes us worthy of it,” I explain.
Silence rents the air.
Inhales cut off mid-breath.
The jungle’s hum fades beyond the room. Even the candles seem to hold their breath.
But I don’t take my eyes off her.
“Will you stay at my left, Elyssara?”
She sucks in a long, slow inhale through her nose, tempering her urge to fight, to push back. “On one condition,” she finally says.
“I would expect nothing less,” I reply, amusement still heavy in my tone.
“When I speak,” she declares, voice like steel wrapped in Starlight, “my word is law.”
My core goes fucking molten at her boldness. She’s so beautiful when she’s powerful.
A hush spreads, weighty as iron. Every councilor’s gaze is pinned to her, as though they’ve all realized the same thing—that by sitting here, Elyssara hasn’t just claimed a seat. She’s claimed power.
And I intend to give it to her.
Varian’s whining voice interrupts my thoughts, “Kael, no. You can’t. She’s Dravari. This is a Zerynthian War Cou?—”
“As you wish,” I agree, ignoring Varian with cold indifference. And down the tether, just for her to hear, I say:I’ve told you before, Elyssara—you are the one who commands the Sky.
Mavyrn’s face is a wall of smugness—as if she predicted all of this since our visit to her cottage at the foot of Mount Lyssar.
Correk looks victorious. Like he’s won a game he’s been playing for a long time.
The door to Council Hollow creaks slightly, a rustling sound pressing against the other side of the door. It bursts open—Rowan stumbles backwards into the room after pushing the door open with his body. He’s holding a sizeable wooden box, balancing two missives with royal wax seals on top. His cheeks flood with warmth as he looks around the room, embarrassed with his entrance.
“Apologies, Your Highness—just needed to retrieve the box,” he stammers.
I give him an unfazed nod and gesture to leave the box on the table.
Rowan squeezes between Seren and Ronyn to place the box on the table, and his eyes catch and linger on Ronyn.
I don’t explain. I don’t say anything. I just watch the exchange, smile shamelessly on my face.
“I thought you were dead!” Rowan exclaims, unable to believe his eyes.
“Same,” Ronyn says casually, sipping his ale. “But ya can’t keep Ronie down—this place would be far too dull without my good looks, sharp wit and exceptional jokes now, wouldn’t it?”
“Ah, yes, sir. I suppose it would,” Rowan murmurs, unsure how to handle Ronyn’s irreverence.
The hollow fills with laughter, camaraderie, and I relish the sound. But I can’t let it last. There’s too much at stake.
