The joy soured in my stomach, though my grin held. Reem was beautiful—I prayed we wouldn’t need to watch it burn. A certain traitor or two, perhaps. The suggestion that my dragons would tear it apart felt crude, edged with an uncomfortable hint of prophecy.
“Return to me, Baldur.” She pressed her fingertips to her lips, then to her heart. “May Veridis bring you back.”
Kallias edged closer, golden armor scattering light across the field of men. He hefted his spear and settled it against the saddle. His gaze searched my face, a crease forming between his brows until I smiled.
“Just shy of two thousand,” he murmured. “Enough to give Lon pause.”
“How long will the march take?” I asked.
Behind us, the men Fallione had addressed began breaking into segments, voices urging order, hands tightening reins.
“Four days, hard ride.” His jaw tightened as he squinted up at the sun.
A lone rider could halve that and still give Lon time to prepare. Not that preparation would save them. Gyrak could fly ahead, but that risked warning them sooner than keeping pace with the militia.
When Kallias looked back at me, the thought sat plainly on his face. He’d weighed it too, but there was no way around it.
This was our path.
“We are ready, my king,” Fallione announced.
Radaan’s monarch did not hide among his army. He didn’t shrink from conflict. He drew a steady breath and urged his horse forward to lead. Kallias never asked his men to go where he would not. He was brave. Certain. His faith—in purpose and gods alike—inspired the soldiers who followed.
Warmth spread through me at the sight of him, knowing he was mine. I held back a smile as I waited beside Fallione, watching Radaan’s king ride ahead.
Gyrak kept his distance, tongue flicking out to test the air. The rumble and jangle of men and horses fell quiet, anticipation tightening every spine. My pulse hammered against my ribs, keen with expectation.
And fear that it might not be answered.
Kallias rode out a stone’s throw ahead, head tipping toward the cloudless sky. He drove his spear upward, and light erupted from him. The fractured glimmer that marked him in Draconia became a pale mockery of the brilliance pouring from his skin now. Golden armor caught and threw the radiance, the blaze swelling until it rivaled the sun itself.
Behind me, soldiers burst into battle cries. Gyrak snapped his head up at the thunderous roar, pupils flaring with sharp curiosity.
Fallione shouted something lost to the din, then motioned me forward with a hard sweep of his arm.
I urged my mare into a jog, drawn toward the miracle of Elohios made flesh. A marvel. Kallias denied having any magic, and Father never sensed it in him. Yet there he sat, a fragment of the ether beyond, on solid ground. With his face angled skyward,his eyes drifted shut, a quiet smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
I raised an arm to shield myself, light pressing against my skin with a force I couldn’t endure. Knowing he was mine felt strange in that moment, seeing him altered so completely.
“Don’t look directly at him.” Greaves kept his voice low, meant only for me. “You’ll go blind.”
He rode close by my side, ignoring his king entirely, focus fixed on the open plains ahead.
Without warning, Kallias surged forward, his horse breaking into a swift jog that forced the ranks to scramble after him. A laugh slipped free as I bent low over my mare’s neck, fear burned away by exhilaration, chasing the King of Radaan.
I hissed and lowered myself with care onto the padded stool. The seat was simple, built to fold and carry, like everything we’d brought. Our tent stood larger than the others scattered across the dark plain, though only by a little. Practical, not indulgent.
“I fear our backsides may be blistered,” Freya said, wobbling toward me.
“I don’t fear it—I know it.” The words slipped out on a breath. Flying Gyrak for days never bothered me, but a horse found every tender place and worried it raw.
She groaned and offered a tray of cold bread and cheese. A small salad dotted with flowers caught my eye, and I nudged a delicate petal with my finger.
“They’re spicy, like pepper.” She crab-walked behind me and began tugging pins free from my hair. “The men set up camp, then went flower picking. I laughed until they started eating them.”
A smirk tugged at my mouth as I popped an orange blossom onto my tongue. Earthy at first. Dry. Then a prickle of heat rolled across my taste buds, sharp as cracked peppercorns.
“I’m so glad Edith didn’t come,” Freya said, fingers working through my tangles. “She wouldn’t have survived that.”
