Page 71 of A Thread of Breath and Bone

She chuckles. “No. I spoke with Amaya. Raea has a few last-minute fittings. Now, go. I have lots to plan.”

I nod and squeeze the back of the chair I'm hovering over. I wish my father were here to protect our kingdom. She’s right, though. Even if I stayed, I wouldn’t know what to do. The answers lie with my fiancée.

“You will make a great husband and king. I believe in you.”

My heart swells with love for my mother. I feel like a little boy again, heading to Drithm for the first time. She walked me to the entrance and held me as I attempted not to cry, putting on a brave face. She reassured me I would have so much fun and make new friends. She told me to be brave and kind. She’s always been my biggest supporter.

“I’ll make you proud,” I say.

“Anders, sweetheart, you already do.”

I sit in silence, watching the live-feed from the recon team approach Draerr. We decided after much deliberation with Treon that they’d send an identical team to Khyreth. The screen to the right shows Treon’s team still advancing.

“Ready on your go,” their leader says into his com.

Commandant Kavlyn looks to me.

I nod subtly and pray to the gods that we aren't making a big mistake by sending them in.

This is unprecedented. Another kingdom's quadrants are not to enter another kingdom's airspace without approval from the crown. Since King Alexi isn’t responding, we’ve been given no choice. Once we get more information on Draerr and Khyreth, there are talks about a mission to Chyros to see if the royal family is still alive or what the hell is going on.

I force air into my lungs as I watch the transport begin its descent into Draerr’s atmosphere. The whole room is silent as the screen grows darker, glitching.

The commandant nods to the analyst sitting at the coms board. “Alpha team, do you copy?”

We can still see their screen, but it’s growing darker by the second.

“What is that?” someone says somewhere in the room.

The display isn't just dark—it’s alive. Something in the black mist is moving—swirling with predatory intent. The feed glitches, a high-pitched whine echoing through the command center, and then—nothing. The screen bleeds to black. 'Communication Ended' flashes in a cold, mocking red. Twenty souls vanish, and we never even see the face of what takes them.

I release a short breath and look to the second screen for the team now arriving at Khyreth. I nod, and they enter the moon’s thin atmosphere. Just like with the Alpha team, the screen grows increasingly dark.

“Hold them,” I say, standing. I swallow and exhale. “Tell them to stay in the lower atmosphere. I want them to try running radar scans first, before we lose communication.”

The commandant nods and relays their new orders. Meanwhile, the comms team for Alpha is still trying to regain a connection. We all wait with bated breath for what feels like an eternity.

Eventually, the first scans come in. They’re dark, but among the pitch-black atmosphere, we can make out patterns.

“Tell them to keep going. Don’t let them enter any further and keep scanning. If possible, I want as much coverage of the entire moon as we can get.”

My Prism dings with a message from Raea. With a single glance at the screens, I leave and head out to the terrace. It’s going to be a long night.

I button my dress shirt, the crisp white fabric sliding over the ink on my arms and chest. It feels wrong. Confining. Like armor meant to hide something instead of protect it.

My father used to call my tattoos scars of a commoner. He said it like a verdict. Like something broken in me had surfaced. He wanted a son who looked untouched. Polished. Someone who could wear the crown without leaving a mark on it.

I remember the first needle. The sting. The choice. Trysten got one that day too—a grand fuck you to both our fathers.

Every line of ink was deliberate. A quiet rebellion I could carry beneath silk and medals. The octopus on my arm. The waves along my neck. Proof that my body was never his to shape, no matter how hard he tried.

In a week, they’ll place the crown on my head. I’ll stand where he stood. Speak the words he spoke. Play the role he perfected.

To them, I’ll look pristine. The Prince of Okenen, ready for war.

But beneath the pressed white shirt and the weight of expectation, I’m still the boy who refused to be empty. Still marked by decisions he couldn’t erase. Still carrying a history he never wanted me to have. And he’ll never wash it away.

A knock sounds at the door. “Your Highness, they’re ready.”