The wind along the cliffs carried salt and something sharper beneath it, like iron dragged across stone. Havana walked ahead without slowing, her cloak snapping behind her, while the lords of Cliffland followed in a tight cluster. Drexo came just behind her, his gaze fixed on the horizon where dark shapes were cutting through the water.
No one spoke at first. The sea had a way of swallowing words before they could fully form. Or maybe no one wanted to say the wrong thing.
Then one of the guards pointed. "They're closer now." The ships grew larger with every passing breath. Tall masts. Heavy hulls. War vessels, not merchant boats. Their sails carried the sigil clearly now.
A wolf carved in black. "The Kenwools," someone muttered, almost as if they feared saying it too loudly might undo it.
Havana stopped at the edge of the shore, her boots digging into wet sand. She did not smile, not yet. She folded her arms and waited, eyes narrowed, measuring everything. The number of ships. The spacing between them. The discipline in how they approached.
Drexo stood beside her, his fingers curling slightly at his sides. Relief came, yes, but it didn't settle. It moved inside him, restless, like it didn't trust its own presence.
The first ship struck shallow ground with a dull scrape. Ropes were thrown. Men moved fast, practiced, pulling the vessel into place. Others jumped into the water, boots splashing, dragging planks into position.
No chaos. No hesitation. They came ready. One by one, figures began to descend.
Lord Fabio Kenwool stepped onto the shore first. He wore no crown, but he did not need one. Authority followed him like a shadow. Two young men came behind him, both carrying themselves with the same rigid posture. His sons, no doubt.
And then she appeared. Friya Kenwool. She did not wait for formalities. The moment her boots touched the sand, she saw Drexo. And that was it.
She ran. The distance between them vanished in seconds. Her arms wrapped around him tightly, almost violently, like she was afraid he might disappear if she didn't hold him hard enough.
"I thought you were dead," she said, her voice breaking against his chest. "I thought they killed you."
Her head rested against him, her breath uneven. Drexo did not move. Not at first.
His hands hovered for a moment, uncertain, like they didn't quite belong to him. Then slowly, almost out of obligation, they settled lightly against her back.
But there was no pull. No urgency in the touch. He just stood there.
Still.
Watching the sea over her shoulder. Footsteps approached. Lord Fabio Kenwool stopped a few paces away, then lowered himself into a bow. It was not rushed. It was deliberate, controlled, the kind of bow that carried both respect and calculation.
"Your Grace," he said. "I thank the gods that you are safe."
Drexo gently eased Friya away, though her fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary before releasing him.
"I am here," Fabio continued, lifting his head, "to pledge my allegiance to you and House Dragarian once again."
Drexo gave a small nod. "Thank you for answering my summons." Fabio's lips curved into a smile, but his eyes remained sharp. "You are the only surviving Dragarian. That makes you the true heir to the Golden
Throne."
He stepped closer. Close enough to place a hand on Drexo's shoulder. The gesture looked warm from a distance. Up close, it felt heavier.
"And besides," Fabio added, his voice lowering just a fraction, "when you reclaim your throne, my daughter, Friya, will sit beside you as your queen."
Friya's expression flickered with something like satisfaction. Or maybe relief. It was hard to tell.
Fabio's hand pressed slightly, firm now. "A win for you, is a win for House Kenwool."
Then, without hesitation, he drew his sword. The steel caught the light as he lowered himself again, placing the blade at Drexo's feet.
"I, Fabio Kenwool," he said, voice steady, "by the name of Osonobruwhe, swear myself, my house, and Ashford to your cause."
Silence followed, not empty silence, but waiting silence.
All eyes shifted to Drexo. He stared down at the sword. For a brief moment, something tightened in his chest. This was what he needed. What Havana had demanded. What the council had prayed for in hushed voices.
Support, strength, a chance.
And yet, he hesitated.
Just enough for those closest to notice. Then his voice rose. "Arise, Fabio Kenwool," he said. "Loyal servant of the crown."
The words landed. The crowd erupted. Claps thundered across the shore, echoing against the cliffs, rolling into the sea. Some cheered. Others simply exhaled, tension leaving their bodies in visible waves.
Fabio rose smoothly, retrieving his sword. He met Drexo's gaze, searching it for something.
Drexo gave him a smile. It stayed on his face. But it didn't quite reach his eyes.
That evening, Cliffland burned with light. Torches lined the walls. Long tables stretched across the hall. Meat, bread, wine, more than the city could comfortably afford, but Havana did not care.
Not tonight. The Kenwools sat among them, their presence filling the space like a second army. Laughter rose in bursts. Cups clashed. Voices overlapped.
On the surface, it looked like victory. Fabio stood at some point, raising his cup. The room quieted.
"Your Grace," he began, turning toward Drexo. "Ashford boasts of eight thousand ground warriors, and twenty thousand sea warriors."
A murmur passed through the hall. "And you have all to your cause from now on."
The response came instantly. Thunderous applause. Louder than before. Hope, raw and desperate, poured into it.
Drexo nodded again, the same controlled gesture. The same measured expression. Across the table, Theon watched him closely.
Too closely.
When the noise settled and conversations resumed, Theon leaned in slightly. "The Kenwools have answered your call," he said under his breath. "Yet you do not look happy."
Drexo exhaled, slow and sharp. His fingers tightened around his cup before loosening again.
"He is not here because he believes in justice," Drexo replied quietly. "He is here because I am engaged to his daughter."
Theon's brows pulled together. "How does that matter?"
Drexo turned his head, leaning closer so his words wouldn't carry.
"I have broken my vow to his daughter," he said. "I lay with another woman."
A pause.
"And I am deeply in love with her." Theon's face shifted, but not with sympathy. With dismissal. "Nobody knows," he said flatly. "And nobody has to know."
He leaned even closer, his voice tightening. "And you have to forget about Maria."
The name hung there.
Heavy.
Drexo's jaw flexed. "But I love Maria."
Theon's expression hardened. "You are at war." He didn't raise his voice, but something in it cut sharper than a shout.
"A man at war shouldn't be talking about love." Drexo looked away, his gaze drifting across the hall. Friya was laughing with one of her brothers, her face bright, her posture relaxed.
She looked certain.
Theon followed his gaze, then pulled him back. "Right now, you only have Cliffland and Ashford by your side," he continued. "If you do not marry Friya, then you lose the war."
The words settled slowly. Like stones dropping into deep water. "Do you understand?"
Drexo didn't answer immediately. Theon exhaled, frustration slipping through now.
"Look," he said, sharper. "This is not about right or wrong. This isn't about love. This is about war and survival."
He paused, letting that sink in. "Friya is currently your only chance."
Drexo's grip on his cup tightened again. "Maria might never set her eyes on you again," Theon added. "She is engaged to Robert."
That name. It twisted something inside him. "And now that Robert is king," Theon went on, "she will be his queen."
A beat.
"And that makes her your enemy." The word landed harder than expected.
Enemy.
Drexo's throat felt dry. "Do you understand?" This time, he nodded.
Slowly.
Theon watched him for another second, then pulled him into a brief embrace. It was quick, firm, almost like sealing something unspoken.
"With time," Theon said, pulling back, "more kingdoms will support your claim to the throne."
His voice softened just a little. "They are only scared now."
The feast stretched late into the night. Wine flowed freely. Voices grew louder. Laughter came easier.
And for a while, It worked.
Drexo found himself responding when spoken to. Nodding at the right moments. Even managing a few small smiles that didn't feel entirely forced.
He told himself to let go. Forget about her. Forget about Maria. Concentrate on the war. Concentrate on survival.
The words repeated in his mind like a quiet command. And for a few days that actually worked for him.