Jesenia nodded once, as if anchoring herself to it.
Then her hands slid up to his face, palms warm against his cheeks. She held him there, looking at him as if she were trying to memorize every line.
“I don’t believe in war,” she whispered. “But I believe in you.”
He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. “I will return,” he murmured. “Even if I have to tear the heavens to do it.”
She kissed him then, hot and desperate. The kind of kiss that carried men through wars.
His hands slid down her arms, lingering at her wrists. He stepped back slowly, though the action broke something inside him. Jesenia’s fingers clung to him for an extra moment before they fell away, empty.
He turned toward the door. Her voice stopped him.
“Val-Theris,” she whispered.
He turned back. She stood now, shoulders squared despite her tears, shawl slipping slightly.
“Be safe,” she said, the words simple and devastating.
Val-Theris’s chest tightened. “I will be.”
Jesenia shook her head, tears spilling again. “Don’t say it like it’s easy,” she whispered. “Say it like you mean it.”
Val-Theris held her gaze, then took a step closer to her once more, kissing her cheek. “I will come back to you.”
Jesenia nodded, as if accepting it because she had no choice but to.
Val-Theris turned and left.
And Jesenia stood in the pale morning light, hands pressed to her mouth to hold in the sound of grief, watching the place where he had been as if staring hard enough might keep him within the walls.
By midday, the Golden City was no longer quiet.
Armor clanged in the lower courtyard. Horses screamed as they were saddled. Orders snapped through the air. Soldiers lined up in rows ready for direction.
Val-Theris stood at the head of them, wings unfurled wide, the sun catching along the edges until they looked like fire trapped in gold. Rohannes stood beside him, helm tucked under one arm.
The generals bowed, waiting.
Val-Theris’s gaze swept over his men—faces young and old, hardened and frightened, all of them looking to him as if he could make the world make sense.
He lifted his hand, motioning toward the gates, and the city answered with the thunder of an army departing for war.
TWENTY-ONE
My Jesenia,
The eastern road is colder than I remembered. The wind cuts through armor as if it were cloth, and at night the fires burn low no matter how much wood we feed them. The men complain of the cold. I do not.
I have known colder things.
We reached the river pass at dawn yesterday. What remains of Sunspire is quiet now. Stone still smolders where flame kissed it last, and the air smells of wet ash and iron. I walked the streets myself. I made certain the wounded were tended before I ever accepted water or rest. You would have approved of the order in which I did things.
My men fight well. They are brave. They believe in what they protect. That belief carries them farther than steel ever could. Still, at night, when the camp settles and even the horses grow still, my thoughts wander somewhere warmer.
I find myself thinking of Solmiris at this hour—of the way the light catches the high windows just before dusk, turning the marble soft instead of blinding. I think of quiet rooms and open air and the sound of breathing not my own.
There are moments when the weight of command presses so heavily that I forget what it feels like to simply be. In those moments, I remember a voice that speaks without fear even when surrounded by those who wish it silent. I remember hands that mend rather than break.
