Chapter 87: Liability

Chapter 87: Liability
Misarya sat on a low, fur-covered stool, gently grinding a pestle into a small stone bowl of willow bark. Across from her, Rhea reclined on a mound of cushions. Her belly was massively swollen with Jarek’s child, her breath coming in shallow, tired completely exhausted sighs, but her dark eyes were as sharp and observant as ever.

Outside, the muffled, rhythmic thud of the Iron-Riders marching their horses through the Old Village served as a constant, heavy reminder of the impending war.

"They are loud," Rhea murmured, resting a protective hand over her stomach as a particularly heavy set of hooves rattled the wooden poles of the tent. "Tzariak likes to make sure everyone knows exactly how much power he brings to the King's table."

"They are intimidating," Misarya agreed quietly, setting the pestle down. "The whole camp feels different since they arrived. Like a bowstring pulled back as far as it can go."

Rhea let out a soft, knowing hum. She shifted her weight, wincing slightly before locking her gaze onto her Queen. "And I imagine the bowstring pulled even tighter after yesterday. Word travels fast in the camp, my Queen. Jarek won't talk about it, but I heard enough."

Misarya looked down at her hands, the memory of Azeth’s jaws snapping onto Maya’s arm still making her stomach churn. "I didn't order Azeth to attack her..."

"I know you didn't," Rhea said gently, offering a tired but genuine smile. "Azeth is bound to your heart, not your words, I think."

Rhea paused, a shadow of sadness crossing her features. "I love my husband. Jarek is a fierce warrior and a good man to me. But when it comes to his sister, he is completely, hopelessly blind. Maya has been poison since the day you arrived. I am glad you finally stood up for yourself, my Queen. And I am so very sorry that Jarek is acting this way toward you."

Misarya felt a lump form in her throat at the absolute sincerity in her friend's voice. She reached out, gently squeezing Rhea's hand.

"I don't care about Maya," Misarya whispered, the valley composure finally slipping to reveal the terrified girl underneath. "What I fear the most right now... Is Ikarion sending me away."

Rhea frowned, her fingers wrapping warmly around Misarya's. "He would never."

"He told me he would," Misarya confessed, a single tear escaping to track down her cheek. "To keep me safe when Voriak attacks. He ordered my Halendarian guards to prepare the carriages." She let out a wet, bitter laugh. "I used to dream about returning to Halen-Dar. I prayed to the gods every night to let me go home. And now... I cannot think of anything worse. I would rather die in the dirt of the plains than be sent away from him."

She wiped the tear away fiercely, her lilac eyes burning with a sudden, helpless frustration. "I wish I knew how to handle a blade. I wish I could fight beside him, so I wouldn't just be a liability he has to pack away."

"You are no liability," Rhea said firmly, squeezing her hand. "And it will not come to this. Ikarion-Lir is the Dragon King. He has the Iron-Riders now. He will crush Voriak's forces into dust before they ever reach the edge of this camp. I have faith."

Misarya nodded slowly, desperately wanting to believe her.



Ikarion walked slowly across the scorched stone, dragging the heavy carcass of a slaughtered stag behind him. He dropped the meat near the edge of the subterranean lake. The water rippled, and the massive, scaled head of Askarya slowly breached the surface.

She did not roar. She did not snap her jaws. The great beast simply dragged herself onto the rocky shore with a heavy, agonizing sluggishness, her golden eyes dull in the gloom. Ikarion’s heart sank as he watched her tear into the stag. She was getting worse. She barely left the cavern to hunt anymore, relying entirely on the King to bring her food.

Ikarion sat on a warm boulder near her massive wing, staring into the dark water. The silence of the cavern was a stark contrast to the deafening political noise of the camp above.

He was drowning in a suffocating moral dilemma. Tzariak’s ultimatum echoed endlessly in his skull. Take a concubine. Prove you can sire an heir. Or we will not bleed for you.

Ikarion hated it. He hated feeling cornered. He was the Dragon King; he had conquered this savage empire with his own two hands. He shouldn't have to bargain for loyalty like a desperate merchant. He was no longer a Riven-blood bastard begging for scraps of respect—he wore the crown. These stupid, archaic rules of multiple wives and political breeding shouldn't apply to him. He was a fair King. He didn't hoard wealth, he bled alongside his men, and he worked endlessly for the good of his people. That should be enough.

But as he looked at the weakened dragon, the brutal reality crashed over him.

He understood exactly what Tzariak was talking about. Askari warlords respected strength and legacy. It only took a single spark of doubt for power-hungry men to turn their cloaks. If the Iron-Riders marched away, Voriak would slaughter the Old Village.

And then, the chilling voice of the cloaked child from his dream whispered in the dark cavern of his mind.

Only from her broken heart will the plains know no war.

Ikarion buried his face in his calloused hands. Was this what the gods demanded? Perhaps he shouldn't have become so attached to the valley girl. He was a King, and a King must put his people first. Taking a concubine was a political transaction, a necessity to secure an army and save thousands of lives... As well as his legacy. If he explained it to Misarya, maybe she would come to understand. Maybe she would see that it was just a duty, a sacrifice for the greater good.

But it all felt like a hollow, sickening lie.

He didn't know what to think anymore. The only absolute truth he possessed was that he loved her. He loved her way too much for her sorrow not to stab him like a physical knife in the ribs.

At night, he returned to the cabin. It was quiet, illuminated only by the soft, flickering glow of the hearth and the candles on the vanity.

Misarya sat on the edge of the wooden stool, the heavy silver bristles of her brush pulling smoothly through her dark, unbound hair. She was wearing a thin, white linen shift, the firelight catching the soft curve of her shoulders.

Misarya instantly turned, a warm, tender smile blooming across her face as Ikarion stepped inside. "You are back late," she said softly, setting the brush down.

But as the King stepped fully into the light, her smile faltered. He looked worried.

Misarya stood up instantly. "Ikarion? What is it? What happened?"

Ikarion didn't move to hold her. He stood frozen in the center of the room, his jaw locked tight.

"We need to talk," he said, his voice a rough, broken rasp.

Misarya’s breath hitched. She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling incredibly small. "Are you... Are you going to send me away? My love, you cannot. Not right now, I have news..."

"No, I will not send you away," Ikarion said quickly, the word tearing from his throat. He took a single, agonizing step toward her. "Misarya... Voriak’s numbers are too great. Askarya is sick. She cannot fly. If we fight this war with the men we have, we will be slaughtered."

Misarya stared at him, her lilac eyes wide with terror as the invincible facade of the Dragon King finally cracked.

"Tzariak has offered me the entire cavalry of the Iron-Riders," Ikarion continued, forcing the words out like pieces of broken glass. "With them, we crush Voriak. The camp survives. You survive."

"Then accept them," Misarya said, her voice trembling. "What is the problem?"

Ikarion closed his eyes. The silence in the cabin stretched into a suffocating eternity. When he finally opened them, the raw, bleeding agony in his gaze made her heart stop.
"He demands a blood-alliance," Ikarion whispered. "Because I have no heir."

Misarya froze completely.

"I told him I wouldn't take a second wife," Ikarion said rapidly, desperation bleeding into his tone as he stepped closer, desperate to make her understand. "I told him I loved you. I swore it to him. But I cannot risk losing this war, my love. I cannot let Voriak take you from me. I agreed... I agreed to take one of Tzariak's daughters as a concubine."

Misarya said nothing. The air vanished from the room.

"It is just a contract," Ikarion pleaded, his large hands reaching out, hovering inches from her arms, too terrified to actually touch her. "I will send her away the moment she births a child. I do not know his daughters and whoever I choose, she will mean nothing to me. I will not look at her, I will not love her. I love you. It is just to save our people."

Misarya remained completely, devastatingly silent.

She didn't yell. Instead, the beautiful, vibrant light in her lilac eyes simply extinguished. Her chest barely moved as the heavy, agonizing realization crushed her soul. A single tear spilled over her lashes, tracing a slow, silent path down her pale cheek, catching the candlelight like a fractured jewel.

Ikarion felt his own heart violently tear in half. The prophecy was fulfilled. He had broken her.

"Please," Ikarion begged, his voice cracking, the terrifying Warlord completely shattered by the sight of her silent weeping. He fell to his knees on the wooden floorboards before her, gripping the edges of her linen shift. "Please, my love. Say anything. Slap me. Curse my name. Hit me, please, just say something."

Misarya looked down at the massive, lethal King kneeling at her feet. She took a slow, deep, shuddering breath, the air trembling in her lungs.

"I discovered it earlier today," Misarya whispered, her voice a hollow, fragile ghost in the quiet cabin.

Ikarion’s brow furrowed, his golden eyes searching her tear-streaked face. "What? What are you talking about?"

Misarya let out a broken, agonizing sob, her hands coming up to cradle her own stomach.

"I'm pregnant."