Jax huffs a laugh beside him. “So much for not aggravating the woman with the deadly alchemy.”
She looks pleased with herself, despite her circumstances.
Ronyn ignores her.
“And where’s the rest of them? This can’t be it.” Ronyn’s eyes drag across the room. At the meager numbers of slumped Melders—twelve of them, eyes rolled back in their heads.
“We are what is left,” Vren admits.
Jax’s eyes narrow on him. “And what, you just serve the false King Thalmyr blindly now? The king whose family had your kind hunted to near extinction?” She shakes her head in disgust.
Vren grunts his disapproval. “We serve Dravara. Soulbound for eternity. We bleed Dravari,” he says the words like he bleeds those, too.
“And you?” Jax juts her chin at Calira. “You a blind follower of fucking Thalmyr too?”
Calira does not feel rage, she feels heat—whatever is left in place of emotion. “Blindly? No. We are trained to see everything with our eyes wide open. And we are not blind enough to believe that kingdoms survive on good intentions. Thalmyr trained us better than that.”
This is what conscription is for. Not softness. Not sentiment.Survival.
Thalmyr did not ask them to survive the system. He taught them how to become useful to it.
Calira is done with inefficiencies. She draws a short blade from her hip, and strides toward the undisciplined pair.
Their eyes blow wide, hands pulling at their bindings.
Calira crouches behind them, and slices through the ropes, freeing their hands.
Ronyn wrings his wrists with his hands. “I’m not sure the suspense with the blade was really necessary there,” he complains, side-eyeing Calira.
Jax pounces, closing the gap between them. “Thalmyr trained you better? So taking children from their parents, starving every Earthbound, and hoarding wealth is a training strategy in Dravara is it?”
Calira’s chest tightens, sharpening her focus on the threat. “Thalmyr knows that systems do not survive without sacrifice. He was the only one willing to change them from within.”
Ronyn drags a hand through his hair, eyebrows raising in disbelief.
“And tell me, Calira… what the fuck do you know about sacrifice?”
Ronyn stares at her then, like a man who’s lost everything.
Calira looks up at Ronyn, no fear. “I know that sacrifice is necessary if you want progress. There is no place for sentimentality in governance.”
He scoffs. His hands fly to his hips, and he begins to pace.
Jax mutters something incoherent under her breath. Calira catalogs her: too emotional, too unruly.
Calira’s hands reach for her helmet, lifting it over her head without fanfare.
Her caramel hair falls from the metal helmet, landing in a blunt cut just beneath her chin.
Ronyn stares at her, assessing her face like he’ll find truth in it. He drags his eyes over her angular jaw. Over her high cheekbones. The deep blue eyes that mirror those of the man who sired her.
Ronyn’s eyes narrow, homing in on her. “Who are you?” he asks with measured suspicion.
Calira lets silence fill the space. Lets it thicken the air.
“I am Calira Haradin,” she says simply, and she lets the truth hang like a verdict.
Ronyn’s eyes blow wide in realization.
