Chapter 81: The winged snake

Chapter 81: The winged snake
Misarya lay with her head resting against Ikarion’s solid chest, the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart grounding her in the quiet dark of the cabin. His large, calloused hand moved in slow, reverent circles over her bare shoulder, tracing the soft curve of her spine as if she were made of glass.

They were drowning in the sudden, staggering weight of their confessions. The air between them was thick with a sweet, languid afterglow, the lingering ghosts of their desperate anger entirely washed away.

Ikarion pressed a soft kiss to the top of her disheveled hair. He had to clear the air. He had to give her the truth that his stubborn pride had kept locked away.

"What you heard," Ikarion murmured, his voice a low, heavy rumble in the dark. "About a child of mine. It is not true."

Misarya shifted, tilting her head up to look into his shadowed face.

"I never sired a child," Ikarion continued, his jaw tightening slightly. "I would never condemn a soul to be born a Riven-blood bastard. I know exactly what that life is, and I would not force another to live it."

Misarya’s chest ached at the raw vulnerability in his tone. She gently reached up, her small fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. She hesitated, terrified of ruining the fragile peace between them, but the valley dove had to know the shape of his scars.

"Is it true?" she asked softly. "About that woman… Is it true that she betrayed you... And married your father?"

Ikarion went completely still. A flash of old, dark anger crossed his features, making him look every inch the terrifying Dragon King. For a moment, Misarya feared he would push her away and build his icy walls back up.

But he didn't. He looked into her lilac eyes and let out a long, heavy breath.

"Yes," Ikarion said, the word tasting like ash. "All my life, my father made it his mission to humiliate me. To humble the Riven-blood bastard who dared to be stronger than his trueborn sons. My own birthname is a curse itself. In the old tongue of the plains, Ikkar means 'to endure.' To suffer. To bow your head and quietly endure all the humiliations of the world. So, of course, my own married the woman I loved while I was out there fighting a battle in his name."

Misarya felt a tear prick her eyes. She thought of him as just a little boy forced to endure the cruelty and rejection of his own father, fighting in the mud just to survive.

"Perhaps I wasn't supposed to tell you this," Misarya whispered, a soft, tentative smile touching her lips. "But in Mazr, the language of the women, Ik—sorry, your birthname, has another meaning."

Ikarion furrowed his brow, looking down at her. "What?"

"It means strong," she said softly, her thumb brushing over his cheekbone. "Or strength. He who endures is the strongest of all."

Ikarion stared at her, entirely disarmed. A lifetime of shame, of bearing a name meant to break him, suddenly re-forged into a title of absolute reverence by the gentle voice of his Queen.

"What about your birthname?" he asked, his voice thick with an emotion he could barely name. "What does it mean?"

Misarya smiled brightly, the expression reaching her eyes. "Misa? Well... it comes from an Old Theran dialect. It's not really spoken anymore. It means a jewel. Can be used to describe something precious, or rare. My father named me Misa because of my eyes."

"You are something precious, indeed," Ikarion breathed, pulling her flush against his body.

As Misarya beamed at him, a warm, radiant joy settling over her features, Ikarion felt an absolute, terrifying devotion grip his heart. He felt as though he could slaughter thousands just to keep that smile on her face. He had never thought his scarred, violent soul was capable of loving a woman this intensely. A pang of deep, sickening regret washed over him for all the suffering he had inflicted upon her—for dragging her to the plains, forcing her to marry him, making her helpless and scared...

How could he possibly bring himself to purposefully break her heart for the sake of a riddle? All he wanted was to make her happy.

The rain was just a coincidence, he declared, finally silencing the mystical dread. It was just a fucking dream. He pulled her up by the waist, capturing her lips in a deep, intoxicating kiss, dragging them back down into the blissful, suffocating heat of their love.



Sometime in the dead, silent hours of the middle of the night, a heavy knock echoed through the cabin.

Ikarion’s eyes snapped open, his Warlord instincts instantly flaring. Beside him, Misarya stirred, letting out a soft sound of protest. Ikarion quietly slipped out of the warm bed, grabbing a thick linen towel to wrap around his waist.

He unlatched the heavy wooden door, pulling it open just enough to block the view of the room with his massive frame.

Jarek stood on the porch, his face carved from stone. The general glanced past Ikarion’s shoulder, catching a brief glimpse of Misarya sitting up in the bed. She gasped softly at the intrusion, quickly pulling the thick fur blankets up to cover her bare breasts.

"I apologize for the disturbance," Jarek said in a low, grim voice, instantly snapping his gaze back to his King. "But one of the guards found this at the entrance of the Village."
Jarek held out a plain, square wooden box.

Ikarion didn't take it immediately. His golden eyes narrowed. "Did anyone else see this?"

"The guard brought it straight to me," Jarek replied tightly. "I don't believe anyone else in the camp knows of it yet."

"Good," Ikarion ordered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, commanding rasp. He took the box, his large hands gripping the wood. "Gather the Warlords after the morning hunt. Keep it quiet. Do not make a fuss."

"Understood," Jarek nodded. Before he turned, the scarred general looked past Ikarion toward the bed. With a stiff, formal bow of his head, he spoke to Misarya. "My Queen."

Jarek turned and disappeared into the dark.

Ikarion closed the door, bolting it shut. He turned around, holding the box, his expression dark and unreadable.

"What happened?" Misarya asked, her voice trembling slightly in the chill of the room. "What is that?"

"A message," Ikarion said flatly, staring at the closed lid.

"From who?"

"Voriak."

Misarya blinked, confusion replacing her sleepiness. What did Voriak-lir want? "What? What did he send you?"

Ikarion walked toward the center of the room, the scent emanating from the wood finally hitting his nose. It smelled of copper, rot, and blood.

"This is an Askari hatzal," Ikarion explained, his voice entirely devoid of its earlier warmth. "It is a sacred burial box. When an Alirak is defeated and killed in battle, his heart is cut from his chest and returned to his people to be buried in this."

Misarya felt the blood drain from her face. She looked at the box in his hands. "Is there... is there a heart inside of that? The smell is horrendous."

"No. It is not a heart," Ikarion said. He set the box down on the heavy oak table. "You probably don't want to see it. Stay in bed."

Misarya grabbed the thickest fur blanket, wrapping it tightly around her body like a cloak, and walked across the cold floorboards to stand beside her husband.

She braced herself, and peered inside.

Misarya let out a sharp, horrified gasp, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound.

It was a grotesque, butchered aberration. Inside the box lay a thick, severed black snake. But someone had taken thick, crude twine and violently sewn a pair of severed black bird’s wings directly into the snake's scaled flesh. The blood was congealing around the stitches.

"What..." Misarya breathed, her stomach churning violently. "What does he mean with this? A snake with wings..."

"A dragon," Ikarion stated coldly, his golden eyes burning with a terrifying, lethal promise. "Representing my heart, I suppose. Voriak wants war."

Misarya felt her entire, beautiful world shatter into a thousand jagged pieces. The peace, the safety, the illusion that they could just be a man and a woman in love—it all evaporated in the stench of the hatzal.

She kept staring at the butchered, stitched-together animal, her mind racing. And then, as the candlelight flickered over the gruesome display, she noticed something pressed against the wood beneath the bloody snake.

Resting beneath the rotting aberration, soaked in the dead animal's blood, was a perfectly cut strip of delicate lilac silk.