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The rescue mission had always been a part of the plan, even though it had happened sooner than Kallie had expected. Still, she had accomplished her father’s assignments nevertheless. She had infiltrated the Pontian kingdom, strengthened her gift, and uncovered more about the abilities of her enemies. She had learned that her brother could force his victims unconscious, her sister-in-law had an uncanny ability to track down animals and people, and her mother could recall a person’s memories. And that was only the beginning of what the Pontians could do with the blood of the gods running through their veins. However, like Kallie, each user had limitations on how far they could stretchtheir gifts. Strengthening one’s gift was a skill, and it was tied to binding oneself to one’s immortal ancestors and opening oneself up wholly and completely.
It was no wonder Kallie had struggled to strengthen her gift before. A part of Kallie—a part that was so intrinsic to the blood that ran through her veins, to her very own history—had been closed off.
Still, this victory was not sweet. It burned her throat and shook her body. As the memory of that night on the ship came rushing back, tears streamed down her face faster than she could swipe them away.
* * *
A Frenzian soldier whistled,and the crew’s chatter halted as they turned toward the King of Ardentol. Some, Kallie noticed, rolled their eyes as the foreign king demanded their attention. Others only half listened, simply happy to have their cups full of mead. Still, Domitius lifted his cup. And by the request of a foreign king or not, the soldiers listened when someone lifted their cup with the promise of drinking and hollering.
Sitting beside Myra at one of the tables bolted to the deck’s floor, Kallie silently raised her cup, her hand trembling. They had only been on the sea for a few hours, but her stomach was already churning, her body growing weak.
“A final round of toasts,” Domitius began as he overlooked the crowd before him. “First, to you, the brave soldiers who fought tirelessly tonight.”
Cheers erupted as the Frenzians shouted into the sea-coated air, “To us!”
Domitius lifted his glass again. “To the soldiers who were lost tonight, gone but never forgotten.”
A mournful silence followed as the soldiers raised their cups to the sky and then tipped them down so splashes of mead hit the floor, commemorating their fallen comrades.
Kallie, too, poured an ounce of the alcohol onto the ground, allowing her grief to show for a single moment before she had to bottle it up again. When she lifted her head, Domitius was watching her.
She took a sip of the mead, swallowing hard as the mask of indifference returned to her face, an act that took Kallie little effort now.
Domitius held her gaze, unmoving. “And to my daughter, Kalisandre. Thank the gods you are back in our graces, safe and unharmed by those Pontian brutes.”
The soldiers on the ship shouted, loudly and drunkenly, “To the princess!”
Kallie gave a small smile to the soldiers who looked her way before taking another sip of her drink.
Kallie should have been happy. She should have been rejoicing with the crew. For years, she had tried to gain her father’s approval, his respect. In the past, no matter what she had done, she had struggled to achieve it. Yet when Kallie had finally earned Domitius’ approval, she struggled to celebrate it. The red stain on the ship’s deck consumed her vision. Images of Fynn dead on the ground, his blood smeared on the wooden boards resurfaced. The false happiness faltered. Her lip twitched, and the backs of her eyes burned.
Beneath the table, delicate fingers wrapped around Kallie’s wrist, and Kallie leaned against her friend.
Kallie was thankful Myra had managed to escape the Pontian castle and board the ship before they had departed. Her friend had surmised that something was amiss when she spotted Sebastian and his men carrying Kallie out of the Pontian castle, so she followed them.
As Kallie focused on her friend’s touch, on the faint floral notes beneath the smell of old smoke, Kallie’s nerves calmed.
* * *
If only a friendcould mend a broken heart, Kallie thought.
Myra had always been able to make Kallie feel somewhat put together. Unfortunately, Myra was not with her right now, so Kallie couldn’t rely on her friend to help take away the pain. Perhaps it was for the best. Because when Kallie was alone at night, the thoughts always came tumbling back. Maybe it was time she succumbed to them.
When Kallie was alone in the cabin on the ship, she tried to drown out the thoughts and drink them away. She didn’t want to remember the sacrifices she had made or the ultimate betrayal she had committed in order to arrive at Frenzia’s doorstep. However, despite her best attempts to flood her mind with liquor and allow the darkness of sleep to be a reprieve, Kallie had been unsuccessful. Even in her dreams, the gods were merciless. They tormented her with images of her brother being beaten, Dani’s screams, Graeson’s unwavering stance on the sea, and the disappointment on everyone’s faces when they realized Kallie had given an enemy a secret code without anyone’s knowledge. And the worst part: she couldn’t deny the truth this time.
She knew why she did it, yet the pain wouldn’t stop. As the memories consumed her, Kallie sat helpless, paralyzed.
Her father believed her emotions made her weak. If he could see her now, he would think she wasn’t strong enough to lead a kingdom.
Kallie, however, was not weak.
Even when she pretended to lose against the Pontians when they attacked or when she let them capture her time and time again. She had never been weak. But sometimes, one had to lose the battle to win the war.
There were many ways to show one’s strength. Fighting was an obvious display of one’s physical ability; running or riding horseback, another. But there was also strength in waiting—waiting for one’s prey to relax, waiting for them to drop their guard, waiting before one let their arrow loose. Yes, there was strength in that.
Strength could be seen in knowing when to play the game versus when to put someone out of their misery, to dig the dagger deeper into the victim’s heart.
And then there were the moments of private strength—the quiet strength. The moments when a person was left alone. When a person was honest with themselves, and when they finally shed the mask that they tricked themselves into believing was real. When a person was forced to reveal their true self. It was not flashy. It did not require the person to wield a heavy sword or a shining coat of armor. It would not result in some medal of honor. It required a different sort of strength. Something far more difficult.
