Chapter 48: The King’s Heartbreak

Ren’s blood turned to ice. She opened her mouth to speak, to spin a web of lies about sleepwalking or a sudden craving for pickled eggs, but Syris raised his hand.

“Do not,” he said softly.

He reached into the folds of his sheer sash and pulled out a small, rectangular object. He held it up to the dim light of the fire. It was silver, scratched, and covered in dried, black mud.

It was her Survival Lighter.

Ren’s breath hitched. ’I dropped it. When I lit the fire.’

“Viper brought this to me,” Syris said, turning the object over in his long, pale fingers. “He does not know what it is. He knows only that it creates fire.”

He looked at her, and the look in his eyes wasn’t the white-hot rage of a king. It was far worse. It was the crushing weight of betrayal.

“He followed a trail of wet mud from the stairs to the vault,” Syris continued, his voice devoid of its usual arrogant lilt. “He found the door open. He found the barrel of firewater smashed. And he found…”

Syris’ jaw tightened, a muscle feathering in his cheek.

“…he found three hundred of my kin. Scorched. Burned to death. Their scales melted to the stone.”

Ren flinched physically. She hadn’t meant to hurt them. She just wanted to survive. “Syris, I didn’t mean to—”

“You set fire to my home,” Syris interrupted, his voice cracking slightly. “You burned my subjects. My family.”

He stepped closer. The heat radiating off him felt oppressive now, suffocating. His gaze swept over her—taking in the wild red hair, the bare midriff, the shimmering green snake-skin skirt with the slit that went dangerously high up her thigh.

He stopped. His eyes darkened, lingering on the curve of her waist.

She looked like a wild jungle queen, wrapped in scraps, smelling of roses and trouble. Every instinct in his body wanted to grab her, to throw her onto the furs and claim her until he was satisfied.

But he couldn’t. He was a King first.

He forced his face into a mask of cold stone, though his fingers twitched with the effort of not touching her.

“I gave you the garden,” Syris whispered, the hurt bleeding through his stern facade. “I gave you my robes. I offered you my bed, my heat, my protection. I ignored the fact that you smell of the tiger. I tried to court you, Ren.”

He looked into her eyes, searching for the female who had fed him pancakes and oiled his scales.

“Is my care so terrible? Is my touch so repulsive that you would burn the world just to get away from me?”

Ren felt a lump form in her throat. Guilt, sharp and heavy, settled in her chest.

He wasn’t wrong. From his perspective, he had been nothing but generous. A kidnapper, yes, but a generous one. And she had responded by drugging his wine, robbing his vault, and barbecuing his guards.

She couldn’t tell him about the Swamp Navigator Map. If he knew she had the map, he would definitely feed her to the crocodiles.

She had to lie. But she hated herself for it.

“I wasn’t trying to run,” Ren lied, her voice trembling. She looked down at her bare feet. “I went for the firewater.”

Syris frowned, his brow furrowing. “The firewater? You risked death for a drink?”

“To forget,” Ren whispered, leaning into the role of the grieving widow. “To forget Kael. To forget the crocodiles. The grief… it was too much. I wanted to drink until I couldn’t feel anything.”

Syris looked at her. He wanted to believe her. He desperately wanted to believe that this was just an act of a broken heart, a foolish mistake born of sadness and grief.

But the burnt snakes. The deception. The sheer audacity of entering the forbidden vault.

“You lie well,” Syris said softly. “But you act poorly.”

He turned his back on her, staring into the fire. He couldn’t look at her anymore. If he looked at her, he would forgive her. And a king who forgave betrayal was no king at all.

“You stole from the crown,” Syris stated, his voice hardening. “You entered the deep earth, which is forbidden to all but the line of Syris. You destroyed my kin.”

He clapped his hands once. Sharp. Final.

The heavy obsidian doors groaned open.

Viper entered. But he wasn’t alone. Another massive snake guard, a cobra with a wide, flared hood, slithered in beside him. They both held spears, and their eyes were not friendly. They hissed softly when they saw Ren—they heard everything the king said. They knew what she had done.

“King?” Viper asked, eyeing Ren warily.

“Secure her,” Syris ordered, his voice flat.

Ren’s eyes widened. “Syris?”

The guards moved fast.

Viper grabbed her left wrist. The cobra grabbed her right. Their grip was rough and firm, their cold scales biting into her skin. They twisted her arms behind her back, locking her in place.

“Syris!” Ren cried out, struggling against the massive strength of the snake beastmen. “Please! I’m sorry! It was just the grief!”

Syris didn’t turn around. He stood rigid, his hand clenching the silver lighter until his knuckles turned white. He was heartbroken. He was furious. And he was desperately trying to keep his composure in check.

He turned slowly to face her.

His face was a mask of regal indifference, but his eyes were a storm of pain. He looked at her one last time—at the beautiful, chaotic, dangerous creature he had let into his heart.

“You have committed crimes against the clan,” Syris announced, his voice echoing in the silent room.

“Trespassing.” “Theft.” “Arson.” “Deception.”

He stepped closer, tilting her chin up with one cool finger so she had to look him in the eye.

“I am not Kael,” Syris whispered. “I do not tolerate disobedience. You have forgotten your place, Little Chef. You need to be reminded.”

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