Wet fire came when oil poured too freely and sparked. It did not simply ignite. It soaked timber, seeped into soil, bled through porous stone. Flames crawled low and stubborn, smoke thick with the scent of pitch, burning long past reason.
No one had checked Tsunami. She cast her oil to the wind, instinct guiding the torrent.
She sat beside Breon, angled as far from Gyrak as pride allowed. Her irises glittered like sunlit sand, gaze flicking between me and Kallias. Nostrils flared. A faint curl of smoke slipped from her jaws.
One misstep toward us and Gyrak would humble her again.
Gold flashed through the crowd as my husband’s armor gleamed, scoured clean, not a smear of blood left to stain it. Greaves followed in dark leather, silent as a shadow stitched to his king. The night to Kallias’ sun.
He paused before an older man propped against a girl’s shoulder. Their words were lost to the wind. The man reached out, frail fingers emerging from a torn blanket to brush the king’s polished metal.
Greaves shifted, weight rolling to the balls of his feet—ready to intervene.
Then Kallias saluted him. Fist to chest. Head bowed. Respect offered without hesitation. The girl’s mouth parted before she caught herself, dipping into a curtsy and tugging the old man with her. My husband clasped the man’s shoulder, slowing the contact so it would not jar fragile bones. Precision lived in him, even in mercy. When he turned, his gaze found me on the rise.
He broke from the crowd and climbed the hill. Dirt-streaked faces tracked his ascent.
Fallione joined him. “Final count stands at two thousand, three hundred sixty-two.”
Kallias said nothing. Tension locked his shoulders. Glacier eyes swept the mass below, frost masking the fracture beneath.
“Two hundred soldiers will escort them to Reem. Have them wait there until I return.”
Fallione’s frown flickered toward me, as if answers might hide in my expression. “I’ll send word to Alma to see them cared for.”
Kallias drew a breath that lifted his chest. His hand flexed above his sword’s hilt. “Citizens of Radaan!” His voice carried across the plain, striking silence into the wind itself. “Phares lies in ruin. Betrayal of gods and king brought destruction upon house and livelihood. You are no longer welcome in these streets. The name Phares will stain you no further. You are to bear the title of the Wandering People.”
A murmur shivered through the crowd.
“You may find shelter wherever you travel. No city is to refuse you. Yet you are forbidden to plant roots. You shall walk Radaan all your days, a living testament to the wrath of Elohios. A warning to any who would betray the mantle.”
Horror drained faces of what little color remained. Gasps rippled like wind through brittle grass. Women crushed children to their chests. Men’s jaws hardened, fury banked behind clenched teeth.
But none dared object while dragons stood at our backs.
“Your king and queen shall not rest until Radaan is purged of the darkness you harbored. Until that day, you will rest in Reem under guard and provision. May the gods have mercy on your souls.”
“Wait! King Kallias!” A boy tore free from the crowd. He stumbled, black smeared across his small face, hair matted with grime. “My mama can’t walk. My sister is sick. We’ll never make it!”
A dragon rumbled, low and warning. Sympathy squeezed my lungs. He couldn’t have seen more than eight summers. Wind snapped his thin tunic against narrow ribs. Bare ankles showed beneath too-short trousers. His fingers curled into hooks as he stared up, hope raw in his expression.
“The rain falls on the just and the unjust.” Kallias’ tone cut like winter stone. He turned without pause and mounted his horse, turning his back on the stunned crowd.
Ronan helped me mount before he rushed to Gyrak.
In their eyes, their king had abandoned them, forsaken them, punished them more than they could bear. They escaped the city, hoping to find mercy, but only faced his judgment.
But they did not notice the sun catch on the wet trail along his cheek.
They didn’t see the orders I had signed commanding a slow march to Reem, a snail’s pace. Clauses ensured none would be left behind; provisions secured wagons, healers, warm bread. A final decree required every soul to be counted at each stop.
Spine straight as a spear, face set like flint, Kallias sat tall in the saddle. The Golden Warrior. Chosen of the Gods. One by one, my dragons launched skyward, wings beating cold gusts that battered cloaks and sent ash spiraling.
They witnessed a king’s righteous fury.
But missed the compassion and love he had for his people.
The first hours of the ride passed in silence, hooves drumming a dull rhythm against frozen earth. Wind scraped across my cheeks, sharp with the scent of ash and distant smoke. The weight of the damnation he delivered rode with us, heavy as iron.
