Compassion and sorrow still found him in quiet moments, carving lines into his soul. In the end, he was not only King of Radaan. He was Kallias. A man who survived an abusive marriage, swallowed the shame of it in silence, and waged war through the prime of his life to shield his realm. After all that, he still had room in his scarred heart to love. To care.
That is the man I chose to see.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Kallias
We rode into Helmsgate well after the sun had set. We had reined our reckless charge down to a walk as the moon climbed high and pale, taking the sun’s place as our guide while we slipped into the hushed town. Our army camped in the fields beyond the walls, canvas snapping in the wind, leaving only a thin line of us in the street to rouse whoever still slept.
There weren’t many.
The stench of death clung to the air, fouling the back of my throat until bile rose. Smoke, rot, old blood baked into cobbles. Fifty-three. That was the last count of those slain by Egath and Tallon. The number beat against my skull with each step. Rumors laid the blame at Egath’s feet, which puzzled me. As if Tallon had managed to bury his heritage beneath charm and silken words.
The only reason he would do that was if he still intended to take Radaan.
I expected Tallon to struggle with his urges. He had always burned hot, reckless. Egath, however, wore restraint like atailored cloak. He handled his desire for blood well enough to pass as an ambassador. I needed more details, and tonight would be my only chance before I returned to Reem.
The tavern had been cleared, and my men flanked the entrance when we approached, boots planted wide, hands resting near sword hilts. A wooden sign creaked overhead in the wind, its chain whining as it swung. The paint had chipped, but the words still read,The Iron Cask. I pulled my horse to a halt. The weary beast dropped his head at once, flanks heaving, steam curling from his nostrils into the cold night.
We had miles yet to cross. By the time we caught Tallon, the horses would be little more than bone and stubbornness.
I dismounted, biting back a groan as agony tore up my spine. My boots struck dirt hard, and I braced against the saddle, leather slick beneath my palm, and forced my legs to move. Blood prickled into numb flesh. My tailbone felt like a blacksmith’s anvil wedged into my frame, every breath sending a dull throb through my hips.
Once sensation returned enough to trust my footing, I rounded to Nienna’s steed. She looked down at me, her toes tracing slow circles in the stirrups.
I waited while she gathered herself. She swung her leg over and dropped. My hands closed around her waist to steady her when her knees threatened to fold.
Her knuckles blanched as she clutched the saddle, breath slipping between her teeth. “A moment,” she whispered.
“Take all you need,” I murmured. “Every man who rode with us knows that ache. There’s no shame in it.”
Pride stirred in my chest despite the circumstances. I could not name a noblewoman who would endure an entire day on horseback, much less at the punishing pace I had set. She kept her seat. She never asked for rest. My men had seen it. And they would remember her silent strength.
Her lips formed a thin line, brows drawing tight. After a steady breath, she pushed away from the horse and met my gaze before scanning the empty road. Silence hung thick as wool. Despair pressed down, heavy enough to bow shoulders. A door creaked somewhere in the distance. Murmured voices slipped through cracks in shutters, hushed as if the dead might stir at the wrong sound.
She attempted a smile, but it wobbled and fell. Her throat worked with a swallow before her fingers found my arm and held fast.
“What did Tallon do to them?” she asked.
I rolled my shoulders and let the weight settle into place, the mantle of king fitting like cold iron. “We’re going to find out.”
We passed the guards and stepped inside.
Light struck first. The room blazed bright as midday. Lanterns hung from every beam, wicks turned high, flames licking glass. Candles crowded the tables. Brass and copper mirrors gleamed along the walls, polished until they caught and multiplied each flicker.
A chill moved through me. The sign of a Velli attack had etched itself into my bones long ago. Nienna paused at my side. Her grip tightened in a silent question as she took in the glare.
Vellos preferred shadow. They hunted in darkness. As if daylight did not grant them enough advantage.
A man with a thick gray beard bowed low behind the bar. Beside him, a girl no more than fifteen, dipped into a curtsy so deep her hem brushed the floorboards. Bandages wrapped her hands, white linen stark against her skin, trailing up beneath her sleeves.
“Your Majesties, welcome,” the older man said.
My gaze dropped to the girl’s boots. Veridis, spare her. I wouldn’t press her for information, but Fallione would. How far did those bandages climb? Just how monstrous was Tallon? Ifhe preyed on young girls, perhaps that weakness could be turned against him when it came to Fyrn.
“Thank you for giving us a room.”
“It isn’t much, I’m afraid,” the man replied. “Not worthy of a king. But it is yours, as is all of Radaan.” He straightened to meet my eyes. Conviction hardened his expression. Not hateful, but determined. He had suffered—and was hopeful it would be made right.
