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Without Sana’a by his side, Killen was bereft as if he’d mislaid a limb.
He rubbed at his chest, trying to soothe his aching soul.
It was to no avail.
He missed her.
She’d been an angel when he’d almost died at Kultur’s hand.
It’d taken a few days, but he’d made a quick recovery.
The perpetrator himself had disappeared, exposed as an arokí sympathiser.
After failing to catch the kaugur in flight, Kaxim had sent out a Klós K’lia hunting party after him. They’d still yet to find him.
Killen peered beyond the darkened camp to Mount Karth, which drew his eye as it did most nights.
His hawkstone told him his attacker had disappeared somewhere within its ridges. Even from so far away, he sensed Kultur’s malevolence.
Even through the gloom and cold fog, he made out the mountain’s peaks and beyond to the íkan dancing on the pinnacles.
It whirled like gold-laced snowstorms across the pinnacled landscape. Yet as his eyes travelled to the highest apex, the ancient runes of kätu stormed and leapt, turning into phantoms calling him.
He groaned. His hawkstone’s hereafter visions were getting darker each time he glanced up at the leaden pinnacles.
He shook his head as a rush of old dark power memories hit and threatened to overwhelm him, to lure him to the shadows of the past.
With a groan, he fell to his knees and let his hawkstone rip, its unseen power pulsing through his head and out over the plains and mountains beyond.
It was enough to quell the siren lure of kízakan, and relief flooded him as the darkness ebbed away.
Minutes later, the trudging of boots sounded, and he turned to see a Kärd sentry approaching.
‘Someone here to meet you, Sable,’ he whispered with awe. ‘They have the royal seal that lets them in without question.’
Curious, Killen rose to his feet and followed the sentry.
At the welcome platform of the ornate gold-plated leather kälajan entrance, a shrouded figure was flanked by two massive Klós gilded eagles in full transmutation.
Kaxim stood with the trio, hands behind his back, speaking in earnest with his guest.
Killen lifted a brow and followed the Kärd to the steps of the kälajan, where he jerked his chin to Killen before turning his eye to the visitors.
‘Someone sent for me?’
‘I did.’
The soft, lilting voice was haunting.
‘Who might you be?’ Killen murmured, intrigued.
The silhouette stepped away from their guards and descended two steps to stand just above Killen so they met each other eye to eye.
Slender fingers pushed back their shroud to reveal the features of a woman.
Her bright blue eyes sparkled with vivacity, her smile warm.
She reached out a hand. ‘Kesia Djan. You don’t know me, but I am -’
