They slithered away into the corners of the room, fading into nothingness, leaving him revealed.
King Draak's eyes snapped open, betraying shock. But just as quickly, it was masked, buried beneath layers of discipline hardened over decades.
Coldness settled into the old king's gaze, sharp as steel.
Rakhal could almost see the thoughts moving behind that scarred face. A dozen possibilities, measured and discarded in an instant. Attack. Defend. Call for guards. Demand explanation. Weighing them all in silence, calculating as only a king of the Varak could.
Draak sat up. Slowly, deliberately, as though drawing out the movement itself were enough to remind Rakhal where authority lay. His massive frame shifted upright, broad and hulking, muscles still thick beneath a latticework of scars. Yet Rakhal saw it—the faint stiffness in his shoulders, the creak in his joints that hadn't been there a few years ago.
"Is it done?" the king asked at last, his voice low, gravel scraping in his throat.
"No," Rakhal answered quietly.
Draak's eyes narrowed, considering. The silence stretched. Then: "You entered without my permission."
Rakhal inclined his head, a single nod. He knew what his father would make of it. This was no mere intrusion. It was proof—clear, undeniable—that he could have harmed the king at any time. Killed him where he slept.
If Draak was unnerved, he gave no sign. His face was stone, his voice steady.
"What happened?"
"I changed my mind."
Draak's scarred brow lifted slightly, and he leaned forward, the firelight catching the ridges along his jaw. "Oh?" His voice rumbled, low and skeptical. "That isn't like you."
The words were simple, but there was weight behind them. Rakhal had always been decisive—cold, efficient, unflinching. To act and then claim hesitation, a change of course... it was not in his nature.
The king's black eyes studied him, searching, measuring.
"You do not have the authority to disobey my direct orders," Draak growled, his voice carrying the weight of command that had bent a thousand warriors to his will. "Not even you, my son."
Rakhal's reply was steady, quiet but edged with steel. "This time, I ask you to reconsider. Once, and only once."
The shadows stirred at his feet, coiling and writhing, a dark reminder of what he carried within him. A warning. The faint light of dawn slipped through a gap in the heavy drapes, stabbing against his veil, reminding him of how drained he truly was. His body ached, his runes burned, and yet he stood tall, unwilling to let his father see weakness.
Draak studied him, scarred face unreadable, gaze sharp with thought. The silence stretched, thick as smoke.
"And you have an alternative plan, my son?" the king asked at last.
Of course he did. Draak knew Rakhal too well to think otherwise.
"A political union," Rakhal said outright, his voice as cold and steady as stone. "I will take the queen's hand in marriage. She has already agreed."
Draak scoffed, a harsh sound that rumbled in his chest. But then he fell silent, his scarred face shadowed in thought.
"You are serious," he said at last.
"Yes."
"The clan elders will never accept it. Neither will the humans."
"They will," Rakhal countered, his voice firm. "Ifyoudecree it, they will. If you convince them it is the path to end the war. To achieve peace."
He let his words hang between them, heavy as iron, then added, low and deliberate:
"The Ketheri ride toward Istrial."
At the name, his father's face darkened, shadows cutting deep across his lined features.The Ketheri.
