Page 57 of The Truth-Teller's Bargain
“You and I both know why you’re doing this. Because you promised your father you would. You promised Goran Arranil before he was captured. These people all follow you not because you’re a Hasan, but because you’ve proven yourself through trial and tribulation to be a good man.” Bernadea laid a gentle touch against his forearm. “Sometimes, the heart doesn’t adhere to the bargains we strike. It leads us down paths we never intended to tread. It is hard for a good man to be king, but with the Truth-Teller at your side,”—she glanced at Alethea between them—“I believe you can survive whatever is to come.”
Everything came to a stop as Nakir’s mind halted on her words.
“What did you call her?”
Bernadea measured him with a neutral expression, her eyes glinting in the low light. “You heard me.”
The meaning of it settled slowly within him—a revelation he was not yet ready to comprehend.
Alethea stirred, and Nakir took her hand in both of his, waiting impatiently as her eyes fluttered open. “Nakir,” she breathed, his world coming to a halt at the way in which she spoke the word—with relief.
“I’m here. You’re all right,” he promised, his voice tender as he held her hand gently in his. Her smile, fragile yet filled with resilience, tore open his heart and laid it bare on the table. “I have to step away,” Nakir explained, his voice steady despite the storm of feelings. He held her palm as tightly as he dared, attempting to convey his unspoken devotion. “But I’ll be back. I need you to get some rest. We’re leaving for Meseira in the morning.” He leaned down and placed a kiss on her head. “I’ll come back for you soon.”
Alethea squeezed his hand weakly, and he had to swallow hard to fight the oncoming wave of emotion.
“I’ll be back.”
With great effort, he managed to pry himself away from her, his steps unsteady as he nearly stumbled out of the tent. His feet carried him across the camp to where he knew he could find his spymaster.
“Bal!” he called out as he approached the Empath’s tent. The night was heavy with the echoes of battle, and Nakir’s heart pounded in his chest, a relentless drumbeat of fear and uncertainty. “Balthasar.”
Nakir shoved his way in through the tent flap to see the older man reclined on his cot, eyes closed. The air inside the tent was thick with the scent of sweat and blood.
“Bal...” Nakir’s breath caught in his throat as he sank against the center pole of the tent.
“What is it?” his spymaster asked, voice low as if he’d just awoken. He didn’t stir from the cot.
“Truth-Teller,” Nakir uttered, the weight of the name heavy on his tongue.
Balthasar’s eyes narrowed, a shadow passing over his face. “You said we were never to speak of that again.”
Nakir’s laugh was bitter, the sound carrying the weight of years of fruitless searching and shattered hope. Of blood on his hands. “It was never a weapon... not like we imagined. We searched every library in Rai’Sharr, Azmarin, and Wolfecrest. We broke into thefucking Crystalline Academy, for gods’ sake.” His voice cracked with the strain of his confession, a raw edge of desperation cutting through. “We thought it was a weapon, something so powerful it was hidden from the world by divine means. We consulted Augurs and scholars across the Realm, and not one of them knew where to find the Truth-Teller or what it even was. Because it was never a blade or a scythe or a scepter. Or a tome, or anything...”
Balthasar’s eyes were open now as he stared at his future king, his expression as measured as it always was, but he didn’t speak.
“It’s Alethea,” Nakir said, the enormity of the revelation breaking his voice. “She’sthe Truth-Teller.‘Only with the power of the Truth-Teller will you finally take back what is yours, the Kingdom of Lenorea, bought and paid for and promised to you with the blood of your ancestors.’”
He knew the prophecy by heart, as if it were tattooed there by some ancient magic. But Balthasar’s expression remained blank. Gods forbid he give away his own emotions while reading everyone else’s.
Silence passed for several beats. Nakir’s head fell back against the center pole. After several minutes of tension, he let go a long sigh.
“How long have you known?” he finally asked in a hoarse whisper.
“I... suspected.”
“Since?” Nakir pressed, a sense of impatience coloring his tone.
“Since I carried her from the dungeons to her tower.” A long pause. “Goran knew,” he added quietly, his voice carrying the weight of a heavy burden—a burden Nakir was now forced to share. “He must have seen her powers when the queen forced Alethea to extract information and figured it out. When I spoke to him before he was executed, he commanded me to leave him behind and find a way to get her out instead. I was coming to tell you when you found her.”
Nakir wanted to rage, his muscles aching from the battle, his mind reeling from the newfound knowledge. But he was too exhausted, both physically and emotionally, to summon the energy for anger.
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
Balthasar didn’t answer right away, which confirmed that answer was a resounding “no.”
“There are some things you need to figure out for yourself, Nakir. You’ve spent every moment you’ve known her reminding her she’s more than her power. Now it’s time for you to understand that too.”
He fell silent. A part of him wanted to scream at Balthasar for keeping something so important from him, but he couldn’t deny the quiet voice in the back of his mind that reminded him of the kind of man he was when he was searching for the Truth-Teller. That man wouldn’t have hesitated to use Alethea for what she could do for him.
