Page 25 of Kissed By the Gods
It’s rage.
Irielle’s tears streak down her face as the flames lick closer, and my brother’s heart shatters again when the flames finally reach her. Alden’s death, which repeats in my dreams, crashes into me now, relentless. My mother’s screams echo, sharp and raw, as does my father’s protective roar.
I hate that the dead—mydead—live on in my mind, only to die again and again.
My eyes rake over the king and his heir, perched atop their plush, overstuffed cushions. It’s their fault.
I would end them both, right here, if I’d kept the fork.
Tap. Shuffle. Tap. Shuffle.
That sound is maybe the only thing that could have pulled my gaze from the spectacle of the Faraengardian royal family, and I turn to find the Elder.
He walks with confidence, too, but it’s not one he was born with. It’s a quiet, almost sad, kind of confidence. He wasn’t raised this way; he earned it, and the difference is striking. The Elder walks up the center of the room. The quiet is so complete that thetap tapof his cane on the stone floor echoes throughout the chamber. He sits, heavily, at the long table in front of the room, in the center, with two archons on either side of him.
Archon Lyathin steeples his fingers together, his focus on me. “Now we can begin—” he starts, but he’s cut off when the door slams open again.
This time, I know who it is before I ever turn around, picking up on the cinnamon and salt in the air.
Ryot storms into the room, carrying a small bundle, his gaze tracking around the room—taking in the king and his cohort; the council and the Elder; and, finally, me.
“You’re late,” Archon Lyathin says.
“Well, unless you want to delay this,” Ryot answers, as his long legs eat up the ground without hesitation. “You’ll have to punish me later.”
One of the archons, one with an eye rendered useless by Kher’zenn rot, smiles at Ryot. He appreciates his audacity. Archon Lyathin, though, is not amused.
“What was so important that you felt justified in making the Synod Council, the Elder and the King of Faraengard wait for your presence? That you felt it was appropriate to interrupt the proceedings?” Lyathin asks him.
Ryot tosses the bundle he’s holding to me. I catch it out of sheer reflex.
“Since when do we call an assembly and not allow the summoned to even dress themselves or put on a pair of fuckingshoes,” Ryot growls out. Like they’re one, all four of the archons sitting at that long table drop their gaze to my feet.
A flush crawls up Archon Lyathin’s face. It’s the first time I’ve seen him unsettled. He opens his mouth to speak, but the Elder raises his hand, signaling for silence.
“We’ll wait,” he tells me, and nods toward the bag I’ve clutched in my hands.
The weight of their stares linger, but I’m not embarrassed. I’m just … confused. Because this is Ryot. The same man who tore me from my brothers, who forced me here, who set himself against everything I love, everything I stand for. And yet, in the last day, he’s also saved my life and now stands here, fist clenched, fury rippling through him—not for himself, but for me. Because his leaders have treated me as something that’s not even worthy of shoes.
I don’t know what to do with that.
The silence stretches, so that when I dig into the canvas bag, the rustling of the contents is crisp and clear. When I pull out a leather coat trimmed with a thick, well-worn fur—rough and heavy and smelling of salt and cinnamon—my pulse gives an uneven stutter.
I slide my arms through the sleeves. It’s too big, the fabric swallowing me whole, and the weight of the well-worn leather settles over my shoulders like a shield. One I never asked for, but which I appreciate all the same. I look up, and my gaze collides with his. His fury is still there, but now there’s also a satisfied glint in his eyes. I dig into the bag again, pulling free an oversized pair of wool socks. My bare skin shifts against the cold stone one last time before I slip them on, the warmth and softness a comforting barrier. My fingers tighten around the edges of the coat, and I keep my gaze steady as I glance back at him.
His expression is unreadable, his jaw tight.
I don’t thank him. I don’t owe him that, but I do acknowledge him. A single nod, sharp and brief. He doesn’t press for gratitude. He simply exhales, tension easing from his shoulders by the barest fraction, and then turns, taking a seat on one of the stone benches opposite the king.
“Leina Haverlyn,” Archon Lyathin starts. Aside from when the Elder interrupts, Lyathin seems to be the one in charge.
I square my shoulders and face them.
“We have many questions for you.” He gestures to a simple, wooden chair in the center of the room. “Be seated.”
The Synod stands apart from the crown and the laws of men. It answers to no throne, no kingdom, no mortal decree. Even the wards carry the gods' mark and walk above the heads of kings. In Faraengard, the Altor bow only to the Elder—and the will of the divine.
