A low murmur of agreement rippled through the chamber.
Councilor Varin struck next, his voice heavy. “We tolerated the refugee’s presence because she kept her head bowed. But now you flaunt her, let her into your chambers overnight, sulkwhen she denies you, andworse—rumor says you’ve laid with her! Tell me, your Majesty, are you Solmiris’s king or a reckless child playing house?”
Something in him snapped.
Val-Theris’s wings unfurled wide with a sound like thunder, their span filling the chamber, feathers scattering faint motes of dust from the air. His eyes, usually soft and unreadable, burned fierce as steel struck with flame.
“I am your king,” he said, his voice low, carrying like a blade through silence. “Do not mistake my patience for weakness.” The councilors stilled, but he did not stop. He stepped forward, his boots striking the polished marble, his gaze cutting across them like fire. “You sit in these gilded chairs and scold me as though I am your son. But it is I who bleeds for this throne. It is I who sees futures none of you dare imagine. And it is I who carries Seraveth upon his shoulders while you trade whispers and count coins.”
His hand slammed flat against the marble table, the crack echoing through the dome. “You call Lady Jesenia a weakness. I tell you this: she holds more strength than all of us combined. You will not speak of her as filth beneath your shoes again.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Gena’s lips pressed thin, her knuckles against the table edge. “This city bows to a god, not a man who gives his heart to foreign blood. If you insist on dragging us into ruin, we will?—”
“You will what?” Val-Theris cut her off, his voice low, dangerous. His wings spread wider still, the sunlight catching their edges until they glowed faintly. “Depose me? You forget yourselves. Without me, Seraveth is nothing but marble and dust. Remember that before you ever dare raise your tongue to me again.”
No one spoke after that.
One by one, the councilors rose, their expressions tight with fury and fear. They bowed stiffly with the hollow submission of those already planning treachery, and filed out of the chamber. When the doors shut, Val-Theris stood alone, his chest heaving faintly, his hands braced hard against the marble table.
The council would never forgive him for allying himself with Jesenia.
And she would never forgive him for making her a symbol of mercy in a kingdom too proud to accept it.
EIGHTEEN
Val-Theris leftthem behind with their pale faces and stiff bows, with their half-swallowed threats and careful hatred, and the silence that followed him down the corridors felt louder than any shout.
He walked without destination at first.
His boots made no sound on the marble, but he could feel the echo of each step through his bones. The murals of angels watched him pass—painted eyes forever benevolent, forever serene.
His wings were still half-fanned with the aftershock of rage, feathers unsettled. It was not the kind of anger he indulged often. It left him hollow afterward, as if each outburst tore away something he needed to keep himself intact.
By the time he reached the upper residence wing, the sun had lowered into late afternoon. The light slanted through high arched windows in sharp bars, gilding the dust in the air and turning it into something almost holy. The palace smelled faintly of incense and old parchment and polished stone.
None of it soothed him.
He stopped outside Jesenia’s chambers.
For a long moment, he stood there with his hand hovering over the door as if he could feel her on the other side. He had not seen her since the day she left him standing in her room with the sunlight cutting him into pieces. Since the day his noble intention had turned into a weapon in her hands because it had not been offered as a choice, but as a solution.
He had tried to tell himself that time would soften it. He had tried to believe Rohannes when he said she always forgave.
But the memory of her face when she asked—Do you care about me, or do you just value the ease I bring to your conscience?—had not left him. It haunted him more deeply than visions ever had, because it was real and present and he could not outrun it.
He knocked. Once. Twice.
No answer.
He could have left. He should have left. He had no right to enter uninvited after everything he’d done.
But his patience—his careful restraint—had already been spent in the council chamber. And the thought of her sitting alone with that same bitterness twisting in her chest while the city sharpened its knives…it was unbearable.
He opened the door.
The room was dimmer than he expected, the curtains half-drawn to keep out the glare. The late sun still found its way through, pooling in puddles of gold along the floorboards and catching on the edge of the small table near the window.
She was not there. He hadn’t expected her to be, but a part of him clung to the hope of possibility. The only other place she would be in a city that hated her was down in the refugee quarter with her people, trying to soothe the suffering brought upon by his own.
