Skyforged

“Is this truly necessary?”

Kaiva’s voice cut through the quiet of the command tent, trembling with disbelief.

Outside, the distant clang of armor and the muffled shuffle of soldiers preparing for battle drifted through the canvas walls. The smell of oiled leather, steel, and damp earth hung thick in the air—a camp waiting for war.

“You would leave like this—leave me—while I carry your child?”

I closed my eyes. Just for a moment.

Long enough to imagine a different future. One where the war beyond these walls does not exist. One where the men gathering outside my tent are not waiting for my command to march toward death. One where I remain here, beside the woman I love, instead of riding toward bloodshed.

But fantasies are for men without crowns.

When I open my eyes again, I turn toward my queen.

Kaiva stands a few paces away, one hand resting protectively against the swell of her stomach while the other clutches the folds of her gown. The lantern light flickers across her face, casting shadows over the scowl she tries—and fails—to hide.

Once, that expression would have melted the moment I kissed her.

Now it holds only anger.

And hurt.

“I am king first, my love.” The words scrape my throat raw. “I cannot abandon my people. You knew this when you chose to wed me. When we spoke of our vows.”

I force myself to meet her eyes.

“Do not ask the impossible of me.”

Pain flashes across her face like lightning.

Outside the tent, a soldier shouts an order. The distant neigh of a warhorse carries through the evening air.

“Am I not your subject?” she fires back. “Am I not one of your people?”

Her voice cracks.

“I asked you to stay with me.”

Her eyes shine with unshed tears. Those same eyes once held nothing but warmth when they looked at me.

Now they burn like coals.

“Kaiva. Enough.”

The silence between us stretches thin.

Beyond the tent walls, the camp continues moving—boots scraping across dirt, armor buckling, weapons being sharpened for the coming fight.

Inside, the world feels smaller.

More fragile.

Hatred replaces the hurt in her gaze. I remember when those eyes were the first thing I searched for every morning.

Now they might be my undoing.

“I should go,” I say quietly. “I am… needed.”

Her lips tremble.

“What if I asked you to stay with me?” she whispers. “Gallian can take the throne. Then you would finally be free.”

Something inside me snaps.

“Gallian cannot be king,” I growl. “He is a senseless bastard who would burn this kingdom to ash simply for the pleasure of watching it fall.”

Pain crawls beneath my skin.

Claws tear through my fingertips, black and sharp, crackling with restrained power. The air inside the tent stills as the energy coils around my hand like a living storm.

Kaiva stares at it.

Then slowly lifts her gaze to my face.

Defeat settles across her expression like winter frost.

“I only wanted you beside me,” she murmurs.

“I am sorry.”

Before I can answer, she turns and strides from the tent. The heavy canvas flap snaps shut behind her, letting a rush of cold night air spill into the room.

The sounds of the war camp return all at once.

Men shouting.

Horses stamping.

Armor clattering.

It does nothing to quiet the storm in my chest.

A shadow moves near the entrance.

“My king.”

My second-in-command steps inside, his armor dusted with dirt from the training grounds. His hand rests casually on the hilt of his sword, though the tension in his posture betrays the urgency of his visit.

“Forgive the interruption,” he says. “The enemy will reach us by sundown. The men are ready.”

Good.

War is easier than this.

“Have the Katadromon secure the perimeter,” I order. “Check every shield along the camp’s edge. And ensure the women are kept far from the fighting.”

“Understood, Your Majesty.”

He turns to leave.

“Wait.”

My jaw tightens as I force the next words out.

“Ensure Queen Kaiva is escorted safely back to the castle.” I pause. “Find Khoir. Bring him to me.”

“Yes, My King.”

When he disappears, silence swallows the tent again.

I stare down at my palm.

At the mark burned into my skin—the sigil that binds me to the throne and everything it demands.

Duty.

Blood.

Sacrifice.

Outside, thousands of soldiers wait for my command.

If fate were kinder, perhaps I would only be a husband.

Instead, I am King.

And kings do not choose love.

“Forgive me,” I whisper into the quiet.

Tomorrow I will march them to battle.

And every death will belong to me.