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And still Dom prayed.
His aunt and her council waited at the far end of the hall, seated on a raised platform. The two men, Cieran and Toracal, served as the Monarch’s voice and the Monarch’s fist. Scholar and warrior. While Cieran’s hair was long and ashen silver, Toracal kept his own short, braided at the temples in twists of bronze and gray. They wore robes of dark green and silver over fine silk clothing. Not even Toracal bothered with armor.
The last councillor was Dom’s own blood: his cousin, Princess Ridha, who was to be the Monarch’s successor. She was her mother’s opposite, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with broad shoulders and strong bones. Like always, she kept a sword at her side.
The Monarch herself sat quietly, clad in a loose gray gown, the edges embroidered with jeweled flowers. Despite the chill of the throne room, she didn’t bother with furs or a mantle. Most monarchs of the enclaves favored crowns, and her own was simple, little more than quartz pins set in her blond hair. Her eyes were luminous, near to pearl, and so far away. She had seen the light of strange stars and remembered Glorian Lost.
The living branch of an ash tree lay across her knees, its green leaves washed silver by the white light of morning. Such was tradition.
Her inscrutable gaze followed Dom as he approached, his head bowed, unable to look at her fully.She sees through me,he thought,as she has done my entire life.
He knelt before her throne though his muscles ached in protest. Even a Veder was not immune to pain, in the body or the heart.
“I will not ask how they died. I can see it weighs heavy on you, Nephew,” said Isibel, Monarch of Iona.
Dom’s voice broke. “I have failed, my lady.”
“Youlive,” Ridha bit out through clenched teeth, sorrow written all over her face.
I live where others have fallen, for no reason I can understand.The Companions of the Realm wavered before him, some already fading in his memory. But not the Vedera, and certainly not Cortael, who he had known all the mortal’s life.
Great heroes lost to slaughter, while Domacridhan walks on.
Toracal leaned forward in his seat, blue eyes searching the prince. He had trained Dom to the sword and the bow, centuries before, a gruff soldier then and now. Dom braced for interrogation.
“What of the Spindle?” he demanded, his voice echoing.
It was like being stabbed and beaten again. Dom weathered the shame. “Torn open before we arrived, the gate thrown wide. It was a trap.”
Toracal sucked in a breath. “And what came forth?”
“An army the likes of which I’ve never seen.”Burned and broken, but still living. If they could be called alive.Their hands tore him anew, clawing him to ribbons, shredding his Companions all around him. “They were flesh and blood, near to mankind but—”
“They were not of this realm,” Cieran offered, his eyes grave. He was searching for a memory or scrap of forgotten knowledge. His gaze darkened. Whatever he found, he did not like.
The Monarch raised her gray gaze. “The Spindle opened to the Ashlands: a realm burned and broken, full of pain and fury,” she said. Behind her, Cieran and Toracal exchanged cold glances, their pale cheeks going white. “It fell out of crossing before the other Spindles, when the realm beyond cracked, its Spindles torn apart. What remains there are beings half-alive, driven mad by torment. Little more than beasts, mortals unmade, splintered and burned to the bone.”
“It is as we feared,” Dom murmured, gritting his teeth against an even more horrible truth. “This is not the work of Taristan of Old Cor. He’s only a servant, a tool of someone else.” His breath caught. “This is Asunder. This is Him. This is What Waits.”
Even the names felt evil in his mouth, corrupted and poisoned, unfit to be spoken aloud. The others reacted strongly, Cieran and Toracal going wide-eyed while Ridha’s mouth dropped open in shock.They think I’ve gone mad.
“What Waits cannot cross to a realm unbroken,” the Monarch said softly, her voice placating. But her eyes shone with fear.
“Then He will try to break it,” Dom spat. “He means to conquer us.”
The Monarch drew back on her throne. The ash branch trembled in her quivering hands.
“What Waits, the Torn King of Asunder, the Devil of the Abyss, the God Between the Stars, the Red Darkness.” She drew in a ragged breath. Each one of his names sent a chill through the throne room. “He is a demon, with no love but destruction, no nature but the abyss.”
With a will, Dom forced himself to his feet. His mind spun, imagining more Spindles torn, more armies, more blood and slaughter spreading across Allward. But he felt resolve too.
“The warriors of this realm, of the Vedera, can still push back the Ashlander creatures and Asunder too, and whatever else comes forth,” he said, raising his chin. “But we must act now. Cieran, send word to the other enclaves. Toracal, Ridha, your warriors—”
Isibel pursed her lips.
Dom fell silent.
“The Army of Asunder is of little consequence,” she said, looking at her daughter. “What Waits means todevour.” Her eyes softened, the world narrowing to her only child. “The Spindles are crossings, but they are also great walls between the realms. Find enough of them, tear them open, and theywillcrash together. It’s how He took the Ashlands. Destroyed its boundaries, uprooted the foundations of the realm itself.” Her grip tightened on the branch, knuckles bone-white. “Think of it. The Ward and the Ashlands, destroyed and enslaved to the will of What Waits.”
