"They fear me," I continue, and the room falls silent. "Because my magick is different. Powerful. Dangerous." My very existence threatens centuries of carefully maintained separation between worlds.
Hawke's fingers tighten around mine under the table. "They fear what they don't understand," he corrects, his voice carrying that edge of steel I've come to recognize and appreciate.
The crystal glasses on the table vibrate slightly. All the knights are angry. I can see it on their faces. But it’s not at me—it’s on my behalf.
"Several realms stand with us," I add, reaching for my wine to wet my suddenly dry throat. The sweet-tart liquid offers little comfort. "Asgard. The Upir. The Sirens. And the Drakonii."
"Probably helps that my sister is queen," Wraith says, his voice still strung tight. The shadows behind his chair have deepened even further. The jewels on his fingers gleam with a cold light as he clenches his fist around his knife.
“Yes, I would assume so.”
Fenrir growls low in his throat, the sound more wolf than man.
Boaz's greying fingers tremble slightly as he reaches for his goblet, the stone-like texture of his skin catching the candlelight.
My chest tightens at the sight, a cold knot of worry forming beneath my ribs. Unlike the Ares and Wraith, his curse is a physical impairment that continues to worsen by the day—the living stone spreading inexorably up his arms. Without his mate, he'll become completely petrified, consciousness trapped in immobile stone.
"The sirens..." He smiles slightly, though the effort doesn't reach his eyes. "Well, they've never cared what anyone thinks. They’re the ones spear-heading the rebellion to start with. And then I would assume it is because of Kellan that the Drakonii stand on the side with Queen Melinda."
I feel a rush of gratitude toward Kellan, whose presence behind me suddenly feels even more significant. His people's alliance might make the difference between survival and exile. I draw a deep breath, inhaling the spiced aroma of the feast before us, trying to ground myself in this moment instead of spiraling into fear about what comes next.
"It's not enough," Hawke says, his voice carrying both determination and something that borders on desperation. Our bond pulses with his concern—not just for his kingdom, but for his brothers-in-arms who sit before us slowly being consumed by their curses. "But it's a start. I need all of you back at full strength. It’s the only way we get through this."
I squeeze his hand under the table, sharing my strength through our connection. Four realms against four. A political stalemate with lives hanging in the balance. The weight of responsibility presses down on my shoulders, heavy as the crown that still feels foreign on my head.
These men are risking everything, not just for the realms, but for the chance I represent. Freedom from their curse.
"We can't let politics interfere with finding the soul shards," Boaz says. His voice catches slightly at the end, and I notice how he tucks his greying hand beneath the table, ashamed of the visible evidence of his deterioration. My heart aches for his pride, for the warrior trapped in a body slowly turning to stone.
I clear my throat, studying each knight in turn. Their exhaustion is written in the shadows beneath their eyes, the tension in their shoulders. "How much ambrosia did you each go through?" I ask, keeping my voice gentle despite the urgency of the question. The sweet scent of the Olympian nectar lingers faintly on their breath, telling me they've consumed it recently, perhaps even just before sitting down at the table.
The Knights exchange glances, a not-so-silent conversation passing between them. The candlelight flickers across their faces, highlighting the strain that two weeks on Earth has already carved into their features.
My stomach clenches—they're deteriorating faster than we anticipated.
It's Ares who finally answers, "Too much. We're burning through it faster than expected. Earth seems to make our conditions exponentially worse." His admission costs him. I see it in the tightening of his jaw, the flash of frustration in his eyes. The God of War doesn't easily confess weakness.
"It's the magick there," I say quietly, and all eyes turn to me. The attention makes my skin prickle. "Earth's magick is hungry. It eats life." I remember the sensation all too well—the constant drain, the feeling of something always pulling at your essence, demanding more.
"Which is exactly why the council and their allies fear you," Wraith says, but his tone holds no judgment. The shadows dance around him, responding to his emotion even as his face remains carefully controlled. "They're afraid you'll somehow infect Yggdrasil with Earth's tainted magick. That you'll change the very nature of power in all eight realms."
"But that's not—" I start to protest, but Hawke's hand squeezing mine stops me.
I shiver despite the warmth of his touch. My fingers drift unconsciously to my still-flat stomach, thinking of how much more they'll fear the child growing within me.
"They're afraid of possibility," he says firmly. "Afraid that if you can cross between worlds, if you can survive here and bear a child of mixed blood, then everything they believe about the separation of realms might be wrong." His eyes meet mine, fierce with pride and love. "You represent change, my love. And change terrifies those in power."
Across from me Fenrir's jaw works hard, the muscles in his throat tensing and releasing. Over and over again. "Respectfully, Your Majesties," Fenrir says finally, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the room, "fear of change won't matter if we're all dead or lost to our curses." He inhales deeply, nostrils flaring. "We need to focus on finding the soul shards. Politics aside, if we don't find our mates soon..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't have to.
We can all see the toll the journey is taking on them. Boaz's greying flesh. Ares' simmering rage warms the air until we all feel the desire to bicker and argue. The shadows under Wraith's eyes that speak of dreams and shadows he can't control. The silence that follows Fenrir's words hangs heavy with unspoken fear.
I glance at Hawke, feeling his concern. His fingers drum against the table, a subtle sign of his internal struggle. As king, he must balance the political realities threatening our kingdom, but as brother-in-arms to these men, their deteriorating conditions cut him deeper than any sword could.
"You're right, Fen," Hawke says. "The soul shards must be our priority. Everything else—Camelot, the Council, even securing our alliances—means nothing if we lose any of you. We can only win this with all of us together."
He leans forward, eyes scanning each knight in turn. "What did you learn about Earth?" Hawke asks, deliberately steering the conversation toward practical matters. "What's changed since we left? The more we understand, the faster we can find what you seek."
