Page 24 of Kissed By the Gods
I’m not sure “met” is quite the word I’d use, but that’s not what I question him about.
“What is a vanguard?”
“The soldiers would call it a unit,” he answers, “Though here, it’s more like an extended family.” He gestures me to the door. “If you are sufficiently healed, Leina Haverlyn, the council has summoned you.”
I flex my broken hand, curling and uncurling the aching fingers. The bones are mending remarkably fast.
“And if I refuse?” I ask.
His lips twitch in annoyance, a fleeting crack in his otherwise controlled demeanor. “Unfortunately for you, Leina Haverlyn, I was being polite. You lost control of your little life when you manifested your powers.”
At least he’s honest, but he’s operating under a glaring misconception. My mind flashes to soldiers dragging my brother away in chains and then to the day we found out Levvi and Alden had died in the mines. To the bodies of my parents in that field and to my brothers still on the run.
“Archon Lyathin, that assumes I ever had any control to begin with.”
He doesn’t answer, just gives me his back as he opens the wide, tall door.
“Leave the fork, Leina Haverlyn,” he says without looking back. “You’ll soon learn that false comforts have no place in the Synod.”
The Synod is divided into four Vanguards—Stormriven, Fellsworn, Atherclad, and Skyforge—each commanded by an archon. Above each archon stands the Elder. Within each Vanguard, warriors are bound into casts: lifelong families of masters and wards, forged in loyalty, discipline, and blood. An Altor’s place is fixed from the day they are sworn, and from that bond, their strength is born.
The Annals of the Winged, a canon text in the Synod Reckoning Hall
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Synod is not a home.It’s a place that worships strength. Somehow, the austerity of it makes it easier to bury my many fears.
Every stone, every structure, every piece of furniture, has a clear function. The tables and chairs are made of a heavy, dark wood, built to withstand decades of use. The occasional stone bench rests against the walls, the surfaces smooth, worn down from generations of warriors sitting there, awaiting orders or judgment. The walls, too, are bare. There aren’t even banners of the royal crest like you see from the overlords.
Archon Lyathin walks ahead of me with swift, sure steps, never turning to ensure I’m still following him. He doesn’t wear medals or shiny insignia like the soldiers. His robes are perfectly hemmed to touch the toes of his black boots without dragging on the floor. His hair is impeccably groomed, pulled back in an austere braid that trails down his back.
We turn a corner in the winding, vaulted halls to find Ryot standing at the far end of this corridor. When his eyes fall on me, his entire demeanor shifts. His expression twists with fury, his jaw clenching. My breath catches as the smell of him seeps intomy senses—cinnamon, sharp and warm, mixed with the tang of salt; underneath it all is the worn richness of leather.
Ryot goes from reclining against a wall to striding away so abruptly he nearly runs into Archon Lyathin as he passes us.
“You’ll be late,” Archon Lyathin calls out, but Ryot doesn’t pause, doesn’t turn around, doesn’t acknowledge the higher-ranking man at all. He just leaves.
When he’s gone, when he’s turned the corner on his storm cloud of fury, I heave out a relieved breath. There’s something about him … but I push it from my mind. Like grief, there’s no place in my mind or heart for that kind of distraction.
I enter the council chambers with bare, cold feet. I’m still clothed in a simple white tunic a servant had me change into yesterday. It’s a man’s tunic, and the hem hits at my calves like a dress would. I have the sleeves rolled up so my hands aren’t encumbered by the fabric. I don’t wrap my arms around myself, despite the chill in the air.
I don’t want them to know I’m cold.
Lyathin continues forward, taking a seat at a long, unadorned table. Other men—I’m assuming the other archons—are already seated, their expressions ranging from open curiosity to outright dislike. I force myself to walk evenly, deliberately, though my skin prickles under their scrutiny. No one gestures for me to sit, so I stand before their table with my shoulders squared.
Archon Lyathin folds his hands before him, but he doesn’t speak. I want to ask what we’re waiting for. I want to ask about my brothers, about the battle yesterday, about the Kher’zenn. I want to ask about my fate, about my people, about why I’m here.
But I won’t be the first one to break this silence.
The door behind me slams open, and I startle, spinning on my heels—my feet scrape against the stone, and a hint of blood floods the chamber. A small procession enters, and here … hereis pomp and luxury and everything I expected from Faraengard. A man enters first, dressed in full regalia, his lush black cape trailing behind him as he strides forward. He’d be an impressive man, even without the black crown on his head or the long sword hanging at his waist. He moves with a boldness that’s been instilled in him from the cradle. There’s no one who could walk into a room like that except a king.
A cluster of attendants scurries around him, placing cushions on the stone benches before he sits. Princess Rissa enters next. She, too, is dressed in regal robes, though hers are white today. She’s taller than I am, but the four men stationed around her dwarf her, nonetheless. She takes a seat next to the man I’m very sure is King Agis. Neither of them looks at me; they look through me.
The ache for my weapons turns into a gnawing hunger. My hands twitch at my sides, my fingers curl against empty air. I’m exposed, stripped bare in a way that has nothing to do with the thin fabric of my tunic or the cold stone beneath my feet. That gnawing emptiness grows sharper, still, until it’s not only hunger. It’s not even need.
