He was steadfast, unshaken, and yet I hated how easily I crumbled in the sanctuary of his arms. In public, I stood alone, a pillar of composure. In private, I dissolved. A queen would not falter like this. She wouldn’t weep for a servant lost or doubt herself at every turn.
His broad hand settled between my shoulders, grounding me. The other slid to the nape of my neck, fingers working into the tension coiled there.
A shudder rippled through me, my cries muffled against his chest.
Draconia called to me, but I refused to go back. My people and his depended on me staying. Scythe’s steady presence, my mother’s touch—those were the things I longed for. I wanted my brother’s laugh, the comfort of familiar faces. The man holding me? I didn’t want to love him.
The word pierced me.
Love.
A sob tore through my defenses, splintering the fragile walls I’d built. I loved him—not Tallon, my betrothed, but Kallias, the king of Radaan.
With a grunt, he lifted me, settling me on the wall as though I weighed nothing. My arms wrapped around his neck, desperate, while his scent enveloped me. Spices, the tang of cider, the warmth of baked goods.
He didn’t speak, nor did he press. He held me as my tears fell, tracing paths over the gold of his mantle, pooling on the sandstone below.
Above, the stars shimmered, their light fractured and mournful, as if they mourned with me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Kallias
Black leather armor gleamed on the Threshers at every turn, their presence an unshakable force. It was an irritation I couldn’t ignore—an itch out of reach. Though I wasn’t surprised, the sight still set my teeth on edge.
More often than not, they lingered in the shadows, barely a whisper—rumors of dark men, lurking like monsters that only came out after dusk. Since the assassination attempt on Nienna, they swarmed in numbers I never expected. Darius had far more of them under his command than I realized.
Apparently, the war was a perfect time for vows of vengeance to be traded for strength.
Threshers gave themselves to Radaan, to Nyryn, God of Vengeance. If they were chosen, the priests would mark them, branding their devotion in exchange for whatever their hearts desired. In return, they served the kingdom as lifelong soldiers, bound by the oath they swore.
Much like the Harvesters.
The thought of those assassins sent a cold shiver through me. Fallione handled their guild master, and I trusted his word that they had no part in Nienna’s attack. As king, I learned to keep my distance from them.
Too many eyes would watch if we so much as exchanged words. If people started turning up with blades in their backs, fingers would point in my direction. Radaan’s assassins had to remain a secret.
The walk to the temple was doing nothing to ease my irritation.
We still had no answers. I’d seen the bodies. The wounds. Radaanian, all of them. Field workers with tan lines etched across their knees and shoulders. Farmers. But their skill—too refined for simple laborers.
Sources confirmed their weapons came from a blacksmith in Reem. They arrived with a shipment of wheat, disguised as commoners.
Deception clung to me, heavy as stone, pressing down on my chest. I had every right to demand the truth. Nienna’s attack was a personal insult, having happened within my walls. I frothed at the mouth, desperate for resolution.
But this couldn’t be rushed. I had to trust my people to do their jobs. To drop everything and march north demanding results wasn’t an option.
Nienna’s broken form wreaked havoc on my thoughts—how she shattered in my arms like a wave crashing against the shore. Her body trembled, as though I were the only thing keeping her grounded in the chaos of her own emotions.
She didn’t deserve this.
If I knew who orchestrated the attack, I would have made some reckless decisions that night. Ignorance, in its bitter way, kept me grounded.
I had guided her to her chambers, cursing the distance between us. The thought that she couldn’t be in my rooms ate at me. Despite the Thresher guarding her door, she was still too far—too unreachable. Even within my halls, if she needed me, I wouldn’t reach her in time.
I was the king—the father of her betrothed.
Gods, I was a mess. No matter how often I reminded myself of my role, reason slipped away whenever she was near.
