Chapter 82: If it ever comes to it

Chapter 82: If it ever comes to it
Days bled into one another, and the air in the encampment grew thick with a sharp, metallic tension.

To the Askari, the looming threat of Voriak-Lir was not a cause for despair; it was a cause for glorious, bloodthirsty excitement. The camp hummed with a fierce, terrifying pride. The rhythmic clang of hammers hitting anvils echoed from dawn until dusk as more and more weapons were forged. Everywhere Misarya looked, she saw the people of the plains swinging their blades, sparring in the dirt, and practicing their formations with a terrifying, joyful thirst for battle.

Even the women who usually spent their days weaving or helping the healers had taken up arms, spending a good portion of their afternoons practicing with heavy spears and hide-bound shields. The energy was wildly contagious. In the winding paths between the tents, children ran with wooden swords and carved dragon toys, proudly chanting in the name of Ikarion-Lir.

“For the Dragon King! May he burn them all to ash!”

Misarya, however, could not share in their fervent anticipation. She kept her chin high and her expression composed as a Queen should, refusing to show her apprehension, but she could not adhere to the Askari's confident, bloodthirsty stance. Deep down, a cold dread coiled in her stomach. She feared the impending slaughter. She feared for the people she had come to care for. And above all, she feared for her husband.

Inside the largest command tent, Ikarion stood surrounded by his generals.

During his incursion into Halen-Dar, the Dragon King had seen how the valley masters commanded their wars. They used grand, carved tables in their halls, sprawling maps covered with painted miniatures representing the terrain, the castles, and the movement of armies. Ikarion had commissioned one for himself. It was a difficult task—the Askari were nomadic, with very few permanent settlements to map—but it gave him a tactical edge the plains had never seen.

Whenever Askarya was willing to fly, Ikarion would take to the skies, monitoring the surrounding valleys and ridges to ensure they would not be caught by a surprise attack. So far, Voriak-Lir had not made a move, likely gathering his massive forces. But a dark, heavy secret weighed on the King’s chest: he could feel through their bond that Askarya was not getting better. Her strength was waning, and he deeply feared what a weakened dragon would mean for his army when Voriak finally marched.

Of course, the Dragon King never expressed a single ounce of this concern to his men. Standing over the map, he was sharp, strategic, and impossibly calm. He had to demonstrate that everything was entirely under control. He assured them they would crush Voriak and his massive army the Askari way: with steel, horses, and brutal, overwhelming strength, exactly as honor and the war gods demanded.

But in the ultimate instance, if his men began to fall... he would simply burn Voriak's rebellion to the ground.

As the last of the generals filed out of the wooden hall, leaving Ikarion alone in the quiet shadows, a vision of absolute heaven stepped through the doorway.

"May I come in?" Misarya asked softly.

Ikarion’s rigid shoulders instantly dropped. "Of course."

She stepped into the light. She had her dark hair pinned up, woven into one of those intricate, braided updos the noblewomen of Halen-Dar favored. Ikarion honestly did not like it. He loved seeing her hair down, those soft, dark waves wild and loose across her shoulders, exactly as they should be. But he knew she only ever wore her hair like that when she was handling the sick or helping the healers with their salves.

Yet, while she wore the braids of her people, her clothes told a different story. She wore a simple tunic of spun linen and soft leather breeches, looking like any other Askari woman in the camp. If she asked, Ikarion would have the merchants empty their carts so she could walk around draped in the rarest, gold-threaded silks every single day. But she didn't. She chose the simple, practical clothes of his people, and there was something about that quiet humility that he respected more than he could say.

She circled the heavy map table and walked toward him. Ikarion extended his hand.

Misarya placed her small, soft fingers over his scarred palm. He lifted her hand, gently pressing a kiss to her knuckles, before suddenly pulling her forward by the waist.

Misarya let out a startled, breathless laugh as she tumbled squarely into his lap. He wrapped his massive arms around her, burying his face in her neck and kissing her soft lips before pulling back to look at her.

"What brings you here?" he asked, his voice low and warm.

Misarya rested her hand against his chest, her smile fading into something much more wistful. "I barely see you now."

It was true. The Dragon King spent day and night training his men, locked in councils with his generals, and leading hunting parties to ensure the camp had enough provisions for a siege. Sometimes, she couldn't help but fall asleep before he returned to the cabin, and he rarely dared to wake her from her rest.

She missed him terribly.

"I'm sorry," Ikarion murmured, guilt flashing in his golden eyes. "I've been—"

"Please, don't apologize," Misarya interrupted gently, shaking her head. "I know what you're doing. I know you must."

She turned her head, her lilac eyes falling on the wooden miniatures scattered across the map table. The reality of the war pressed in on them. "I fear for the children," she whispered. "And those who cannot fight. The sick, the crippled... what will be of them?"

Ikarion’s grip on her waist tightened protectively. "I'll protect them. I'll protect you."

He tried to keep his voice steady, maintaining that confident, impenetrable posture he wore for his army. But something about his wife always stripped him bare, forcing him to confront the parts of his soul he preferred to keep locked away in the dark. There was absolutely no acting with her.

The terrifying truth was... he was afraid.

He looked down at Misarya, taking in every detail of her beautiful, delicate face. She was so precious to him. She wasn't a fighter. She didn't hold a spear or wear armor. And the King knew damn well that Voriak-Lir would do whatever it took, burn whatever he had to burn, just to get his hands on her and make Ikarion suffer.

Ikarion took her small hands in his, his golden eyes locking onto hers with a fierce, burning intensity.

"I'll win," the Dragon King promised, his voice vibrating with absolute certainty. "I will bring back Voriak's heart in a hatzal, and the jewelry of his wives—all of them—will be yours."

He paused, a heavy, agonizing weight settling over his features.

"But I need to keep you safe," Ikarion finished quietly, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "So... I just want you to know that if it ever comes to it... I will send you back to your father's castle."