"No."
Alina shook her head, fists curled against the table, sweat slicking her brow from the humid heat trapped within the tent. All her commanders, generals, and allies were piled in, crammed like fish in a net, including Aldon Thebal – who had taken over as Head of House Thebal after Dayne had slain Miron at the battle for Myrefall – and Rinek Larka, who acted as the voice for all those who had been banners for House Koraklon but had answered Alina's call.
They were preparing for their assault on Achyron's Keep. The keep was four days march, and Loren Koraklon held a force of over forty thousand strong along with another fifteen thousand Lorians and a contingent of Battlemages, so said the scouts. They'd been debating for hours
But all of that had been put on hold when the creature, who now stood at the other end of the table, had announced himself at the camp's edge. It looked as though it were part human, part wolf. Its body was coated in thick white fur, covered by loose strips and patches of fabric. Its limbs were long and muscular, dark claws protruding from its feet and hands, while its face seemed almost human, barring its flat wolf-like nose, long ears, and golden eyes. It had called itself an Angan.
Silence filled the tent, all eyes on Alina.
"Tell Aeson and this 'son of the Chainbreaker' that Valtara is busy dealing with Valtara. We will not stand against them, but we do not have the time to aid them in their war, nor do we need their aid here."
The Angan stared back, its golden eyes gleaming in the light that drifted through the tent's thin canopy. "Very well, Alina of House Ateres. I will send the message, though I will remain here, as instructed, should you change your mind."
"We will not change our minds."
The creature inclined its head, a flicker of its lip showing sharp teeth, then turned and strode from the tent.
The ensuing silence was then broken by Turik Baleer. "Alina, surely we should talk about this."
"About what, Lord Baleer?"
"There's over fifty thousand warriors defending Achyron's Keep and likely more prowling the lands around, waiting to flank us. We lost thousands taking Myrefall, and Lorian loyalists are raiding our supply lines daily. Not to mention a contingent of Lorian Battlemages now resides within the walls of Achyron's Keep. Now is not the time for pride. We should agree to meet. Even in the time it takes to arrange the meeting, more of our forces will arrive."
"Turik speaks sense." Rinek Larka met Alina's gaze and didn't shy away. She liked him, he spoke his mind, and he was Valtaran through and through. But in that moment, she wanted to slit his throat.
"Were you in Skyfell, Rinek, the last time we relied on Aeson Virandr? The last time dragons flew over Valtara?"
"No." He shook his head, knowing full well that Alina already knew the answer. "I was on the farm near the Hot Gates."
Alina gave a half smile. "Good. Then you weren't there when Aeson left us to die. You weren't there when the dragons ripped our wyverns from the sky, or when they turned Stormwatch into a furnace and burned everyone alive."
"We cannot let the past cloud our judgement," Ola Yarek, a Wyndarii commander, said. She was older than Alina by the light of at least ten summers, hair dark as coal.
"No," Alina said, pouting and shaking her head. "You're right, we can't. But neither can we fail to learn from it. Failure to learn and adapt means death." Alina looked down at the table, pressing her fists against the wood. "We have come so far… How many years have we been preparing for this, Senya?"
Alina lifted her head, looking to Senya Deringal who stood at the right side of the table.
"Seven at least."
"And what have we sacrificed to get here?"
"Everything."
"Everything," Alina repeated, nodding. "And we are finally here." She stood at full height, looking about the room. "We stand on the edge of a precipice. A free Valtara is before us and all we need do is grasp it. But if we take one wrong step, if we hesitate, if we doubt, we will fall, and this will not be a fall we will stand back up from. Would you put that in the hands of Aeson Virandr? Would you really claw and drag your way here, through blood and dirt, through death and despair, only to hand your fate to another?"
"No." Mera stepped beside Alina, chin raised. "I am a Wyndarii of Valtara. I will bleed for my people, and I will die for them. Our fate is our own."
"Our fate is our own," Alina heard someone repeat from the left side of the table.
"Our fate is our own," Vhin Herak said, nodding.
Tula Vakira, Tyr Arnen, and Sara Herak mirrored the words, as did many others at the table. Alina noted the faces and names of those who remained silent. As long as they remained so, she was happy, but things were rarely that simple.
Among the silent was Dayne. Though, that didn't surprise her. She was actually happy he remained silent this time. All they had done was argue on this topic since the farm. His voice would only have added weight to Turik Baleer's.
Knocking silenced the chatter as Senya Deringal tapped the pommel of a knife against the table. "If I may?"
Alina inclined her head. Senya had always spoken in her favour.
"Before this campaign began, I told you that I wouldn't stop until I had freedom or a funeral pyre. Nothing has changed. I pledged that House Deringal would follow you. Nothing has changed. Now I stand here with my fellow free Valtarans, steel at our hips, Lorian blood at our backs, and Loren Koraklon cowering behind the walls of Achyron's Keep. Once we crush him and take hold of the Hot Gates, no army will enter Valtara by land. And I, for one, wish to take that step as a unified nation, not a rabble of arguing Houses." Senya paused. "One Valtara under one Queen."
Alina's heart stopped, and her breath caught in her chest.
"A queen who bleeds for Valtara, a queen who would sacrifice everything so her people could know the taste of freedom, a queen who knows the cost of living. One queen, whose name is Alina Ateres."
Murmurs spread across those gathered.
"I propose that before we march on Achyron's Keep, we crown Alina Ateres as Queen of a free Valtara, so that we fight this last battle as one. One army, one nation, under one queen. There are none here who have given more, none who would continue to give more. Alina Ateres, Queen of Valtara. All in favour, say 'Aye'."
Senya looked to Alina, inclining her head, then spun the knife in her hand and drove the blade into the hard wood of the table. "Aye."
"Aye," Vhin Herak called out.
"I've been waiting a long time for this." Marlin Arkon stepped forwards, the white crested helmet of the Andurii in the crook of his arm. "By blade and by blood, my Queen. Aye."
More followed, slamming their hands on the table or driving their blades into the wood, each calling out 'Aye', until their voices filled the tent.
"It is settled." Senya Deringal stepped forwards. "Before the sun sets, Alina Ateres will be crowned Queen of Valtara."
A few hours later, with the warm light of the evening sun tinting the sky orange, Alina stood at the top of a small hill, trembling.
Ahead of her, tens of thousands of Valtarans spread from the foot of the hill back to the first line of tents that made up the camp, the bronzed steel of their cuirasses glinting in the sunlight. A singular empty strip stretched through the centre of those gathered, from the hill back to the camp – a path for the procession.
The heads of all the Major Houses and their families stood to her right, Dayne included – they hadn't spoken since the tent. Part of her wished they had, part of her was happy they hadn't. They'd been arguing a lot since the farm at Myrefall. To the left, the heads of many of the Minor Houses loyal to House Ateres stood facing those of the Major Houses. Past them, Mera, Amari, Lukira, and fifteen of the other Wyndarii closest to Alina formed an honorguard towards the gathered crowd, their wyverns standing behind them, scales glistening. Above, wyverns filled the sky, roars and screeches echoing; the sight of it took her breath away.
"How do you feel?" Marlin Arkon stood behind Alina, garbed in white and burnt orange robes – the colours of House Ateres. The steward of House Ateres, soon to be the Queen's Archilius – the title historically given to the chief advisor of Valtaran rulers. There was no man more deserving.
"Like I'm going to die if my heart doesn't stop racing," Alina whispered. Is this actually happening?
"I remember the day you were born," Marlin whispered, leaning closer. "You were a fighter even then, almost took Senya's eye out as she delivered you. You know how I always tell you I got the scar beneath my chin from falling off a horse in battle with House Vakira? Well, now that you're going to be queen, I may as well tell you I got it when you were three and you hit me with a stick."
Despite herself, Alina laughed, keeping her head facing forwards. Marlin had been a father to her when her own was taken from the world. Through everything. Through the darkest of days and the stormiest of nights, he had been her constant, her anchor, and, at times, her compass. She hadn't told him that enough.
"When I eventually share a toast with your father and mother in Achyron's halls, I'll tell them of this day. The day their daughter became queen of a free Valtara. Your father will cry. He was always the crier."
Etiquette be damned. Alina turned to see tears streaming down Marlin's face, his eyes red.
"Turn back around you fool," he said, letting a laugh slip through as Alina turned back to face the crowd. "They're happy tears. This was everything they fought for, everything they died for. They would be so proud of you they wouldn't know what to do with themselves… I'm so proud of you."
Alina reached back and grasped Marlin's hand. She could feel a tear rolling down her cheek but rubbed it away with her shoulder.
A roar erupted from the camp, forcing all other sounds to capitulate. Then Alina watched as Rynvar rose from the tents, lifting into the air, wings spreading wide, orange scales scintillating in the sun. The wyvern swept across the gathered crowd, who had fallen into silence. Drums filled the air, rhythmic and deep, followed by horns. Marlin squeezed Alina's hand, then let go.
Alina settled herself, slowing her breathing as Senya Deringal walked from the camp, through the centreline that divided the gathered crowd, banners of each of the Major Houses billowing in the wind behind her and banners of the Minor Houses behind them. Of all the banners, however, it was the two at the front, behind Senya as she walked, that truly swelled the pride in Alina's chest. One was white as snow, the wyvern of House Ateres at its centre in a vivid orange. The other was orange, two black wyverns coiled around each other, a white spear between them: the banner of a unified Valtara.
Alina stood straighter, lifting her chin.
As Senya drew closer, a procession of attendants and bannermen following in her wake, Rynvar curled his wings and dropped from the sky, alighting on the top of the hill behind Alina, a gust of wind blowing her long robes forwards. She was not dressed like a queen, of that she was sure. She wore no silk or jewels, no gold. A strand of white ribbon tied up her hair, and linen robes of burnt orange adorned her shoulders. Alina Ateres had not marched to a coronation, she had marched to war, and war was no place for silks or jewels.
The drums and horns slowed, giving one final burst before stopping as Senya Deringal reached Alina. The woman took a few steps forward, four attendants moving with her. She looked to Alina, inclining her head and smiling. Senya turned back towards the crowd, nodding to Dayne, and then as she spoke, her words resounded across the open fields as though they had been shouted within the walls of a stone temple. "Warriors of Valtara," Senya called out, "we are four days march from Achyron's Keep. Four days' march from destiny."
Cheers rang out, feet stamping. Senya raised a hand, and the silence returned.
"A free Valtara," she continued, her voice booming like claps of thunder. "Stripped of chains and bonds. We will take it by blade and by blood. We will carve it in the annals of time. And there is one who has dragged us here, one who has manifested our destiny by sheer force of will. She pulled the wyverns back from the brink of extinction. She took a rabble and forged it into a rebellion. She showed the Lorian Empire why it should once again fear Valtaran steel. Alina of House Ateres, First of the Wyndarii, Rider of Rynvar."
As though responding to Senya's words, Rynvar unleashed a monstrous roar, his wings spreading out behind Alina. The gathered crowd of warriors cheered and chanted, feet stamping.
Senya looked to one of the attendants who Alina now noticed held what looked to be a small pillow draped in blue fabric. Atop the fabric sat a gold circlet woven with twists and spirals, a shimmering orange sunstone set at the front. A crown. Senya must have had the thing made before they'd even marched.
The sight of the crown only served to set Alina's pulse racing even quicker. All of a sudden she found herself wondering what to do with her hands. Where did she put her hands? It seemed a simple question to answer, and yet no answer came to her, so she settled on clasping them together across her stomach, squeezing tight to stop the trembling.
Senya took another step closer, the attendant following after her. "Alina Ateres," her voice boomed, amplified by Dayne's magic. "I ask you not to kneel like those who came before you. Our people have knelt for too long." Senya lifted the crown from the fabric, fingers gently clasping it on either side. "I ask you to stand tall and proud."
Alina's heartbeat grew so loud it sounded like a war drum in her head, pounding. For a brief moment she looked out over the crowd, bronzed armour glinting in the warm light of the sun, the skies tinted orange, filled with wyverns. Then she looked back to Senya and saw a soft smile on the older woman's face.
"Do you swear, Alina Ateres, to defend Valtara above all else."
"I do, with all my heart."
"Do you swear to charge into the fires that may come, to fight when the world tells you to flee?"
"By blade and by blood."
"Do you swear to give your heart and your soul?"
"I swear."
Senya drew in a deep breath, then lifted the crown.
"Dayne Ateres is the true heir!" The voice wasn't augmented by magic, but it echoed, sounding like thunder in Alina's ears.
Senya stopped, as did Alina's heart. Alina's gut twisted, her muscles tightening. Senya lowered her arms and turned, revealing that Turik Baleer had stepped from where he had stood with the heads of the other Minor Houses.
Alina saw Senya begin to speak, but she grabbed the elder woman's arm, squeezing. Senya looked back. Alina shook her head, jaw clenched. She saw the rage in Senya's eyes as plainly as she felt it in herself, but she held back, turning her gaze to Turik. The man had always been a snake, but now he was out in the open for all to see, and with any luck, he would draw the other snakes out too. Opportunity is always there, you just have to see it.
"I'll take his head from his shoulders," Marlin growled, moving to step past Alina.
Alina held her hand back, stopping Marlin. She nodded towards some of the others who stood amongst the Major and Minor Houses. It was clear to see who was truly shocked and who was not. "Moths to a flame, Marlin."
Mera, Amari, and Lukira looked to Alina from where they stood, just past Turik. She gave them a sharp shake of her head. Behind her, Rynvar's growl rumbled in his throat.
Turik looked at Alina, a flicker of a smile touching his face.
You crusty bastard of a man.
"Dayne Ateres is the eldest child of Arkin and Ilya Iteres," Turik bellowed, the veins in his neck bulging as he roared. His voice didn't carry far enough for the soldiers in the fields to hear – except for those near the front – but they knew something was happening. Alina could see the shifting glint of sunlight off armour, hear the rising murmur. "The head of House Ateres is his by birthright if nothing else!"
Alina looked at those to her left and right, searching for signs, scanning faces.
"But more than birthright, upon return from his exile, Dayne Ateres has led us from victory to victory while Alina claimed the spoils. The Andurii stood at the front of every battle line. They swung their blades wherever the fighting was thickest. When Alina's wyverns started the battle at Lostwren, Dayne charged the walls with nothing but a spear and a shield. When Alina ordered us to cross the river Artis, it was Dayne Ateres and his Andurii who held back the Lorians and saved both my and Senya Deringal's lives." Turik stared at Senya, shaking his head. "And again, it was Dayne who charged the keep at Myrefall, Dayne who took the head of Miron Thebal. If I laid his claim at your feet, by birthright alone it should be enough. But he has earned your loyalty, earned your fealty!"
A few cheers rang out from the ranks of the soldiers who gathered in the open field, the sound of steel clanging off steel. A number of the nobles shifted.
"King Dayne of House Ateres, Andurios, Champion of Valtara! King Dayne!"
The anger and wrath that had coursed through Alina's veins turned to ice when more voices began to chant back to Turik's call. "King Dayne!"
Rynvar shifted behind Alina, dropping lower to the ground, his head hovering over hers. More and more voices rang out. Some of those who represented the Minor Houses joined the chorus, as did some of the military captains. But none who belonged to the Major Houses chanted, though that meant nothing – they were likely keeping their loyalties close.
The chanting came to an abrupt stop, a few gasps rising in those gathered near the top of the hill as Dayne stepped from his position.
Dayne's heart pounded as he walked towards Turik. He could feel his throat tightening. He glanced at Alina, seeing the shock on her face. To his left and right the nobles of the Minor and Major Houses stared at him, mouths agape. Dayne studied them, taking notes in his head of their expressions. He drew in a breath and focused on Turik.
"You are the rightful king," Turik called out as Dayne approached. "Alina is the leader of the Wyndarii, but she is no queen. That crown belongs on your head. It is your birthright."
Turik's words rang out, echoing. The man gave him a nod, a knowing smile touching his lips.
Dayne rested his palm on the pommel of his sword as he walked past Turik, stopping about fifteen feet short of Alina.
Wings beat in the sky above, the shrieks and roars of wyverns echoing as not a word passed between the thousands of souls who stood watching, waiting. Dayne glanced over his shoulder towards Alina's Wyndarii. The tension in them was clear as day, their gazes fixed on Dayne. Amari and Lukira in particular looked as though they were ready to cut him down where he stood. Of them all, only Mera stood calm and stoic, Audin looming over her. Mera was the only one who knew what was about to happen, the only one he'd told. She nodded.
Dayne nodded back, then took another step closer to Alina. He pulled his sword from his scabbard, the rasp cutting through the tension-thick air.
As soon as he did, the atmosphere shifted to panic. Senya Deringal stepped between him and Alina. Marlin pushed past Dayne's sister, fire in his eyes as he glared at Dayne. Part of Dayne thought maybe he should have told Marlin, but he couldn't have risked it.
Dayne drew in a breath, then exhaled slowly as he turned away from Alina to face Turik. The longer Dayne held the older man's gaze, the more Turik's expression changed, and confusion filled his eyes. Dayne pointed the tip of his blade at Turik. "Find a sword, Turik."
Turik's face contorted. "What? My King, we have talked about this. What are you doing? I—"
"I am not your king," Dayne snapped, his calm broken. For months, ever since that night Turik had arranged the celebration without telling Alina, Dayne had allowed the man to whisper in his ear. For months he had watched as Turik manoeuvred his way through the political landscape, making subtle suggestions, vague promises, and planting seeds of uncertainty about Alina's ability to lead. Dayne had wanted to cut him down each and every day, but if his years with Belina had taught him anything, it had been patience. He could hear her even then. 'Why kill one when you can use them as bait to kill many. Not two birds with one stone, Dayne. Fifteen birds with one boulder. Hard and fast.' Turik had allies, those who shared his thoughts and opinions. If this display didn't draw them out, the next part might scare them off.
"You are a poison, Turik, an infection." Dayne turned to one of the guards who stood at the edges of the Minor Houses – a young man no more than twenty summers, two black rings on each arm. "Give him your sword."
The guard looked at Dayne, uncertain. He swallowed, his gaze flitting from Turik to Dayne, then to Alina. Dayne shook his head. "Fine." He squeezed his fingers around the hilt of his own sword, then tossed the blade through the air. A cloud of dust rose as the sword landed in the dirt before Turik's feet with a clang.
"Pick it up."
"My King, let us talk about this in a civil manner. There appears to be a deep misunderstanding." The sound of Turik's slithering voice scratched at Dayne's ears. "I meant no—"
"There is no misunderstanding," Dayne growled. "You meant every word you said, Lord Baleer. You questioned my sister's decisions. You questioned her right to rule. By blade and by blood, I am her sword. You seem to have forgotten the ways of our people, Lord Baleer. Family is the blood that runs in your veins. They are the beating of your heart. I am sure Alina could kill you with her own hands for your treason, but today of all days – the day she is crowned queen of a free Valtara – her hands deserve to be free of blood." And mine will never be clean. "My father had great respect for you, gods' know why. Which is why, out of respect for him, instead of stringing you up for your treason, I offer you the old ways of our people. I offer you the Athima tis Aleas – the Blood of Truth."
Alina took a step forwards. Her gaze was fixed on Dayne, and the thumb of her right hand tucked into a fist told him she was angry, but the worry in her eyes was genuine.
"And if I refuse?" Turik stood tall, his stare never leaving Dayne's. The man had seen his sixtieth summer, but his body was still lean muscled, and he moved like a man half his age. Turik also held four markings of the blade. He was no lamb.
"I will take your head," Dayne said plainly. "Under the laws of Athima tis Aleas, whoever's blood feeds the earth, their opponent holds the weight of truth and shall not be reprimanded. The dead will be offered all burial rights. If you wish, you may nominate a champion in your stead."
"I volunteer!" A young man burst from the ranks of the Minor Houses, the falcon of House Baleer on his tunic. Dayne recognised him as Turik's son, Rogal. He stood a head taller than Turik, his muscles lean and dense, though he had seen less than half his father's summers, and he bore only three markings of the blade.
"You will stand aside," Turik growled at his son. "You will not dishonour me."
"Father," Rogal leaned in closer, "please."
A pang of sympathy twisted in Dayne's chest as he listened to Rogal plead with his father. Dayne would have done the same if it were him. In his years, Dayne had killed many fathers. He'd killed mothers, sons, daughters. Everyone was something to someone. But killing a father in front of their son was something that cut deep into Dayne. I will do what must be done.
Rogal Baleer looked from his father to Dayne, fear radiating from him in waves. Dayne may have only bore two black rings on his left arm compared to Turik's four – just one marking short of a blademaster – but Turik had seen his sixtieth summer, and Dayne knew that word of his skill had spread through the camp from battle to battle. Dayne's markings were earned in blood.
"I wanted you as my king." For some reason, Turik's words stung more than Dayne would have expected. There was sincerity in them, as though Turik had truly believed Dayne would have betrayed Alina. That alone told Dayne the man had no idea who Dayne was. Turik leaned down and picked up the sword Dayne had tossed at his feet. "And for that you would kill me?"
"You wanted my favour, Turik, because you lacked my sister's. You wanted power, nothing more." Dayne rolled his shoulders, eliciting a cascade of cracks. "We are days from achieving the first free Valtara in hundreds of years, but that wasn't enough for you." Dayne bit at the corner of his lip. "No, Lord Baleer, I would not kill you for wanting me as king. I would kill you for risking everything we have bled for. For stoking the fires of a civil war while we are on the brink of freedom. I would kill you for standing against Alina. Enough talk. Begin."
Dayne's blood went cold in his veins as he moved towards Turik. His instincts told him to open himself to the Spark; one thread of air and the man's neck would snap. Dayne pushed his instincts away. The Spark had no place in Athima tis Aleas, and even if it did, even Turik Baleer deserved the honour of knowing how and why he died.
As Dayne drew closer to Turik, the older man lifted his blade, raising it into Soaring Falcon. Dayne kept walking forwards. With no blade in his hands, proximity was his friend; he needed to limit Turik's reach advantage. Turik lunged, slashing at Dayne, but Dayne leapt backwards, avoiding the sharp bite of steel and shifting around to Turik's right. A quick glance told him those gathered had begun to move closer, those at the back trying to watch unimpeded.
Three more times Turik swung. Three more times Dayne evaded, shifting his feet, watching for the subtle tells in Turik's movements. On the fourth attempt, Dayne allowed Turik to get closer, his blade slicing through the front of Dayne's robes. Eager for the kill.
Dayne had found there were times when anger was a weapon to be wielded, and times when it needed to be buried deep down. Turik needed to bury his, but he brandished it with every strike.
Dayne and Turik circled, Dayne controlling his breaths; in through his nose out through his mouth. His muscles twitched, readying themselves. Fear exists only to highlight courage.
Dayne stepped close. Too close. So close he may as well have painted a target on his gut. And, like an enraged hunter, Turik stabbed at the centre.
Dayne waited, watching the steel shimmer as it cut through the air. Then, at the last moment, when Turik had no opportunity to shift his angles, Dayne twisted, leaning backwards. Turik's blade sliced through Dayne's robes and scored his stomach. Dayne bit down the burning pain and slammed the heel of his palm against the flat of the blade, before driving his hand forwards and ramming his palm into Turik's nose. Blood sprayed, bone and cartilage crunching. As Turik stumbled backwards, Dayne brought his hand down and grasped the hilt of the sword, squeezing his fingers. As he ripped the blade free from Turik's grasp, Dayne pushed the man backwards with his left hand. With the sword held in reverse grip, Dayne swung it through the air, the steel slicing open Turik's throat, blood pouring like wine overflowing its cup. Dayne brought the sword through its full arc before resting his left hand on the pommel and driving the blade through Turik's throat. He pushed the blade through to the hilt, the steel bursting out the other side. Turik hung there, choking and spluttering on his own blood, held upright by the strength of Dayne's arm. Dayne wrenched the sword free in a spray of blood, and Turik dropped to his knees, clasping at his throat as the crimson river flowed.
Sweat slicked Dayne's brow, and his chest heaved as he stood over Turik Baleer's lifeless body. About him, all those of the Major and Minor Houses watched in silence. Even the screeching and roaring of the wyverns above had ceased.
Dayne slowed his breathing, looking down at the blood that pooled around Turik's body. He took no pleasure in the man's death. "By blade and by blood, may Heraya embrace you, Turik Baleer."
He wiped the sword clean on his robes, then slid it back into place in the scabbard at his hip. As he lifted his gaze, he saw hundreds of eyes fixed on him. Some held sorrow, others anger, but most looked stunned. Dayne found his gaze meeting Rogal Baleer's. Tears streaked the young man's cheeks, his eyes red. Shame and guilt were two emotions Dayne considered old companions; they visited him then as he watched the son weep for his father. He also felt a touch of admiration at the strength Rogal showed in not dropping to his father's side. The laws of the Athima tis Aleas were clear: the blood of the slain – the Blood of Truth – must be left to flow undisturbed.
Dayne looked at Turik Baleer's body once more before turning and walking towards Alina. He stopped beside Senya Deringal and held out his hand without a word.
"By blade and by blood." The woman inclined her head, then placed the sunstone crown into Dayne's hand.
Dayne nodded back, then continued on to Alina. And there, at the top of the hill, with the banner of a free Valtara flapping in the breeze behind him, Dayne knelt and held the crown high, staring into Alina's eyes. "By blade and blood, I am yours, my Queen."