The throne room of Solstara was a tomb built for the living.

  Black marble walls sucked the heat from the air. It left a chill that settled deep in the bone, a cold that furs and fire could not touch. Kaelan sat on the obsidian seat. It had been carved for a larger man. His father, perhaps. Or some ancient conqueror whose ghost still stalked these halls, laughing at the pretender trying to fill his space.

  The stone bit into Kaelan’s spine. It was uncomfortable and somewhat agonizing. But he did not move. He was a King. And Kings did not fidget.

  Dazed, he was staring at the floor.

  Intricate mosaics of silver and lapis lazuli swirled across the ground. They depicted the great naval victories of House Thalasson. Ships burning. Seas Kings dying, and even the underwater Kingdom of Aqualos showing their respect. It was history written in stone.

  A reminder of a glory Kaelan had never tasted. As if a mocking declaration that he was the steward of a dying legacy.

  He drummed his fingers on the armrest, grumbling a little.

  The heavy oak doors at the far end of the chamber groaned. The sound was like a dying beast. Kaelan stopped tapping. He watched a sliver of light cut through the gloom. It grew wider as the doors pushed open, disturbing the stagnant dust.

  A boy stumbled in.

  He wore a steward’s tunic that was two sizes too big and stained with road dust. Hm, why does he look so panicked? The boy looked like he’d run from the border on foot based on the sweat that matted his hair to his forehead.

  He tripped over his own boots, caught himself, and scrambled to his knees in the center of the mosaic. He landed right on top of a dying sea serpent.

  "Y-your Highness!" The boy’s voice cracked. He kept his head down, staring at the floor tiles. "Scouts report movement at the southern pass."

  Kaelan didn't answer immediately. He watched a drop of sweat fall from the boy's nose and splatter on the stone. It was a tiny, insignificant event. Yet it felt like the only real thing happening in the world.

  "And?"

  "An army, Highness. Twenty thousand strong!" The boy swallowed. His throat worked convulsively. "They fly the Silver Falcon banner."

  Twenty thousand.

  Kaelan leaned back. The stone felt colder now. So she was alive. Isolde. The sister who thought justice was something you could eat. The foolish little girl who believed the world was played by rules.

  He should have felt something. Anger, perhaps. Fear. Relief that his little sister hadn’t died despite his attempts to kill her. But all he felt was a dull, gray exhaustion. She was alive. She was coming for him. Just like everyone said she would.

  "Marquis Marius is with her," Kaelan said. His voice sounded flat to his own ears.

  "Yes, Highness."

  Of course he was. The vulture. Marius had spent decades circling the throne. He waited for something to die so he could pick the bones clean. He’d stared at Queen Lysandra with that hungry, pathetic look in his eyes for years. Now Lysandra was dead.

  And he had found the next best thing.

  Kaelan felt a curl of nausea in his gut. It was a hot, acidic thing.

  Did she let him touch her?

  The thought was intrusive. Ugly.

  Did she trade her body for his army? Or did she just smile that innocent, naive smile and let him believe he had a chance?

  No, it didn't matter. Isolde was coming to kill him. That was the only truth that mattered now. She would bring her justice. She would bring her light. And she would burn everything he had tried to build.

  "Get out," Kaelan said.

  The boy flinched. "Highness? Orders?"

  "I said get out."

  The boy scrambled backward. His boots scraped on the stone. He fled the room as if the devil were snapping at his heels. The doors slammed shut. Silence returned, and it was heavier than before.

  Kaelan closed his eyes. He rubbed his temples. The headache that lived behind his eyes was waking up. It had grown into a familiar, throbbing pressure.

  "He was trembling, poor boy."

  The voice came from the shadows behind the dais. It was soft, and it wrapped around the pillars like smoke. Like silk dragging over gravel.

  Kaelan didn't turn around. He knew who it was. Or rather, what it was.

  The air temperature dropped another ten degrees. A figure stepped into the shaft of light falling from the high windows. She wore obsidian black that looked like darkened blood. It was cut low to show the pale expanse of her chest, and a thick, dark fur coat hung loosely from her shoulders.

  Domain-Lord Vexia.

  Or whatever name she was using this week. He didn’t know. Kaelan had met the other Domain Lords but somehow she felt different.

  She circled the throne. Her movements were fluid. Wrong. Humans moved with joints and bone but she moved like oil poured in water. A black tail, tipped with a spade of bone, flicked behind her.

  "Isolde is coming," Kaelan said to the empty hall.

  "Cue the dramatic music." She giggled. It was a girl's laugh, bright and innocent. But it made his skin crawl. She stopped beside him and ran a fingernail down his jawline. Her skin was warm. It burned where she touched him, and his body reacted. "Are you scared, little prince? She’s bringing the cavalry. And your uncle."

  Kaelan leaned into the touch.

  He hated himself for it. He hated the way his body betrayed him. Oh, the memories. He shivered at the contact. He remembered the nights she came to his chambers. The way she made reality blur until nothing existed but her skin. Her teeth. Her voice whispered things that made him want to tear his own soul out.

  It was an addiction. He knew that. She was a parasite. He was the host.

  "I'm not scared," he lied. "I just... I don't want the city destroyed. Solstara is where my people live, it's a stronghold. If they lay siege, the walls will break. The people will starve."

  "True, civil wars are scary. Walls break. People scream. It's messy."

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  She walked around to the front of the throne.

  She blocked his view of the hall and placed a hand on his knee. He felt the cold seep through the fabric of his trousers. Her purple hair fell across one eye, leaving only one eye observing the world. It was brilliant red, glowing with a faint, inner light.

  "You're so sentimental, Kaelan. It's cute." She leaned in. Her breath smelled of cinnamon and corruption. "They want to be heroes. Heroes need a villain. You're just playing your part."

  "I took the throne to save the kingdom," he whispered. It was the lie he told himself every night so he could sleep. "Not to burn it."

  "Then don't let them reach the walls."

  “Sure, you say that. But how?”

  She stood up, tall and imperious. The playful woman vanished. She was replaced by something ancient and cruel. Her tail lashed. It cracked like a whip.

  "Intercept them. They've been marching for two days. They'll be tired. Their guard will be down. They'll stop to camp tonight. And what do you mean how?"

  Kaelan looked up at her. He knew what she was going to say. He’d sensed it the moment she walked in.

  "Subject 001."

  The name hung in the air like a curse.

  Vexia grinned. It showed too many teeth. Her canines were long. "He’s bored, Kaelan. He’s been pacing in the vaults. He wants to play."

  "It's... it's too much," Kaelan stammered. "If I unleash that thing... there's no going back. It won't just kill soldiers. It will eat their souls."

  "Exactly." Vexia leaned down again. Her face was inches from his. "Break their morale and destroy them all. Make Isolde watch her precious 'army' turn into meat. Show her the price of rebellion."

  Kaelan looked into that red eye. He saw his own reflection there. Distorted and small. A puppet king on a stolen throne.

  If he refused, Vexia would just kill him. And do it anyway. Or worse. She’d make him do it while screaming in ecstasy.

  "...Fine," Kaelan said.

  Vexia smiled. She kissed his forehead. Her lips left a mark that throbbed like a brand.

  "Good boy."

  ****

  The camp was a sprawl of noise and light in the swallowing dark of the valley. All around me, thousands of cookfires dotted the landscape. They cast long, flickering shadows against the hundreds of tents.

  The air here smelled of wet wool. Roasted pork and horse manure. It was a grounded, earthy smell. I didn’t like it. This was the smell of twenty thousand men trying to forget they were marching to their deaths and I hated it.

  I walked through the rows.

  The ground was soft here. It turned to mud under the tread of countless boots. Soldiers sat in circles as they sharpened swords or played dice. Most of them went quiet when I passed. They stared at my back, and I could feel their eyes on my back. On my white hair.

  “The barbarian...”

  “He’s a strange fella, isn’t it?”

  Rumors were a strange currency. They bought respect but cost intimacy. No one invited me to sit, nor did they offer me a drink. I was a weapon to them. Not a man.

  I didn't mind though. Weapons didn't have to make small talk. Lately, I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I reached the command tent at the center of the formation. It was larger than the rest, glowing from within like a lantern.

  The Falcon banner hung limp in the still air above the entrance. Two guards crossed spears as I approached, blinking as they recognized me. They stepped back quickly.

  I pushed through the flap and stepped inside.

  The interior was modest but functional. A table covered in maps and reports dominated the center. Candles flickered in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows across the walls. And standing around the table were three figures.

  “And that’s how it should be, yes,” Isolde finished her talk. She stood at the head, still dressed in her armor, though she'd removed the circlet. Her blue hair was pulled back, and her expression was focused as she talked to Marius.

  The all-new Marius gestured at one of the maps, pointing out supply routes and potential choke points. His voice was calm and measured, the voice of a man who'd planned a hundred campaigns.

  Captain Yasafina stood to Isolde's left, her arms crossed, her golden eyes scanning the maps with the intensity of a predator.

  They all looked up when I entered.

  "What’s up, you called for me?" I asked.

  Isolde smiled. It was small but I knew it was genuine. "Yes. Thank you for coming." She glanced at Marius and Yasafina. "Could you give us a moment?"

  Yasafina frowned but nodded. She turned and left without a word. Marius lingered for a moment, his gaze shifting between Isolde and me. Then he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for my ears.

  "She trusts you," he said quietly. "Don't make her regret it."

  It wasn't a threat. It was a warning. Like a father protecting his daughter, even if that father was a man who'd spent years obsessing over a ghost.

  "I won't," I said.

  Marius studied my face for a moment longer, then nodded and left.

  The tent fell silent. Isolde let out a long breath, her shoulders sagging. The composed queen I'd seen moments ago seemed to dissolve and was replaced by someone softer, more vulnerable.

  "Are you alright?" I asked.

  "I am now," she said.

  She fell quiet again. I was unsure what to say, I thought she needed the silence. Then she got up from her seat. She walked toward me, closing the distance between us. Then, without warning, she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a hug.

  I froze for a moment. Then I hugged her back, my arms encircling her waist. She was warm to the touch, even if I felt a little confused. Although I did have a guess why she called me here today.

  "What's this about?" I asked quietly.

  "I… don't know," she murmured against my chest. "Some things need to be said and done before it's too late, you know? Neither of us might return."

  "We will."

  “Yeah, you think?” She pulled back slightly, looking up at me. Her golden eyes were bright as they searched. "That's what I love about you. That confidence."

  “Yeah.”

  She paused, then swore softly under her breath. "Fuck."

  "Princess?"

  "After the war is done…" She hesitated, her voice trembling slightly. "Will you become my Knight, Thorvyn?"

  The question was too sudden. Was this what she wanted to say back then too…?

  I guess I'd known this was coming. I'd seen the way she looked at me, the way she sought me out when things got difficult. Isolde was brilliant, strong, and surely capable. But she was also lonely. And I was familiar.

  "You already know the answer, Isolde. Why ask?" I asked gently. "I'm going to search for my mother. And even if I didn't, a position like 'Knight' is far too restricting for me."

  Her smile didn't fade, but the light in her eyes dimmed slightly.

  "I knew you'd say that." She laughed softly, though it sounded forced. "Haah. Well, you miss all the shots you don't take."

  "That you do," I said.

  My hands, which had been resting on her back, slid down to her waist. I felt her stiffen slightly, her breath catching.

  "Is that all, Princess?"

  "I…" She hesitated, her cheeks flushing. "I don't know, Thorvyn."

  "You miss all the shots you don't take, no?"

  "W-well…" Her blush deepened, and she lowered her head. "Now you’re just teasing me. What if the answer is no this time too? You do have to search for your mother…"

  "I do," I said, gently raising her chin so she was looking at me again. "But some words might give me reasons to come back after I find her."

  Her face turned bright red.

  "I…” she hesitated. “I didn't know you could talk like this."

  "Mhm, fair point. But…" I leaned in slightly, my voice dropping. "I'm a barbarian, Princess. Not a blind man."

  She swallowed hard, her lips parting slightly. Her eyes fluttered closed.

  I'd always known, of course.

  Isolde was a friend, yes. But she was also a woman. A brilliant, beautiful woman who'd been carrying the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders for months. And I was the one who'd stood beside her, fought for her, bled for her.

  It wasn't surprising that she'd developed feelings.

  And if I was being honest with myself, I wasn't indifferent either. Which is… well, let’s say complicated given my relationship with Ragna. I recalled Yrsa’s words to me before I’d left. She’d kill me if I abandoned her daughter, like how my father abandoned her.

  I stared at her parted lips, unsure what to do. Well, shit. I held back a sigh and leaned forward.

  – CRACK- BOOM!

  The explosion ripped through the night.

  We both jerked apart, shattering the moment. Isolde's eyes went wide, and she immediately moved toward the tent entrance.

  I grabbed her wrist.

  "Wait."

  "Thorvyn, what–"

  “Wait.” I heard words thanks to my heightened senses that Isolde didn’t share. Shouts and screams mostly. But beneath it all, soldiers were calling a name that made me pause.

  "It's the k-king! His Highness– agh!"

  “Brother…?” That was Marius’ voice.

  "King Asharion!” Someone shouted. “W-Wasn't he dead?!"

  My blood ran cold.

  The dead king, Isolde's father, was attacking the camp.

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