Above, stars glittered like frost. Winged shadows slid across them, the slow beat of dragons circling. Their wings a drumbeat of impending doom.
“You don’t have to come,” he said, low. “Spare yourself. Do not watch.”
A breath shook out of me. “I have to.”
Silence stretched, brittle as cracked glass.
“I don’t hate you,” I whispered, a confession tearing its way free—but he needed to hear it. “I hate myself.”
Chapter Thirteen
Kallias
Mother Veridis, breathe life into my nation. Father Elohios, lend me strength. Forgive me my deceit. Let my actions raise your name, and may my people remember me as honorable—as your servant.
Pain raced up my knees, drawing a grimace, but I refused to move. I had been in prayer all night—if it was night. No windows. No moonlight. Only the dim orbs flickering along the stone walls. I couldn’t tell how long it had been since Nienna left.
Or if she meant to return.
Let me see her one last time.
A selfish prayer, but I asked anyway. Just once more, I wanted to feel her touch on my skin.
This was what honor demanded. I wouldn’t hide and allow her to take the blame. I was here, facing judgment, paying my penance, accepting the cost. Still, a nagging part of me feared it would end with my death.
Bless me again. Let the Draconis see your light.
I had slain the mammoth. My skin lit with Elohios’ power after Nienna and I had tangled ourselves. He blessed me even after I sinned. Radaan knew nothing of that—but Greaves did. And Fallione. My god hadn’t forsaken me, though I didn’t understand why.
No breeze stirred in my cell, no whisper of approval. The black walls of the Spire swallowed my prayers.
Still, I prayed.
Faint footfalls whispered down the corridor. I stood, knees stiff, legs prickling with blood. Gods, I wasn’t young anymore.
“Kallias Sunspear,” came a stranger’s voice, steeped in disdain.
Greaves’ muttered correction poured from the next cell. “King.”
He hated this place—feared the duel’s outcome.
A man stopped outside my bars, his blue-gold tunic catching the mage light’s cool glow. The orb bobbed above a small device carved with runes. Its light etched shadows across his severe face as he scowled toward Greaves’ cell.
Two riders flanked him, clad in black leathers, hands close to their blades. They watched me as if I were already condemned.
At least they blamed me—not Nienna.
“I’m here to record your final requests,” the scribe said, holding out a plank of wood.
“I ask only for a private audience with King Nereus.” My spine straightened, rising to my full height. I might be caged, but I was still King of Radaan.
A rider crossed his arms, lifting his chin. “Denied.”
“Then I ask for nothing.”
“Surely you wish to clear the record,” the scribe tilted his head, “provide your honest report?” His tone was accusation enough. He believed the lie.
“If your king will not address me face to face, I have no interest in speaking to you.” The words ground between my teeth.
