The morning after the decision was a heavy one. In the King’s Chambers, the emerald sun cast long, dancing rainbows through the high crystal windows. The light felt intrusive, too cheerful for the somber mood that had settled over the two kings. A breakfast of sweet hopefruit and lilac-hued bread sat untouched on a small table near a private balcony.
Fable was meticulously checking the contents of a simple traveler’s satchel. His movements were jerky and too precise. The methodical packing was a thin veil for the storm of grief and fear raging within him.
Jethran watched him, catching the faint but undeniable tremor in his husband’s hand as he cinched a leather strap. It was a private sign of the concern that gripped Fable as he prepared to return to the people who shunned him. The sight of it solidified Jethran’s resolve.
“You’re sure you packed enough of the calming herbs?” Jethran asked, his voice carefully neutral, an attempt to weave a thread of normalcy into the fraying morning. “Eldru Briar sounds like he could give Nimrah Yaga a run for her money in a 'making your head spin’ competition.”
“I packed enough for the entire Hollow,” Fable didn’t look up from his task, his focus absolute. “And a little extra in case I decide to start stress-baking.”
He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching as he finally looked at Jethran, a ghost of his usual grin on his lips.
“Don’t look so worried,” Fable added. “If things get too dire, I’ll just declare myself a sovereign nation and build a wall. I’ll make Eldru Briar pay for it.”
Jethran let out a soft laugh, the sound a fragile note of warmth in the vast room, but the tension in his shoulders eased for a moment.
The levity was shattered when a soft but firm knock came at the chamber door, followed by the entrance of Commander Block of the Royal Color Guard, his face grim, his posture rigid with the weight of bad news.
“Your Majesties,” the commander said with a low bow that was both respectful and deeply apologetic. “There is… a complication. The new field rations. The guardsmen have all been stricken ill. They say the field rations were tainted.”
“Tainted!?” Jethran’s blood ran cold. “How can that be?”
“It's possible the transport here wasn't refrigerated,” Commander Block said. “As a result, there are none on guard who can travel.”
“There must be someone who can be assigned,” Jethran felt the calm of the morning crumble into dust.
“That is the difficulty, Your Majesty. With the anniversary preparations and the troop dispatched to Whispering Grove,” the commander shifted uncomfortably on the polished pink stone. “The guard is stretched thin. All our ranking sentries are on assignment. There is no one of sufficient skill available to escort a king on such a journey.”
“I don’t need the best,” Fable interjected, his tone frustratingly reasonable. “Only someone strong who knows the roads.”
“There is… one person. Not on active duty. He has the strength, and he knows the Western Wilds better than anyone. But…” Commander Block hesitated.
His gaze flicking toward the door as if the name he was about to speak was a physical weight he was reluctant to carry into their private space.
“Who?” Jethran felt a surge of dread so profound it was almost a physical taste, the bitter flavor of old fear.
“Martier, Your Majesty.”
The name hung in the air like a poison. Jethran was on his feet in an instant, the memory of Martier’s rough hands, of his mother’s terror, of the cold, hard floor of their small apartment rushing back in a suffocating wave.
“Absolutely not. Find someone else,” his voice was a dangerous whisper.
“There is no one else,” the commander said, his voice full of an apology that was utterly inadequate.
“Then I will delay my quest,” Jethran declared, the words a desperate grasp for control. “I will escort him myself.”
“No,” Fable said, his voice quiet but firm, cutting through Jethran’s rising panic with the clean, sharp edge of a king’s command. “Your quest is too important. It cannot be delayed. The entire Silvarii race depends on it.”
“Summon Martier.” Fable stood, his royal authority returning like a familiar cloak. He looked at the commander, his face unreadable. Jethran stepped in front of him, trying to shield him with his own body as if that could change his mind.
“Fable, you can’t be serious,” Jethran pleaded. “That man… after everything he did to me, to my mother. You can’t trust him.”
“I don’t trust him,” Fable said, his green eyes meeting Jethran’s, full of a resolve that broke Jethran’s heart. “But I trust that his fear of you is greater than any ambition he might have. He knows what you are. He will not risk your wrath. It is a bitter choice, Jethran, but it is the only one we have. I must go.”
A heavy silence descended upon the chambers, the truth of Fable’s decision settling like a shroud. Jethran felt a desperate urge to argue, but he knew nothing he could say would change his mind. He saw the look in his husband's eyes. It was the same look he’d seen when Fable stood up to his fathru. It was a powerful certainty that was rooted not in arrogance, but in love.
“Fable,” Jethran said, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made Fable grow deeper in love. “As your King I order you not to do this.”
He knew Jethran was simply scared for his safety, and aware that they had no choice. Fable's smile grew as he placed his hand upon Jethran's heart.
“And as your King,” Fable whispered. “I order you to get over it.”
Jethran walked to the balcony window that overlooked the central arboretum, where the Tree of Hope stood. He gently plucked a single leaf. He returned to Fable and pressed the leaf into his palm.
“So you have a piece of our home with you,” Jethran said, his voice thick with unspoken emotion. “To hold onto when the world feels… muted.”
“I will guard it with my life,” he whispered. Fable curled his fingers around the leaf.
He looked past Jethran, his gaze sweeping over the beautiful, light-filled chambers, the life they had built. This was his home, a home he was leaving for a place that had only ever offered him shame. The thought was a sharp pain, but he pushed it down, burying it under the weight of his duty.
Martier was brought before them, escorted into their private chambers. He knelt, his massive frame seeming small and out of place. He did not look up, his gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the lilac marble floor.
“Martier,” Fable said, his voice cold and formal, stripped of all warmth. “You are to escort me to Silvarii Hollow. You will ensure my safe passage. You will speak only when spoken to. You will obey my every command without question. Is that understood?”
Martier looked up then, and Jethran saw the naked shock in his yellow eyes.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he rumbled, the words a low vibration of disbelief and submission.
“If any harm comes to him…” Jethran stepped forward.
“Nothing at all will harm the King,” Martier said quickly. “I will protect him with my life.”
“Good,” Fable said. “Prepare yourself. We leave within the hour.”
As Martier was dismissed, Jethran turned away, unable to watch him go. He walked to a wardrobe carved from the wood of the Tree of Hope, its surface swirling with the soft, pale colors of a new dawn. He shed the formal attire of his station. He felt as though he were shedding his own skin, the king giving way to the survivor, the boy who had walked through fire.
He pulled on a simple blue tunic over a mallowed undershirt. A celadon leather belt. Trousers the color of the peach sky. Boots of a soft but durable aureolin leather. All that remained of his regal attire was the iridescent royal robe and his crystal crown. He was armed with a king’s purpose.
The farewell at the palace gates was fraught with a terrible tension. The emerald sunlight felt too bright, the joyful sounds of the city too loud.
Fable stood beside his steed, an emerald-furred creature with lilac hooves. He was making a final adjustment to a saddlebag.
Saga waited a short distance away, her arms crossed, her face a mask of cold impatience. She was a silent participant in a journey she already resented.
“Don’t let her get under your skin,” Fable whispered as Jethran approached, his eyes flicking toward his sistra. “She’s… scared. And when she’s scared, she’s prickly. It’s a family trait. We use sarcasm as a defense mechanism.”
“Oh? I hadn’t noticed,” Jethran said. “It’s a good thing you don’t do that.”
“Yes,” Fable said as his eyebrow raised. His head tilted and a grin formed on his face. “Then I think I’m ready. One last hug so you don’t get dehydrated without me.”
They embraced then, a fierce, desperate clinging, a silent transfer of love and fear, a promise to return.
“I love you,” Jethran whispered into Fable’s shoulder.
This would be the longest time that the two kings had spent apart since they met each other, a realization that was only hitting them both.
“I know,” Fable replied. “Now we must go be the Kings that this land needs. We will be back in time for the celebration.”
“I still can't believe we're having a celebration for that gaudy ceremony,” Jethran said. “That ceremony was for the people. My real coronation was outside, in that little secluded forest with the three of us. That was for me. That was the first time I felt like someone believed in me.”
“I have always believed in you,” Fable countered. “For a Kingdom who went decades without a celebration, the people need their parties.”
He pulled away, gave Jethran one last smile, and walked toward his grim escort without looking back.
Jethran watched until they were gone. The sight of his husband riding away with his oldest tormentor a fresh scar on his soul.
He turned to find Saga watching him, her face unchanged. The silence between them was palpable, a chasm of prejudice he didn’t know how to cross. He knew he should say something, something to bridge the impossible gap, to find a common thread in the tangled weave of their shared mission.
“So,” he smiled, his voice laced with a dry wit he used as his own shield, “excited for a long, presumably silent, and definitely awkward trip with your favorite broven-in-law? I hear the scenery is lovely this time of year.”
Saga’s jaw tightened, a small muscle twitching in her cheek, she simply stared at him as if he wasn't even there. She said nothing, her silence a more potent rebuke than any insult. But he saw it. A flicker of annoyance, and then the unmistakable, infuriatingly familiar arch of a single eyebrow. She was her broven’s sistra, after all.
“Before we set out, there’s one place we have to go,” Jethran said, his tone shifting back to one of quiet authority.
Saga finally met his gaze, her expression a mixture of impatience and suspicion. “Where?”
“The Grotto.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion. “The grotto?”
“The Grotto of Trust,” he clarified. “Yes. It’s a safe place, and it’s an important stop.”
She gave a curt, reluctant nod. They left the palace, two strangers bound by a single, desperate purpose.
Their first hour on the path was a study in tense silence. They left the manicured grounds of the palace and the joyful noise of the city behind, entering the deeper woods where the world felt older, wilder.
Jethran moved with a quiet confidence that grated on Saga. She had expected a king accustomed to servants and paved roads, someone who would be lost without a guide. Instead, he walked with the sure-footed tread of a woodsman, his eyes constantly scanning the trees, his senses attuned to the forest’s subtle language.
He was the one who pointed out the faint animal trail that offered a shortcut, a path she, in her grief-stricken distraction, had completely missed. The quiet competence was unnerving. It didn’t fit the narrative she had been fed her entire life of a destructive outsider.
The journey was quiet, the path winding through forests lush with citrine leaves and lilac-barked trees. The colorful world passed by them, an indifferent backdrop to their shared tension.
Jethran was consumed with a gnawing worry for Fable, replaying their final conversation, searching for any sign he had missed.
Saga, walking a few paces ahead, was lost in her own grief and resentment, every step taking her further from home with the one being who she blamed for its destruction. He tried once more to break the suffocating silence.
“You know,” he said to her back, “Fable told me the trick to a successful journey is to sing loudly and off-key. It apparently scares away the more judgmental forest creatures.”
“Oh, spice,” she muttered under her breath, loud enough for him to hear. “That’s probably because he knows it’s the only way you know how to sing.”
The path began to climb, and after a short ascent, they emerged onto a high ridge. Below them, Evenhere City spread out like a painter’s discarded palette. From this vantage point, Saga could see it all: the vibrant city, a riot of pink-stoned streets and multihued rooftops, and at its heart, the Rainbowsplendent Palace, with the great Tree of Hope rising from its center.
To her, it was the source of the plague. That tree, which the stories her people told grew from an act of heresy, was, in her mind, the poisoned root from which all her people’s suffering grew. It was a monument to the chaos that had undone the silvered perfection of the world she longed for.
Jethran stood beside her, looking out at the same city, but seeing something entirely different. He saw the place where he had once been a Flaw, now teeming with the life he had unleashed. He felt a pang of profound sadness, a king looking down upon a kingdom he had to abandon, however temporarily. The weight of his crown was not in the crystal upon his head, but in the worry for every soul living and laughing and arguing in that vibrant city below.
They walked on for hours, the silence stretching between them. Jethran, respecting her need for distance, focused on the path ahead. Saga, however, found herself trapped in a prison of unwilling observation.
Every detail about the being walking in front of her was a contradiction to the truths she held sacred. The magic of Silvarii Hollow was a pure hum of predictable harmony. She had been taught that Jethran’s magic, the source of the world’s unruly color, was a chaotic sickness.
Yet, as she walked in his wake, she could feel the resonance of it, and it was anything but chaotic. It was complex, a thousand different emotional notes playing at once, but they were woven together into an undeniable harmony. Beneath the surface of his kingly resolve, she could also feel a deep undercurrent of fear. She felt his aching worry for Fable that was so powerful it was a tangible presence in the air.
She had been taught to fear him, but what she truly felt was the profound peace that settled in his core.
They stopped to refill their waterskins at a stream whose waters ran a vibrant vermillion, tumbling over mossy pink stones. Jethran knelt at the water’s edge, moving with an efficient grace that was at odds with the destructive chaos she believed he embodied.
He noticed a small, orange-feathered bird with a broken wing struggling in the reeds near the bank. It chirped in a frantic panic as he approached, but Jethran knelt a few feet away, his movements slow and deliberate, and began to hum a gentle tune.
It was a wordless lullaby, a soothing melody that seemed to quiet the very air.
Saga watched, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger, every part of her ready for a trick. The bird’s panicked chirps softened into questioning peeps. Slowly, Jethran extended his hand, palm up.
An intricate web of indigo light spun itself into existence above his palm, pulsing with a gentle, healing rhythm. He didn’t force the magic. The bird, mesmerized by the light and calmed by the song, hopped once, then twice, until it stood in the center of his hand.
The indigo light enveloped its tiny wing, and Saga could feel the magic. A precise act of mending, a song of resilience made visible.
After a moment, the light faded. The bird tested its wing, then took flight with a grateful trill, leaving a single orange feather behind in Jethran’s hand. He smiled, a flicker of wonder, and tucked the feather into his belt.
Saga’s heart was a tangle of conflicting feelings. She had felt the magic, its healing intent a direct contradiction to every lesson her fathru had ever taught her.
This feels like mending, she thought, her mind reeling. Why was I told it was a sickness? Oh, spice. He heals a bird, so what? A storm can be beautiful, too, right before it tears the roof from your home.
The irritation she felt was a desperate shield against a truth that threatened to unravel her entire world. She saw his gentleness, but her mind, steeped in tradition and grief, could only interpret it as a deception, a pleasant mask for the plague-brought beneath.
They arrived at the Grotto as the emerald sun began to dip towards the horizon, painting the pale peach sky in shades of chartreuse and gold. A simple wooden sign, weathered by four years of seasons, was nailed to the ancient tree beside the entrance.
It read, simply: Grotto of Trust.