Gods, he’s mesmerizing. All sharp lines, and rugged edges.
A light stubble graces his face, his piercing ocean-lightning eyes pulse through the mask like lighthouses calling her home,and the long coat fits his frame with such precision it draws her eyes straight to his broad shoulders, the full presence of his honed body.
“We’re making quite the statement,” she says finally, mouth going dry at the sight of him.
Kael’s mouth curves faintly.
“That was always the plan.”
He looks down at his sleeves. “I almost thought I’d be wearing the frilly sleeves Ronyn wants to see me in,” he adds, trying to keep the mood light.
Rhaema smiles, but it’s not one of triumph. It’s one of resignation.
So Kael changes the topic.
His eyes snap up to Elyssara’s, interrupting her long-held stare.
“As much as I enjoy your ogling, El. I just received word from Teddy,” he says, gesturing to his amulet.
Elyssara’s eyes blow wide.
This can’t be good.
“The threvenar is distorted. Engineered for permanency using a resin from Caeloria. It’s Maireth, El. She’s the one supplying it,” he says, voice low and restrained. Because he knows what this means to her. Knows that this means that Maireth is responsible for supplying Thalmyr with the substance that stole Dravara’s memories.And her throne.
“I asked Seren to be on alert to Gateway us out of the vaults,” Kael adds. “She said she found the witches, but she’s staying in Nymeris. Elandor can get her something from inside Azhareth Castle to use to direct the Gateway.”
Elyssara nods, settled and slow.
“She found the witches,” she repeats, a spark of happiness blooming in her chest in place of the cold, sinking dread of facing Maireth.
“I don’t think it went well,” Kael offers gently. “But El? We need to focus. Because Maireth is stealing memories from the realms, and we’re walking straight into her godsdamned home.”
Fuck.
Elyssara nods, shaking thoughts of Seren from her mind.
It’s happening. They’re walking into Maireth’s snare.
And that’s when she knows for sure: this is a trap.
And they will walk into it anyway.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The sharpest blade is not of steel
But knowing what the eyes conceal
The palaceof Azhareth rises from the desert like it has been carved from the bones of a god—grotesque in its scale. A monument to power taken and victory earned.
Too much wealth for one kingdom. Wealth built on the stolen memories of Elyssara’s people. Wealth built on the forced submission of the Caelorian people.
Torches burn along the sweeping tiers of its rooflines, only adding to the suffocating heat of Azhareth’s endless sun. Red silk banners snap sharply in the evening wind—the only sign that Azhareth’s sun will eventually dip below the horizon. Curved eaves sweep toward the sky like the wings of a bird preparing to take flight. Every surface gleams with lacquered gold and polished stone the color of old ivory.
And everywhere—guards.
They stand in disciplined rows along the outer courtyards, burnished gold armor catching the light of a hundred braziers.Halberds glint like rows of sharpened teeth. Their presence is not decorative.It is a warning.
