Private Tales The Fool You Need

[Cullen]

The sound of her footsteps faded, swallowed by the cold stone walls that had become his prison. The absence of her presence was suffocating, a void that threatened to pull him under.

Cullen stood there for a long moment, staring at the space where she had been, his body rigid, breath coming in sharp, uneven draws. His ribs ached. His wrists burned where the cuffs had once dug in. But none of it compared to the hollow agony settling in his chest.

She was gone.

Ilir had won.

Nadya had betrayed him.

He had lost everything. Once more.

His vision blurred as he finally lowered his gaze to the floor, to the small golden band that glinted in the dim torchlight. He hadn’t picked it up before—hadn’t dared to while she was still there, afraid that if he did, it would make everything too real. But now, there was nothing left to hold onto except the reminder she had left behind.

Cullen sank to his knees, his movements stiff and heavy, as though the weight of his grief had finally broken him. His fingers trembled as they reached for the ring, hesitating for just a breath before curling around the delicate band. It was small in his palm, warm from where she had worn it, carrying the imprint of her touch.

He turned it over, his vision stinging as he traced the familiar name engraved inside—his name. Cullen Morvane. And beside it, a swirl of his mark she had enjoyed tracing her fingers over, a quiet devotion to him that he had never deserved but had selfishly clung to anyway.

His burning eyes closed. A ragged breath tore from his throat as he gripped it tight, his knuckles paling, his entire hand shaking with the force of it. He clenched his teeth, swallowing down the cry that threatened to break free, but it was no use. The pain surged through him like fire, searing through his veins, leaving nothing but ruin in its wake.

Eira had loved him.

And now she was gone.

He bowed his head, his shoulders shaking as he let himself crumble, the grief finally overtaking him in the silence of his cage.

 

[Nadya]

SIXTEEN DAYS LATER
Ōmeyōcān, War Room

​

Nadya drummed her fingers steadily over the fine walnut table that was large enough to house sixteen lucky ones that got to the meeting early enough to secure a seat. She had one last day before flying out on her personal mission, a day meant to be spent on briefing her right hand to step up into the role of Wing Leader for the cleared leave time she was rewarded.

It wasn't as if the higher ups had any say so, nor could they deny the small chance a rare dragon could be found on Thanasis. The chance for Storm Dragons to begin breeding again would be great fortune for the Caliar House, a boon for the City of Dragons that an elder from one of the Great Houses suggested that a worthy Caliar may indeed be granted the name Calaerys. An honour upon the ancestors of Nadya's house, it filled her parents with a hope that she did not want to remember. What if she failed them?

In fact, this mission across the continent was merely an excuse to get away.

She was forbidden to see Cullen after trying to see him that night. The bruises across her neck, thanks to Ilir, had healed to a yellowing stage at her pale flesh, but she covered it up with her flight leathers so that she did not need to hear snickers of how the Wing Leader liked to get rowdy beneath the sheets. She half expected them to call out to her with those words, but noticed many of the Marked Ones were acknowledging her a lot more now.

After that night, Fedyr had check in on her three times in the following week, all to provide her with a salve to help clear up the bruising quicker. She denied it, not wanting his help, or perhaps she felt uneasy given the last words they said to each other. He had stopped seeing her after that week, but Nadya could not remember seeing him around the Wall during her visit to see how things were holding there.

Nadya spoke words that could have gotten her killed for the lightest of treasons. All she could hope was that he did not tell those words to others.

But before she could drift anymore into her scattered thoughts, a rapt banging of a fist upon the table before her snapped her into reality.

"Fuck the jarlax! They have been coming at our borders for centuries!" Growled the aged General. "The wyvern are unpredictable! They have as many species as our dragons! We do not know everything there is to know about them, otherwise the riders that have chosen a wyvern over a dragon would be in here giving this brief."

She shuffled in her seat, trying to keep herself alert and listening.

"What of the scholars? Are they not poring through research to —"

"We do not have the time! We need numbers on the front line! I give it two more days before we fall to their increased numbers. This meeting is to work out the best strategy."

"What of the Marked riders? There is the infantry too, littered with their people." The Commander suggested, bringing the room to a standstill in thought with his words. "They want to prove they are worthy, they are good citizens of Thanasis. It sends a message to those that are speaking out about their rights."

Nadya tried to not react. She knew there was one person speaking out the loudest in favour of the Marked Ones, and that being the Princess Orissa of Thanasis, Jensen's wife. There had been plenty of guards at the Royal Wedding, but she had thought it was due to the number of royals in attendance, not until the day after the wedding, there had been an attempt on the Princess' life. It angered many of the people to know the Princess known for peace had been targeted, but different accounts of what happened swirled around the circles.

It ranged from a paid assassin to an ex-lover, but that story had been already told from Yurelia. The Prince Kaveh made sure that individual burned for his attempt of trapping the Princess.

Nadya hadn't even asked her friend Jensen for the real news, for the poor sod had been fully thrust into the world of being a Prince.

The General made a sound as he went into thought. "How many do we have of them bastards?" Nadya heard the real question.

How many we got to sacrifice?

 

[Cullen]

Cullen dragged the crude edge of stone across the damp wall, carving another line into the tally. Sixteen. Sixteen long days rotting in this cell, waiting for the inevitable. When would they come for him? When would they finally end this?

The pile of stale, untouched bread in the corner had begun to grow mold. The water, left to stagnate, carried the bitter taste of metal. He had no appetite, no thirst—only the gnawing weight of exhaustion pressing down on his bones. Even when he had begged for an end, the guards had refused him, urging him to eat, to drink, to endure.

They watched Eira for him. He knew that much. But he had denied their reports, unable to bear the truth of her life without him. He only needed to know that she was safe. That was all that mattered.

Meala had come and gone. He had felt her presence, heard her grief in her lament. She would survive this. He was certain of it. But he was sorry for her pain.

Curled in the corner of his cell, Cullen turned the small gold band between his fingers. He had traced the engraving so many times he could feel the shape of his name, the curve of the mark Eira had chosen to etch there. He pressed it into his palm, closing his fist around it, as if it could keep him tethered to something—anything, whilst he waited for death.

Boots scuffed against the floor—several pairs. Heavy, deliberate steps, the sound of armor shifting, swords clinking at their belts. Not the usual guards. The lock clicked, and Cullen didn’t move. He barely lifted his head from where it rested against the cold, damp stone, his body too weak, too hollow to summon the energy to care.

A breath rattled from his chest, dry and shallow, as his fingers instinctively curled around the ring still clutched in his palm. If they were here to drag him to the executioner’s block, he almost welcomed it. One of the men knelt beside him, and a rough hand gripped his shoulder. “Morvane,” the voice said, unfamiliar and sharp. “You’re coming with us.”

Cullen let out a low, humorless laugh, but it was hoarse, barely more than a rasp. “Finally,” he muttered. His lips cracked with the effort, but he didn’t care. A second hand grasped his arm, hauling him up, and his legs buckled beneath him. His body protested, a sharp wave of pain rolling through him as his weight shifted. The men didn’t let him fall.

"To the noose, boys." he grinned, as though his heart wasn't threatening to pound straight out of his chest.

"Not today lad."