The Pull of the Unknown

King Rhysand Varynthal, Dravareth

The wind in the highlands carried whispers—old things, forgotten things. Even now, as we rode beneath the wide, iron-gray sky, I could feel them brushing past my ears like breath. Soft. Ancient. Restless.

Lucan hadn't spoken for nearly an hour.

His horse moved steadily beside mine, his form straight-backed, quiet, distant in that way only he could manage. The black cloak he wore rippled behind him like shadow given life, the edges lined with silver thread that caught the waning daylight. The sword strapped across his back gleamed darkly, the hilt worn smooth where his hand had gripped it too many times to count.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He was always beautiful like this—in motion, in silence, in his storm. A sculpted statue of purpose. Most feared him for his strength. Some admired him for it. But they didn't see what I did. They didn't see the man beneath the steel.

Lucan Velshar, my husband. The coldest blade Dravareth had ever forged.

But even the coldest steel turns warm in a steady hand.

I reached over gently and brushed my fingers across the back of his gauntlet.

He didn't flinch. But I saw the way his jaw softened, the tightness around his shoulders easing ever so slightly.

"You're quiet," I said softly, keeping my voice low enough that only he could hear it above the hooves crunching over dried moss and gravel.

Lucan blinked, his gaze never leaving the horizon. "I'm listening."

"To the wind?"

He shook his head once. "No. To the pull. It's growing stronger."

I glanced ahead. Elaria lay still two days' ride from here—verdant valleys beyond the frost-cloaked peaks. We were deep in the borderlands now, where the land felt too old and too wild to belong to either kingdom. The sky above us stretched endlessly, gray clouds drifting like smoke across the distant sun.

"You felt it again last night," I murmured.

He nodded.

"I heard you wake," I added. "You didn't come back to bed for hours."

He didn't deny it. He never did.

"It calls to me," he finally said, voice low and unreadable. "Like it knows my name. Like it's always known it."

I watched the profile of his face. Strong. Harsh. Beautiful. I'd seen him command a battlefield with only a look. I'd seen him bleed for this kingdom, kill for it, live for it. But only once or twice had I seen him uncertain.

This was one of those moments.

"We'll find out what it is," I said quietly. "We'll face it together."

That, at least, made him glance at me. His eyes were a color that didn't exist anywhere else in the world—stormlight and ash, silver layered with iron.

"I know," he replied.

We rode until dusk.

When the sky melted into bruised lavender and the first stars blinked to life, we made camp beneath a slanted outcrop of stone overlooking a narrow stream. The horses were tethered nearby, our guards stationed at a discreet distance. Lucan insisted on space. I insisted on privacy.

A fire crackled between us. Sparks climbed into the dark like fireflies trying to escape.

Lucan sat on a blanket, cross-legged, sharpening his blade by firelight. I watched him again, this time openly, leaning against the rocks with my hands clasped behind my head.

"You keep doing that and the edge will be thinner than your patience," I teased lightly.

He didn't look up. "Then it will match yours."

I chuckled, unbothered. "You're in a mood."

"I'm always in a mood."

"True. But usually you're more fun when we're alone."

He paused then, his whetstone hovering above the blade.

"I can't think about anything else," he admitted. "I don't like being led by something I can't see."

I stood, walked over, and slowly lowered myself behind him. He stilled as I wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, pulling him back against me. He was all solid muscle, warmth wrapped in darkness.

"You're not being led," I said against his shoulder. "You're being called. That's different."

"And if it's a trap?"

"Then we walk into it together."

He let out a quiet breath, leaned back into me.

I kissed the line of his jaw. "You don't always have to bear it alone, you know."

"I know."

His voice softened.

"I just forget."

I let the silence linger. The fire cracked. The wind sighed. Somewhere, a nightbird sang its first call of the evening.

Then Lucan reached for my hand, laced our fingers together, and held them against his chest.

"I don't say it enough," he said.

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

I felt his heart beat beneath my palm.

"You've always been the only voice that steadied mine," he murmured. "When everything else is war and duty and shadow… you are the only thing that feels like peace."

It was rare, hearing such words from him. Not because he didn't feel them, but because Lucan Velshar believed emotions were swords—best kept sheathed unless absolutely necessary.

But with me, sometimes, he unsheathed them.

I pressed my lips to the back of his neck. "And you," I whispered, "are the only storm I would gladly drown in."

He turned to face me then, his expression unreadable—but his eyes soft.

And then he kissed me.

Not quickly. Not out of hunger.

It was the kind of kiss shared between two men who had ruled beside each other through death and devotion. Who had survived centuries of blood and silence and triumph. It was slow and deep, a promise and a prayer all at once.

When we parted, the fire had nearly burned to embers.

Lucan leaned his forehead against mine.

"We're going to find the answer in Elaria," he said quietly. "I can feel it."

"I believe you."

"And when we do…"

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.

Because we both felt it—like a thread tightening with every mile we crossed.

Something waited for us in Elaria.

We just didn't know its name yet.