Gulutel was a family man. Like, "tells dad jokes and packs school lunches" family man. He had a wife, two adorable little girls back in Geza, and exactly zero interest in scepters, thrones, or high-stakes magical politics. All he'd ever wanted was a quiet life and maybe a goat. Or two goats. Simple stuff.
Leaving his wife and two little girls in Geza wasn't exactly his idea of a fun weekend getaway. But hey, peace in Senedro was apparently more important than bedtime stories or teaching his kids how to sneak cookies. He didn't want his people living in chaos— Senedro was already a dumpster fire.
Now? He was in a bear-drawn prison cell, headed toward a public execution. So. That escalated.
To be clear, Gulutel hadn't stolen the scepter on purpose. Not really. He'd been possessed, which anyone with half a brain and a drop of empathy could've figured out. But empathy wasn't Fien's strong suit lately. The woman was in full Conqueror Mode, and unfortunately for Gulutel, he'd just become her perfect "don't screw with me" poster child.
Shæz had tried. She really had. She argued, pleaded, even gave Fien that look—you know the one, the "I know you're being a dramatic dictator right now but I still love you" look. No dice. Fien was locked in.
The worst part? Geleam and his guys saw everything. Which meant this wasn't just palace drama anymore. It was camp-wide gossip with a body count. The queen had no choice but to play hardball.
So there he was, poor Gulutel, bouncing in a cage strapped to the back of a bear named Zelan (a surprisingly judgmental bear, if you asked him), while soldiers walked alongside like this was just another Tuesday.
He kept staring through the bars, hoping Shæz would do something. Anything.
Meanwhile, Shæz was in her own personal soap opera. She wasn't exactly winning "Friend of the Year" either. The farther they rode, the colder she got. She wasn't riding with Fien anymore. Nope, she was off in her own little crew—twenty-four black-bear riders from Zela, the last remnant of her army. And with the brown-bear troopers of Steza and centaurs circling, the vibe was less "friendly reunion" and more "armed and dangerous."
She kept thinking about that poor one-winged Miteon boy who died in Mela. Fien hadn't even blinked. No funeral. No speech. Not even a guilt snack. Just moved on like he was a bug that hit the windshield.
That was the moment it clicked for Shæz. Fien wasn't leading a rebellion anymore. She was running an empire. And empires? Empires didn't have friends. They had pawns. Disposable ones.
Now Shæz was wondering if she was next. They were getting close to Dalab. The city sparkled in the distance like a jewel in the sand. Tensions were rising, alliances were fraying. Soon, everything would blow up—and maybe—just maybe, Shæz was ready to throw down.
In Dalab, deep inside the sandstone throne room with its weirdly chill air, Max Donman found himself sitting across from King Gideon—a guy who looked like he could wrestle a bear and win, then write poetry about it.
The guards were dismissed with a wave. Even Milia, who'd been sticking close to Max like she owned stock in him, was told to leave when Max mentioned the Shams. And that's when Max realized—Gideon wasn't just some ceremonial king in fancy armor. He knew.
"And that's how I survived," Max finished, wiping his forehead. "Ella said the Shams are preparing for something big. She said they're gonna start taking cities. Like, soon. Not metaphorical soon—soon soon."
Gideon didn't flinch. "Yes," he said calmly. "Ella's right."
Max blinked. "Wait. You know Ella?"
The king gave him a slow, grave nod. That was a yes, and not the kind that comes with a LinkedIn connection. This was deep history. The kind with scars.
Gideon wasn't just royalty—he was a legend. A hunter. Commander of the white bear riders. One of the few people who'd faced a Sham and lived. Barely. Left broken, bleeding, and carrying a message from whatever twisted mind lived inside that thing. It had spared him. Talked to him. Marked him.
And now, sitting across from Max, their matching marks were glowing. Like someone lit a match under their skin.
"Deliah warned me," Gideon said quietly, holding up his hand. "She said, when the mark glows again... it means time's up. The Shams aren't hiding anymore. They're multiplying. Getting smarter. Stronger." Max swallowed hard.
"They're going to attack us," Gideon said, leaning forward. "Not one city. All of us. And we won't survive unless we're united. No politics. No grudges. Just survival."
Max stared at the glowing mark on his arm. It looked like fire under his skin.
"Cool cool cool," he muttered. "So, basically, we're screwed."
Gideon cracked a dry smile. "Not yet. But if we don't move fast... yeah."
But Gideon knew a thing or two about Senedro—enough to lose sleep over. Unity? Yeah, good luck with that. Senedro was a patchwork of egos, grudges, and self-serving pacts dressed up as alliances. No one wanted to bleed for the whole—they were all just out to protect their little slice of dirt, power, or legacy. And that was exactly why Gideon hadn't stepped down from the throne yet. Not because he loved ruling—he hated the politics, the ceremonies, the fake smiles. But because every time he looked around, he saw no one else fit to carry the weight.
Well… almost no one. There was one exception. One Denefremim girl. He'd watched her closely. Fought beside her and hunted with her. She had something rare in this world—vision, conviction, guts. But Shæz of Zela? She didn't want the throne. Never did. She was a fighter, not a ruler. And that, right there, was Senedro's whole problem in one sentence: too many rulers, not enough leaders. Everyone clawing for the crown, and the few specials who might actually deserve it couldn't be bothered to reach.
So Gideon was staying king. Not because he wanted to. But because someone had to keep the fire from spreading.