Page 119 of Godbound
“It’s too late to run, Ray,” Eva hisses, grabbing myarm gently, tugging me back which makes me realize I had started walking after Kaelzar.
“I see that,” I say through my clenched teeth.
My gaze lingers on the spot where Kaelzar had stood, the ache in my chest refusing to fade.
I force myself to focus on Eva, on Ryker, on the approaching court. But even as I smile and let Eva lead me toward the king, a part of me stays behind, lost in the shadows where Kaelzar disappeared.
The clearing hums with life.Servants dart between silk-draped tables, their hands quick and efficient, while courtiers laugh and mingle, waiting for the opulent tents to be erected. The morning air is thick with the heady smell of blooming flowers and freshly baked bread, but even amidst the clamor, a single commanding voice cuts through.
“Lady Troubelle,” Ryker says.
I freeze as he approaches, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight, his strides purposeful. He is the center of gravity in this courtly chaos, but his focus is on me.
He is the king, flanked by consuls and nobles, yet he crosses the distance, leaving behind the pomp and spectacle of his station and takes my hand. His hand is warm and steady, but I hesitate. This isn’t how a king should behave with someone like me.
Ryker lifts my hand as if it still holds weight. His lips brush the blackened tips of my fingers, and the world stutters to a halt. Gasps ripple through the crowd, silencing the hum of conversation.
The weight of their stares crashes down on me, the court’s collective shock mirroring the turmoil in my chest. My hand stiffens in his grasp, and when I finally find my voice, it escapes in a brittle whisper. “What are you doing?”
Ryker’s lips curve into a smirk, but his eyes soften with quiet longing. “What I should have done long ago.”
Before I can respond, Consul Montague clears his throat. “Your Majesty,” he begins, his tone dripping with exasperation, “am I to hopethat this impromptu gathering in a fly-infested clearing is not merely an excuse to impose our presence on the Witch Goddess’s Champion? One who, I might add, has gone to great lengths to avoid us?”
His torso is strangely compact, thrown further off balance by limbs that stretch far too long, like the legs of a cave-dwelling spider bred in darkness. With the way he’s glaring down at me, I half expect him to spit venom or spin a web around me.
A memory of Zyrel saving this consul resurfaces suddenly, brushing against my awareness like something slick and living beneath lake water, gliding unseen until it touches bare skin.
Ryker straightens, releasing my hand and his expression turns cold and imperious.
“Alistair, you’re free to hope for whatever you please.” His voice carries a sharp edge, but when he turns back to me, his tone softens, his words meant only for me.
“It also happens to be Lady Troubelle’s birthday. You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”
I shake my head, but the ache blooms in my chest because Ryker remembered, and Kaelzar didn’t.
In minutes, the quiet simplicity of the clearing is transformed. Silk-draped tents and banquet tables groaning with food replace the unadorned space I had grown used to. The courtiers move like glittering waves around Ryker, their silks and jewels catching the sunlight, their laughter ringing out like bells.
Even as Ryker disappears into the crowd, their whispers find me, slipping past laughter, the clink of goblets, the rustle of silk. Their conspiratorial voices cling to the edges of the clearing like fog, quiet but impossible to ignore.
Sheryndale.
The name alone seems to chill the air. Some say the kingdom never even screamed, its people lulled into an unnatural sleep, its walls left unguarded as Lothagrom’s forces marched in without resistance.
My chest tightens as the murmurs circle closer. If a whole kingdom, as small as it was, could fall so silently, what hope do the rest of us have if Lothagrom turns its gaze on Calcatra?
Next to me, I catch Eva’s expression tightening as someone mentions our weakened frontlines, where her husband currently is, and how vulnerable we’ve become now that none of our soldiers carry Borrowglasses, no longer able to wield godsmagic.
Eva excuses herself with polite grace, but I see the worry behind her smile.
It hits me then with unsettling clarity: the presence of the gods has never been only about faith or comfort. Their watchful eyes, fed by our prayers, are a shield as much as a doctrine. Religion may give people something to believe in, something to look up to, but in Calcatra, it also keeps us safe.
And until a new ruling God is chosen, that safety is fractured. No matter how gilded the temple halls or how brightly the priests smile, none of us can truly breathe easy.
My gaze flicks toward the other Champions scattered among the gathering.
Zyrel lounges amidst a cluster of admirers, his black dragon stomping carelessly through fragile blooms. Liona is close by, their Godbeasts watching each other with wary intensity. Alaric keeps to himself, buried in his cup, his Godbeast long gone, as I’d been told, disappeared to Elysium minutes after he was declared the loser of the second challenge. Seraphina also stands apart, rigid and resplendent in a gown of molten gold, her expression carefully schooled.
I head toward her with an apple in my hand, watching as her green dragon nips at her arm, earning a sharp reprimand.
