Chapter 433: No Easy Answer

Rhydian;

Igma slams the door so hard that I feel the sound reverberate through my skull.

I look over my shoulder at her, and all I see is rage. Bright, burning rage.

I look back at the room we were ushered into, and let out a breath. It’s far too comfortable for prisoners. A lit fireplace, a made bed, and books on shelves neither of us will touch.

"So, they’re just going to pretend we’re not prisoners?" Igma spits, and I look back at her.

"Would you prefer chains?"

"I’d prefer this make sense!" She replies, and I fall silent.

She starts pacing, and I walk over to one of the chairs in the corner of the room and sit. I sit because my legs have stopped being useful. They’re tired of holding me up, and quite frankly, I am tired of pulling so much strength just to keep myself upright.

I stare at the fire crackling in the fireplace as one thought loops itself over and over again in my head till, finally, I speak.

"I’m not giving him my father," I confess—Expecting outright protest from Igma, but she doesn’t even stop walking.

"I know." She replies, and I lift a brow as I look at her.

"You say that like it’s already decided." I point out, and she huffs.

"Isn’t it?" She demands, and I blink at her.

Her dark skin glows under the fire’s golden light, and her blue hair bounces with every aggressive step she takes.

There’s so much anger and panic in her eyes; it hurts to see.

"No," I reply, and she stops. She looks at me, and there’s confusion in her eyes. Confusion and rage.

"Then what are we doing in here, Rhydian?" She asks, and I blink.

"What do you—"

"If it isn’t already decided, what are we doing in here, Rhydian—"

"We’re figuring it out." I cut her off, and she scoffs as she turns away.

"There’s nothing to figure out. Either King Wilhelm dies, or Alana, and the rest of Beastheaven do." She replies, and my heart skips a beat.

"Don’t say it like that." I caution, and only then does she look back at me.

"How else would you like me to say it?" She pushes, and I stand.

"Like it matters that we’re talking about my father."

"It matters." She replies, her voice sharpening. "But it also matters that it’s Alana."

"I know that—"

"Do you know what she means to me!?" She cuts me off, and that makes me pause.

"I know she’s your mate..."I reply slowly, and she nods in agreement.

"Then act like you understand what that means." She cautions, and I am taken aback by the accusation.

"I do understand—"

"You don’t!" She screams, and I fall silent.\

"Not really. Not the way I do." She adds as her jaw tightens, and I listen in silence.

"You get to sit there and grieve a father who raised you, but I don’t have a version of him that hurts to lose." She spits the truth as raw as it is, and despite how hard that hits, I don’t back down.

"So say it," I snap. "Say you’d hand him over without blinking."

"I didn’t say that."

"You’re circling it!" I point out, and she glares at me.

"I’m circling the fact that this isn’t the same loss for both of us, and you’re acting like it should be!" She screams at me, and silence follows.

"He’s not nothing to you," I say, quieter now. "He’s your uncle," I add... as if begging her to reason why keeping him safe is worth considering.

She blinks at me for a few seconds, then steps further away from me, with her blue eyes fixed on the fire.

"He’s my uncle...But to me, he’s my king...Your Father... nothing more. Because we’ve never been anything to each other. You know this." She whispers, and my gaze falls to my boots.

"I know," I whisper softly, and her troubled, now icy voice follows.

"Then stop expecting me to grieve him the way you do." She replies, and I shut my eyes.

"I’m not."

"You are." She snaps. "You’re waiting for me to feel what you feel so you’re not the only one drowning."

I don’t answer that, because it’s closer to the truth than I want it to be. She’s clearly being the most logical here. But then again, how wouldn’t she? Logic benefits her directly in this case.

If my Father dies, she gets Alana back...but can hide under the canopy of it being done for our people...and me? I would have given up my Father...Yes, my people would be safe...but how would I face Mother? Queen Cassia, my brothers... How would I face my family if I make such a massive decision without consulting them first??

And if I don’t...If I sit on my hands and refuse... Igma’s sigh cuts through my thoughts.

I look back up at her, and see some of the fight draining out of her shoulders. ℴℴ𝗺

"I don’t want him dead," she whispers as she looks up at me.

There’s sorrow in her eyes as well, and I struggle to hold her gaze "I need you to hear that."

"I hear it." I acknowledge, and she nods.

"But I won’t lie and say this guts me the way it guts you." She confesses, and a wry smile splits my face.

"I know," I reply, and she stays silent.

"...I know," I repeat as I sit back down.

I rub both hands down my face as my knee starts to bounce.

"If we refuse...she dies." I breathe, but Igma watches me in silence.

"And then war. With people who bend the air and walk through blades like they’re nothing." I add, and still she remains silent. Like this is my burden to carry alone.

"We won’t win that, Igma. Not cleanly." I admit, and she finally lets out a breath.

"I know that." She answered flatly, and I look up at her

"So say it plainly. What do you want to do?" I demand, and this time, there is no hesitation before her answer.

"I want Alana to live."

"That’s the only thing I’m certain of tonight." She adds, and I blink at her.

"...And my father?" I ask, and she plops herself down on the edge of the bed.

"I don’t have an answer to that—"

"That’s not good enough—"

"Well, it’s all I have!" She cuts me off, and I freeze.

She looks away from me, and I stare at the flower pot in the corner.

"They aren’t asking for land, Rhydian. They aren’t asking for wealth. He is proposing an alliance if we give him—"She stops herself before the words fall, but I complete the sentence for her nonetheless.

"My father."

I don’t look up at her, but I can feel her gaze on me.

"I keep waiting to feel certain," I whisper, and only then do I look back at her.

"But it’s not happening," I add, and she blinks at me. "So what do we do with that?"

"I don’t know." She answers, and this time, I’m the one who scoffs.

"You always know." I retort, and her eyes grow softer.

"Not this time." Her voice is smaller than I’ve heard it in so long. "I don’t think either of us walks out of this room certain of anything even by morning."

I lean back in the chair and let out an exhausted, heavy breath.

"What if he’s lying? How are we even sure Alana is okay?" I ask, and Igma’s worried voice follows without missing a beat.

"What do you—"

A knock cuts through the room, and we both freeze.

My hand finds the closest thing to a weapon near me, and Igma does the same/

"Forgive the interruption," a woman’s voice says from outside, and Igma and I share a look.

"Someone wishes to see you both." The woman speaks again, and my brows furrow.

"Who?" I demand, but I’m met with silence... And the shuffle of feet.

"I asked who?" I demand, and Igma steps closer to the door.

"Come in," She calls impatiently, and the door slowly creaks open, and I hold my breath.

A young witch steps through, eyes down, and lips sealed. I’m about to ask questions when she moves aside. And behind her— brown hair, pressed-back rabbit ears...and a face I did not expect to still see tonight.

Igma makes a sound I’ve never heard from her.

"Alana." She breathes.

The young woman in the doorway looks up, and whatever composure she walked in with breaks the instant her eyes find Igma’s. Her lips part as she calls her name, barely a whisper.

"Igma..."

Igma moves across the room before I register her moving. Alana barely gets her arms up before Igma is against her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other fisted in her cloak like letting go might make this stop being real.

Alana’s breath shudders against Igma’s shoulder. "You’re here. You’re actually here."

"I felt you," Igma cries, muffled, "the whole time, I felt you—"

"I know," Alana whispers as her arms wrap around Igma, and I swallow.

I stay where I am, giving them room and giving myself time to battle the guilt that suddenly sprang to life inside me.

Igma pulls back just enough to look at Alana’s face, both hands cupping her jaw like she’s checking she’s real.

"They hurt you, didn’t they?" She demands, but Alana stays silent.

Her silence answers before her mouth does, and Igma’s face crumbles.

"Alana—" She cries, but Alana forces a smile.

"I’m alive," She says quickly, like that’s supposed to be enough.

"I’m alive. That’s what matters right now." She adds.

I watch them, and something in my chest sits heavier than it did a minute ago....Because Alana isn’t a name in Avaren’s mouth anymore.

She’s here. Real. Marked by whatever they’ve done to her, however small the wound, however much Igma’s about to spend the rest of the night finding out exactly what that silence meant...

Whatever Avaren wants from us, he’s just made certain neither of us will ever look at his offer the same way again...