Page 70 of Mated To The King's Gamma
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I stand before what used to be our home, my boots sinking into ash and rubble that was once polished flooring. The castle isn’t just damaged—it’s gone. Erased. My throat tightens as I take in the devastation, an uncomfortable heat building in my chest that I recognize as sadness.
The charred skeleton of our castle sprawls before me. Not broken or damaged—obliterated. Walls that stood for centuries now lie in mangled heaps of blackened stone. Steel frames twist toward the sky, warped from heat so intense it bent metal. I’ve seen destruction before during the wars—I’ve caused it myself—but never something so complete, so final.
Fragments of the stained-glass windows that once filtered sunlight into rainbow patterns across the corridors now litter the lawn like sharp confetti. I step over what might have been part of the grand staircase, now reduced to rubble and ash. The grand entry is nothing but a scorched crater, and the throne room—the heart of the kingdom, has dissolved into dust and memory.
My eyes burn, though whether from unshed tears or the lingering smoke, I can’t tell. Neither matters now.
“Any changes?” Liam materializes beside me, his usual dark humor absent. Even he seems smaller somehow, standing amid the ruins.
I shake my head. “Nothing. He’s still at the north wall.”
We both know who “he” is. Kyson hasn’t left the grounds in two days. Not to sleep. Not to eat unless food is brought to him. Not even to shower in town. He moves among the ruins like a ghost, touching broken stones and looking for anything in ruins of his home.
Sleep has become a luxury none of us can afford. The survivors—those of us Azalea managed to save before the collapse have been relocated to the untouched town homes beyond the castle grounds. But some of us remain. Me, Liam, Trey, and Dustin. Clarice moves between both groups, her steady presence a balm to those most affected. A handful of the older guards stay too, perhaps clinging to duty when everything else has been stripped away.
“The structural team says the west wing can now be entered to look for anything salvageable,” Trey reports as he approaches, dust coating his usually immaculate uniform. His voice holds none of its usual tone. “At least enough to recover some documents and some of what’s left in the archives beneath.”
In the distance, I can see Kyson’s silhouette against the setting sun, standing amidst what once was the royal gardens. He hasn’t moved in hours despite Azalea constantly trying to get him to rest. His shoulders, always straight and proud, now curve inward slightly—the only visible sign of the weight crushing down on him.
“We can’t stay here forever,” Dustin says, joining our small group. His practical nature hasn’t changed, even in a crisis. “The town can’t support everyone indefinitely.”
“We’ll stay as long as he needs,” I reply.
Because what none of us say is the truth we all know: this isn’t just about a building. It’s about what the castle represented—safety, power, continuity. Generations of Kyson’s family ruled from these halls. And now they’re gone, not merely defeated but erased, as if they never stood at all. Dustin peers over at Kyson worriedly.
“Azalea?” I ask.
“Guilt ridden, but this isn’t her fault. Kyson knows it, but she feels his grief.”
“Because he knows that leaving here, leaves Claire and everything we’ve fought the hunters for behind,” I murmur and my gaze darts to the graveyard at the back of the property, tombstones flattened and some completely swallowed by the earth. Dustin nudges me and I completely forget Liam is close and I sigh when I see how my words affected him also. He too would have to leave Claire behind and Valor.
“Shit, I thought he was still searching the rubble with Damian.” I mutter.
“It’s fine, I will go check on him, nothing a bottle of liquor won’t fix.” Dustin chuckles walking over to one of the younger guards sitting around one of the campfires. He moves to one of the eskies and opens it, then shuts the lid with a heavy sigh. However, as his gaze falls over those lower ranking guards they all fall over themselves knowing what he is after. Suddenly three small flasks are tossed his way and he catches them giving them a swift nod before trudging through over to Liam, who has wandered toward what is left of the graveyard.
The temporary camp sprawls across what used to be the stables and barns, a haphazard collection of tents and portable equipment that look as out of place as a carnival in a graveyard. Light catches on the metal frames of cots and folding tables. The gardens that once boasted rare blooms now lie smothered under debris and dust.
Setting back to work, I drive metal stakes into the hard ground, securing the corner of a large canvas tent, just another place we need to build as we drag what we can out to sort through. The hammer feels good in my hands—something solid, something useful. Each strike reverberates up my arm, grounding me in a way that thoughts and words cannot.
“Left side’s sagging,” Damian calls out, his meticulous nature unchanged despite everything. His uniform is stained with soot, but somehow, he still manages to look more put-together than the rest of us.
I adjust the tension on the line, pulling it tighter before hammering the stake deeper. The wind picks up, carrying with it scraps of scorched curtains and bits of wallpaper that flutter across the grass like displaced ghosts. One piece—blue silk with golden embroidery—catches on my boot. I recognize it from the royal chambers. I pocket it without thinking.
The smell hasn’t left the air yet. Smoke and sulfur, yes, but something else too—something acrid and chemical that burns the back of my throat. Magic leaves traces, especially Landeena magic we have learned. Whatever power she conjured, it wasn’t natural. It lingers, coating everything like an invisible film.
Around me, people move with the mechanical precision of shock. Guards catalog what remains of the armory. Kitchen staff have salvaged what tools weren’t destroyed. A small amount of Landeena people come every day to carefully wrap charred books and documents in paper and silk trying to preserve what we can. Everyone has a task. Everyone has purpose. It’s easier that way—to focus on the immediate need rather than the scope of what’s been lost.
“Careful with that!” Azalea’s voice carries across the lawn, authoritative yet gentle. The Valkyrie people move through the wreckage of our home easily, but hearing Azalea’s voice so sharply brings a momentary hush.
Looking at what the guards are carrying, I realize why she freaked out, it’s a large painting of Claire, Kyson and his parents. Pieces torn but it can be saved with some care. Unlike the rest of us, she doesn’t wear the defeat on her face. Instead, there’s something else there—determination, yes, but also a strange kind of clarity. As if seeing everything reduced to ashes has somehow crystallized something within her. Awoken the queen she was always destined to be.
She catches me watching and nods once. Even covered in soot, with her hair hastily pulled back and wearing clothes meant for work rather than rule, she commands respect without effort. It’s not just the power she wields now; it’s something deeper, more inherent, a knowing what she is capable of and embracing it rather than fearing it.
“Coffee’s ready,” announces a younger guard, his voice breaking the spell.
The coffee machine stands on a folding table, plugged into a generator that hums steadily. Steam rises from the carafe like morning mist, and the rich aroma briefly battles with the persistent smell of destruction. It’s such a normal, everyday thing—brewing coffee—yet it feels so out of place here but welcome. We haven’t been conquered. We still perform the rituals of living.
