He could have snapped her bones.
Instead, he took a step back and pushed her towards Lu’ma.
Auryn was still stunned, immobilized with grief, with hope, with prayer. But Lu’ma—ever clear of mind—immediately warded them both.
The Riven watched, impassive.
“Leave, Sokâr,” he said. “Take your portal to your tower of glass…and to your Skycleaver.”
He knelt down, picking up her parcel.
“N-No!” she protested, taking half a step towards him, gasping when he tossed the box at her with a hint of irritation.
She caught it, clutching it to her chest. He watched the set of her shoulders, the way her fingers trembled against the box.
“Coveting,” he said, “is a dangerous thing. The Resh’Agar will leave for war, as it should be. The Sokâr will be left alone…” He spread his wings wide, straightening his shoulders. “But not unguarded.”
His wings flared again, and he turned to walk away. Dismissing her.
"Wait!" Auryn called. "We're not finished here. You did not answer me."
He didn't pause. Didn't turn.
Auryn took a step, but Lu'ma caught her elbow, shaking her head with a grave look in her eye.
'No, Your Radiance. You must not. That creature is—'
"Hesaw her, Lu'ma. I must know if…" but when Auryn looked to the Riven once more, he'd already melded into the shadows of the alley. "He's gone…"
'For someone so broad, he moves in silence,'Lu'ma signed.
The scar at the nape of Auryn's neck grew hot, and she reached up to touch it with a wince. A familiar voice growled in her mind.
A new enemy? Or have you tamed another monster, ember mine?
She did not answer the wolf.
But in her heart, she spoke the words she’d said to Kailorien so many years ago on the Emerald Moores—war is not something one can tame.
If he's come to fight, I will not give ground.
But I will find him again, and I will learn the truth.
All of it.
61
Sacred Charge
The final weeks before the Resh'Agar's departure blurred into discipline. There was an endless list of preparations to make before his departure for Campaign. But Kailorien's focus was elsewhere. This time, he was determined not to leave a single stone unturned. He would never leave Auryn defenseless and vulnerable again. Though he'd made a bargain with Shu'Khan, he did not trust his motives. Not only that, but Sevrion's conspiracy had slipped past even the eyes of the Vesper Seat.
So Kailorien did what the Resh'Agar did best. Prepared for war. Not on the Surface, but beneath the Shields. A war on anyone that would threaten his sacred consort.
Every dawn, the Reskala trained in the Crucible, steel flashing, bodies driven until their lungs burned. Kailorien’s voice carried over the clash of blades, cold and unrelenting. They would march in step, or they would break. He sharpened not only their weapons but their fear—fear of failing the Arm of the Voice, of failing Krystopolis, of failingher.
Between drills, he dictated Campaign journals, mapped routes, weighed supply trains against the lean stretch of distance. Each decision measured and sealed in ink, so that if another hand must carry the record, nothing would be lost. Missives were sent to those residing at Stonewake. The fortress had survived the battle nearly a century ago, but those on the Surface were still rebuilding. He funneled supplies there, and as he did, he kept another journal—secret, hidden—where hekept record of contacts in the Veiled Bazaar and another project he'd started months prior.
Though his days brimmed with command, the nights left him restless.
