"King Alistair Virell..." Thorne's voice trailed off, his words heavy with something unspoken. "He was the last true ruler of Varrowmere, a kingdom that—" he paused, eyes flickering toward the horizon as though seeking the right words, "—a kingdom that fell apart when he did." His voice dropped lower, almost imperceptibly. “When he died, everything went to chaos. His line was fractured. His legacy erased."
I narrowed my eyes. "So, he’s just gone? No one knows what happened to him?"
Thorne’s lips pressed into a thin line. “The official story is that he died in battle against Ashton and Vael, when they were allies, trying to stop an uprising. But the truth?” He didn’t finish the sentence, leaving a gaping hole of uncertainty.
“What’s the truth?” I pressed, unable to hold back.
Thorne’s jaw flexed, and I felt the tension ripple through his body behind me. His grip on the reins didn’t falter, but the air between us thickened.
“You ask a lot of questions,” he said flatly.
“That usually happens when people keep hiding things,” I muttered.
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “King Virell died. That’s the truth that matters.”
“But not the full truth,” I countered.
“Stories,” he echoed, a scoff threading through his voice. “Fairy tales told in taverns and alleyways. People cling to myths when they don’t like the rulers they’ve got.”
I twisted just enough to glance at him. “But you’ve heard them too.”
He met my eyes for a second too long. “I’ve heard a lot of things,” he said carefully. “Most of them are distractions. Dangerous ones.”
My pulse picked up, not just from his words but from the way his voice dropped, low and unreadable. “So, you don’t believe the Virell line still exists?”
“I believe in what’s in front of me,” Thorne replied. “And right now, that’s you. And keeping you alive.”
That shut me up for a beat. His arms were still around me, solid and unmoving, and his breath brushed the curve of my neck every time he exhaled.
But something still itched at the back of my mind. “If they were real… if someone from that line returned… what would it mean?”
Thorne was silent for a moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was like stone. “It would mean everything changes. Which is exactly why it won’t happen.”
He didn’t say it like someone who was sure. He said it like someone hoping to convince himself.
And somehow, that was worse.
Once we pushed closer to the centre of town, the streets thickened with people.
At first, they only glanced at us. Quick, curious looks. But the deeper we moved into the heart of the city, the worse it got.
By the time we neared the market square, no one even bothered to pretend.
They stared.
And the looks… gods, they were wanton.
The thirsty gazes of men and women alike slid over my companions, drinking them in like parched souls finding water after a drought.
I could imagine exactly what they saw — four masters of men, carved from beauty and raw power, impossible to ignore.
Leo’s golden warmth, dazzling and reckless, like basking on a beach at midsummer.
Phoenix’s calm gravity, steady and grounding, as inevitable as the tide.
Slade’s immovable strength, the quiet warning in the way he watched the world like he could tear it apart if he wanted.
And Thorne — my shadowed warden — cold, sharp, dangerous, coiled so tight it felt like he might snap.
