King Georg stepped through, no traces of the gangly youth that I remembered present. He was a man now: tall, broad, and cloaked in fur and glacial-crystal armor, his dark brown hair trimmed neatly, equally dark eyes sharp and knowing.
He greeted us immediately with a slow, warm smile.
“Stand down,” Georg said quietly to his guards.
The soldiers immediately lowered their weapons. He approached with calm authority and unexpected warmth.
“Ronan of Lyoness,” he said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Your queen said you might one day return. I did not expect it under such circumstances.”
My breath hitched.
“You … rebuilt all this quickly,” I managed, still not convinced we weren’t about to get skewered.
He turned, taking in Hoveria with a wistful, proud expression.
“We inherited ruins. Blackened stone. Shattered walls. Scorch marks from your battles, but it was still a home for my people, then yours, then mine again.” He touched the repaired wall with reverence.
“When the curse fell upon you, the fortress fell with you. Cracked by grief, by wild magick, by the Overlord’s first assaults. When your queen freed you and led you south, Hoveria was left wounded.” His voice softened. “We could not let it die.”
A thick swallow worked down my throat.
He wasn’t doing this for thanks or glory.
He did it because Hoveria belonged to both our peoples.He was simply trying to make everything better, while forgiving the past.
“Come,” Georg said. “You all need warmth.”
“And food!” Perri piped up.
George laughed, and even a few of the guards tittered. He led us through the archway, and everything inside felt impossibly alive.
Firelight flickered along the stone. Mountaineers bustled with steaming bowls of broth. Children chased each other down the long corridors. Herbs hung drying in the rafters.
This had once been a tomb, but now it felt like a heartbeat.
Wren had freed the drakens from this place only a year ago. When they left, Hoveria was still broken, smoke blackened, blood still drying on broken stone.
And yet, now it was whole.
Perri reached out a tiny hand toward a hanging lantern. Georg smiled and tickled her cheek.
“She is safe here,” he said. “All your people are.”
He guided us into the warmest chamber, clearly an infirmary. A matronly woman with a face like wrinkled leather clicked her tongue when she saw Veskor, simply pointing to a long, open bed.
Canavar set him down on his side, careful of his wings.
With his blue lips and claws stiff with frostbite, he looked half-dead. Snow still clung to his lashes, refusing to melt.
And even though he was the cause of all of this, he had carried Perri and sheltered her the best he could. He had nearly died doing it.
I didn’t know what to do with the knot that formed in my chest at that truth.
Canavar, however, was less conflicted. His voice was flat stone.
“If he is responsible for the vampyres,” he said slowly, “then he is responsible for Anar’s death.”
Nasi’s jaw tightened. “We wait for him to wake. And get better. Then we judge and beat his ass.”
