“Gyrak wouldn’t let it happen,” he whispered, horror caught in his throat.
“Do you want to take that risk?” I bared my teeth. “You were so scared your sister would claim Gyrak as her own. Could you endure a Velli twisting his mind against you? Can you bring down your own dragon?”
His jaw twitched, gaze dropping to the map. Blood trickled from his lip, dripping down his chin.
No. Even with magic coursing through his veins, the Prince of Draconia would not take that risk.
Dreadful acceptance settled into my bones. “At least we see eye-to-eye on that.”
The medical ward in the manor filled at a pace that defied sense, bodies stacking like broken dolls, moans and groans weaving through the halls.
Night had fallen, draping the mountain in a quiet stillness that felt sacred, yet held a lie. It lay over us like a blanket, soft and suffocating, lulling the living into compliance. For a moment, the illusion held: everything was fine, Nienna was tucked into her bed, Vellos didn’t wield a weapon capable of annihilating Radaan, and I was anything close to sane.
Whispers curled from the shadows. The corners of my vision teemed with movement, ghosts of grief that clawed and slithered. My chest constricted, ribs compressing to dust. Helplessness gnawed at my stomach, bile rising up my throat with each thought of Nienna.
My mind balanced on a blade, taut between disciplined control and the torrent of passion. I anchored myself in protocol, sinking into the familiar embrace of strategy and calculations. It was a realm I understood—the realm of a Warrior King.
I knew nothing about being a husband. No, that element was new. That part of me, untested, raw and untrained. Love demanded I command Ronan to ride over the Craggs, to burn Vellos to ash. But desire for their safety—my wife, my unborn child—gnawed at me, a predator beneath my ribs, threatening to tear me apart. They were mine, and yet here I sat, pinned to the edge of Clay’s bed, powerless. Useless.
My hands trembled, turning over in my lap. The shakes were not fear but restrained rage, coiled energy with no outlet, no target.
Peace would not come until Tallon’s blood coated these hands.
“Wake him.”
The Harvester blinked at me, a pause hanging like smoke between us, offering a chance to reconsider. I knew the risk—Clay’s body had barely begun to mend. Waking him now might kill him outright.
What was one more among those already at death’s door? Greaves fighting for every breath, Fallione lost.
I nodded once, final, irrevocable.
The Harvester produced a vial from his belt, the cork popping with a muted hiss. He cradled Claydon’s head, tipping the translucent green liquid into his mouth, the scent faintly acrid.
Clay’s body was still a mess of devastation. Bite wounds wept beneath rough cloth bindings, muscle and skin torn, knotted in crimson rags. But waiting was no longer an option.
His chest rattled as the liquid worked through him, lungs inflating with shaky breaths. His eyes snapped open, unseeing at first, fixed on the ceiling as if the world were suddenly new and terrifying.
I stiffened, ready to catch him should he lunge or collapse, muscles coiled for action. His chest stilled, his limbs tensing in disbelief at the miracle of breath. With a sudden whoosh, he exhaled, blinking against the lantern glow that flickered across the ward.
A small, almost apologetic smile tugged at my mouth when his gaze slid to mine at last. “Greetings, old friend. I need your help.”
“There. The tunnels run deepest there.” An ebony finger traced the twisting veins of Sol along the map. “Though we had several shaft collapses here.” He paused, eyes narrowing, then swept a path to the opposite end. “It was never proven, but I had my suspicions. I tripled the guard, though—there should’ve been an alarm.”
“Vellos has been planning this.” I dragged a hand down my face, feeling the rough skin and the tension beneath.
Maps fanned across Clay’s lap, filling every inch of the bed like a chaotic atlas. Gayle remained blissfully asleep, soft breathing rising and falling. My gaze kept drifting to Greaves, lying pale and battered, tethered to life by sheer will. A Harvester and healer hovered at his side. His skull bore a jagged fracture, shoulder blades cracked, collarbone snapped in four, calf pierced clean through by a dragon’s claw. The healer assured methat the break in speed was what spared him a sudden, merciless death.
Perhaps that might have been kinder.
“Then Vellos has a plan for her.” Clay exhaled, leaning back against pillows, eyes closing against his fatigue.
Guilt pressed into me, mingling with despair like a dense fog. I had forced him awake too soon. But I needed him. If I did this alone, I would falter. I was too weak, too uncertain. Too many had already been lost.
“Kallias, I’m sorry—”
I blinked, studying his sickly face.
“—Darius and I… we underestimated Tallon.”
