Fallione steadied my reins. His gaze searched my face, stern and sharp, measuring my resolve. Waiting to see if I would falter.
I once decimated a fleet. Drowned an army. Sent a king to a watery grave.
Galdoni had threatened my people, my family. But this was different. These soldiers were following orders—much like the Innaki had.
So why did it hurt so much?
My eyes burned. A cold tear slid down my cheek as I watched Kallias kill his own for my sake.
This was our price. Our punishment.
And I would bear it.
Chapter Eleven
Nienna
Lon burned.
Smoke billowed toward the sky, and though I trusted Ronan to listen and burn only what I told him to, fire had a will of its own. Those blazes could spread. That danger would keep the men busy and buy us time, which was why Kallias had chosen them to sacrifice. Still, as ashes and embers braided with the clouds rolling in, a sense of wrongness pressed into my chest.
This was what I wanted—to make the traitors pay. How dare they rise up and deny their true king, only to follow a bastard prince?
Yet when the moment came to deal that death, sickness turned in my gut.
The fight west of Lon was a quick affair. By midday, Kallias’ light faltered and storm clouds crowded the sky as we rode through the wide streets. Guards surged around us, their sole purpose protection as we made for the estate.
Blood coated my husband. His once-shining armor now marred with deep red. He hadn’t looked at me since we enteredthe city, gaze fixed ahead, prepared to meet whatever waited for him. His spear towered above us, metal still gleaming through the gore.
Smoke filtered through the streets, ash riding the wind. Tsunami’s screams split the air as she flew low overhead, then unleashed another burst of dragonfire.
Kallias’ fist tightened around the spear’s shaft.
The dragons couldn’t be stopped now. Not with me on the ground out of Ronan’s sight. Without a signal, the burning would continue. The dragons would continue on their mission until Ronan took initiative, deeming their purpose fulfilled.
Shouts and screams thickened the air, the wailing of terrified children tightening my throat. Panicked civilians poured from side streets, desperate to flee burning buildings, scrambling for a safe haven.
A woman carrying a baby stumbled to a halt as we passed. Her eyes went wide, fixed on our group. She clutched the bundled child to her chest, her face stripped bare with horror.
Was this what I had urged Kallias toward so recklessly?
My mare stepped over a broken crate, the jolt snapping my focus back to the saddle.
Metal rang out ahead. The clamor of battle folded into the cries of a fallen city, and I knew we were close.
We entered the courtyard of what had once been a fine estate. White marble lay scorched along one side, an outbuilding’s thatched roof belching black smoke that stained the stone. Men of Lon, marked by detailed plate armor, backed toward the massive doors, retreating from us.
Bodies carpeted the ground. Our horses picked their way through with care, hooves skirting limbs and forgotten weapons. I kept my eyes forward as my mare stumbled, a faint wet squelch following as she corrected her footing.
The sprawling estate, once the pride of Radaan, now stood as a monument to righteous rage—to punishment dealt when subjects failed their king.
And those inside would bear the worst of it.
Greaves hit the ground first, sword up, already moving to shield Kallias as he dismounted. Soldiers secured the courtyard while our smaller group advanced through the bodies and up the massive stairs.
Gyrak swept overhead, hovering for a breath as if he meant to land. With a roar of irritation, he pulled away and passed over the estate, affronted by my departure from his sight.
Our men forced the doors open and spilled into the halls. Vases shattered against the floor. Steel rang against steel as bodies slammed into walls, paintings torn loose, crashing down.
