Page 43 of King of Pride and Talons

“Sweep the castle for any other booby traps or hostages. Get help for the injured, then report back to me.”

“Yes, My King.”

Vale bowed then left the hallway. Breya had stopped crying and lifted her head from his chest. He held her face in his hands, thumbing away the rest of her tears.

He tried smiling but to no avail.

“There was nothing else you could do,” he said gentle and sweet. “You were protecting yourself, Breya. You are not an evil person. Quite the opposite actually…"

"Thorne," she cut him off, her grip surprisingly nimble as it crawled along the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I tried to leave you. I’m so damn sorry. I made a mistake. Because I love you. I love you with every cell in my body. I love you.”

Her voice broke, and all at once, Thorne’s heart reassembled itself into one single, golden, glowing orb. He smiled on both sides of his face.

“Breya, my God,” he said, his own voice breaking a little. "I love you too. Actually, I am madly in love with you. I want everything for us. I want to know every inch of you, or what you want, of what you don't want. I--”

She cut him off curtly again, but that time, it was with a crushing and magical kiss. They held each other's faces and melted with relief, the light of day fading into fiery dusk.

When they separated, Thorne felt like Breya’s eyes had somehow grown even more scintillating. The emerald of a summer meadow and the sea glass of the ocean coalescing into one dazzling sight of exquisite beauty. They held each other for a bit longer, laughing in a kind of demented rapture.

Eventually, they had to leave the mining cave. Breya that she was able to walk, but Thorne kept an arm curled around her lower back, watching closely for any sign of fatigue. They passed what remained of the carnage and emerged into twilight, a burning flow of dusty lavender and magenta thrown across their feet.

When they entered the Wyeberry town, Breya spotted various rawboned and undernourished citizens who had survived the assault and were adamant about visiting the town. Thorne tried to implore her to get some rest, that all would be dealt with once she regained her energy, but it was of no use.

"You have to let me trust my instincts,” she said, raising her tired brows at him. “This is what I am meant to do."

Thorne knew she was right.

“Fine, but I'll be right behind you. Let’s compromise on that."

Her smile was wan, but her conviction was solid.

They wandered into the town where the crisis of hunger and misery was far more grievous and obvious. Clothing hung from the bones of the locals, their appearances one of exhaustion and apathetic anger. Thorne wasn’t picking up any anger directed toward him and his soldiers. Not even his inner lion seemed tense—it was all because of Cassia and her reckless ruling style.

Breya swung herself around to face the king, her palms pinned to her chest. “I’m going to heal as many as I can,” she said, not requesting, but stating. "I don't have much energy left, but I will do what I can. Just for today."

The king agreed.

“Do what you will, dear Breya. But please, don't overdo it."

She brightened even more, then began to move along the people who had started to form a circle around them. They were drawn to her in a similar way the king had been. Her compassion for others hummed with a celestial aura.

He watched in awe, along with Vale and his other men, the way she laid her hands upon complete strangers' foreheads, and relieved them of their suffering. She did the same with lacerations, broken bones, and even some of the gravely hungry.

The people were in awe of her. They followed her, lost in wonder. The people had been abandoned long before he and his men had arrived. It gave the king an idea, and he whispered it into his enforcer’s ear as Breya continued to do her rounds.

“Gather the people into the town square. I want to make my announcement there."

Vale gathered as many of the Wyeberry survivors as he could, but the majority of them were glued to Breya’s side. Children gazed up at her with bright eyes, both men and women mourned their forgotten past into her bosom. It was a sight that belonged in an ancient text, a tale of rare selflessness mixed with compelling power.

The king stood at the center of the town at a podium that had long suffered the grit of time. It was haunting how empty the shops were, the way the windows of the buildings peered like drooping, glum eyes. The people of Wyeberry were barely holding onto life, some of them likely wishing for the sweet embrace of death.

But there would be no more of that. Not ever again on the king's watch.

He beckoned for Breya to return to his side at the podium, her followers tracking behind her like ducklings. He could tell that her energy was diminishing, and it was his job to know when to flick off the faucet. Compassion was a treasured gift, but one that many people—especially the down and rejected—could easily take advantage of.

He held her close as he spoke to the people of Wyeberry, his voice commanding and genuine.

“My dear people of Wyeberry. Your queen is dead. You have suffered too long the torment of her misdeeds, and I, King of Bawold, am here to relieve you of your woes. I am hereby, dissolving Wyeberry and opening the doors of Bawold and the benefits of all our wealth and riches.”

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