Then again, aloud.
“By decree of the Sovereign Flame, the Resh’Agar is to return. With his Commander. All others stationed at Stonewake are to beRepurposed."
The words hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre.
Kailorien folded the parchment. Set down the scroll. Stood quiet and still as the command sank into his bones. He envisioned carrying it out—taking his blade and executing every single one of the men he'd worked himself to the bone to keep alive. Day after day for nineteen years. His Kelvasari. His warriors who'd carried the name of Resh'Agar—now deemed worthless in the eyes of their own Emperor.
Zarrek didn’t move.
Notfor a long time.
Then, with dead eyes, he reached for his shoulder. He ripped off the metal sigil that marked his command—the final rune-etched plate that named him the Resh'Agar's Second.
It hit the ground with a sound like breaking teeth.
Zarrek spat on it.
Kailorien stared. Unmoving. Unable to react. Duty was a muzzle to his fury. Obligation and vows of blood were his shackles.
“I see,” Zarrek said, voice cold. “Now I know what I’m fighting for.” He met Kailorien’s eyes—no rage there. Just certainty. “I’ll take her to Maradryn myself,” he said. “If you don’t have the spine to keep her by your side,I will. But I won’t serve Krystopolis. I won’t bow to that filth of the Flaeme any longer.”
Then he turned and walked out of the chamber.
This time, Kailorienalmostfollowed.
But didn’t.
Because if he did…he would throw down his own sigil, abandon the Dark, believe he might have a chance in Maradryn.
A fool’s hope, one cleaved in twain by the enchanted dagger hidden in his belt.
By the weight of the madness carved into his neck.
By the chains that held him.
29
Her Paths Untread
Morning came, brittle and black, marked only in the shifting colors of the wards and sconces set about the fortress. The skies above Stonewake had vanished with the arrival of Dark, and the wind no longer whispered. It bit. The kind of cold that hollowed out the marrow and lingered in silence.
Kailorien didn’t sleep.
He rose before dawn, dressed in purpose, and left his chambers with the careful stillness of a man not ready to be seen. The corridors felt different in darkness—less like a fortress, more like a tomb. Every stone remembered the night before. Every echo wore Zarrek’s voice. Reskala of the Stone and Vanguard greeted him. He nodded but could not meet their eyes.
Duty dictated they were ghosts now. Bodies deemed unworthy. Containers for souls that must be Repurposed. Once he obeyed the Mandate—once he executed them—their souls would return to the Flaeme, where they would enter the cycle for rebirth. While his brother, that snake, sat up in the Vesper Seat of his emerald palace, Kailorien would bear the burden. As he always did.
That morning, he avoided the eastern wing. Told himself it was mercy.
But he still caught sight of her—once.
She was in the courtyard, seated beneath the gnarled awning of an old weather tree. Zarrek sat beside her, explaining something, gesturing with his hands. There was a comradery to them. A rhythm. Thekind that only came fromtrust freely given.Auryn was listening. Not just politely.Listening.
Her shoulders were relaxed. Her hands moved as she responded, drawing shapes in the air as she spoke. Kail couldn’t hear the words. Didn’t need to. Zarrek made her laugh—soft and startled. Her hand flew to her mouth like she wasn’t used to the sound.
Kailorien turned away.
He wandered the perimeter for hours after that. Walked the old grounds. Inspected the wards. Checked supplies. Gave orders to no one in particular. Anything to keep moving. Anything to fill the ache in his chest that had no name.
