Chapter 122: Rahaja, The King Who Challenged Qazaethel

After a week, Qazaethel and Dawn attended the royal meeting with the Reens outside the main borders of Solkanaia. The sky above was a pale, washed-out grey, the kind of sky that promised rain but never delivered, and the wind carried the dust of the plains across the open field where the two kingdoms had gathered.

Two kingdoms brought their armies, and of course, Solkanaia still had the massive number of soldiers that had made it the most feared power on the continent. They stood in neat, glittering rows behind their sovereign, their armor polished, their spears catching the weak sunlight, and their banners snapping in the wind.

The Reen army was smaller, but no less fierce, their soldiers arranged in tight formations that spoke of discipline and experience. Between the two forces stretched a wide, empty field, a no-man’s-land where the fate of kingdoms would be decided.

Qazaethel sat on her horse silently, her back straight, her hands loose on the reins, and her expression utterly unreadable. Beside her, Dawn rode a brown horse, her posture was equally rigid, her face set in the cold, impassive mask she wore when she was performing her role as Phoenix Empress.

Liv was on standby behind the Sovereign and the Phoenix empress, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, her eyes scanning the Reen lines for any sign of treachery. She was dreading for Dawn’s safety—she always dreaded for Dawn’s safety—but she kept her face blank and her hand steady.

She had learned, over the years, to hide her fear behind a wall of calm, and she had learned to trust that Dawn could handle herself. But trusting did not mean she stopped worrying. It only meant she stopped showing it.

The Reen king, Rahaja, sat on his own horse at the front of his army, his crown glinting on his brow, his beard trimmed close to his jaw. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and thick-necked, with the kind of face that had been handsome once and had grown cruel with age.

He looked at Qazaethel across the field with a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. The wind carried his voice when he spoke, and since both rulers possessed supernatural powers, they could hear each other from hundreds of meters away as clearly as if they were standing face to face.

"Rahaja! Is this what you wanted? War without letting Solkanaia explain?" Qazaethel asked, and her voice was calm, measured, the voice of a ruler who had been dealing with petty kings and their petty grievances for centuries. She did not raise it. She did not need to. Her authority carried further than any shout.

Rahaja’s smile did not waver. "Qazaethel, this is not gonna happen if Solkanaia did not invade the villages under the Reen zone. You touched what’s ours and declared war for your kingdom."

His voice was loud, aggressive, the voice of a man who had rehearsed his accusations and was determined to deliver them. The soldiers behind him murmured their agreement, and the sound rippled through the Reen lines like a wave.

Qazaethel sighed. Explaining about the betrayal within her court would show a great weakness within her rule. She could tell him the truth—that rogue elements within her own palace had acted without her knowledge or consent, that she had been as horrified as anyone when she learned what had happened—but doing so would be an admission of vulnerability that she could not afford.

Not here. Not in front of her army and his. Not when the stability of her kingdom depended on the perception of her strength. "Long story short, but believe me, I did not like what happened to them," she said, and the words were carefully chosen, measured, the truth without the details that would undermine her. Her pride would never let her admit the vulnerability she had just been handed by the traitors within the Solkanaia palace.

Rahaja threw his head back and laughed, a loud, braying sound that echoed across the field. "You speak such hogwash answer, I almost gag at my own tears laughing!" He laughed again, and this time his men joined in, their laughter a chorus of mockery that rolled across the plains.

It was an insult, a deliberate attempt to provoke, but Qazaethel and Dawn did not react. They simply watched him with the same calm, unreadable expressions, their silence a rebuke more powerful than any words.

Dawn spoke then, her voice clear and cold, carrying across the field with a precision that cut through the laughter like a blade. "You do know you stand before the lands of Solkanaia. Return to your kingdom and you shall be spared."

There was no warmth in her voice, none of the gentle kindness she always carried with her. She was not the Dawn who comforted Eiravelle in the quiet of the eastern palace. She was the Phoenix Empress, and she spoke with the authority of a ruler who had faced down greater threats than a posturing king.

Rahaja’s laughter died, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at her. "An omega like you dare to speak in a conversation only for alphas!" He laughed again, a sharp, barking sound, and his men laughed with him. But there was something uneasy in their laughter now, something uncertain, because they had seen the cold fury in Dawn’s eyes and they had heard the weight of her words.

Qazaethel did not like it when some alphas belittled omegas. She had spent her entire rule fighting against the idea that omegas were weak, that they were lesser, that they belonged in the background while alphas made the decisions. Eiravelle had taught her that, in more ways than one.

"Are you confident that you are an alpha, Rahaja? Because as I can see it now, you’re just a scared little boy playing king while you have an army behind you to lean on." Qazaethel did not yell. She did not have to. Her authority was much greater than any petty act of insults and belittling. The words landed like stones dropped into still water, and the ripples spread outward, silencing the laughter and leaving an uneasy quiet in its place.

"And to tell you, my Empress is a good ruler beside me. Something you’ll never have as you treat your omegas like nothing but feces you step on." She let go of the words, and the smile on Rahaja’s face disappeared. He and his men became silent as Qazaethel said those words.

The Reen soldiers shifted uncomfortably, their eyes dropping to the ground, and Rahaja’s face flushed with anger. He had not expected to face Qazaethel’s sharp remarks about him. He had expected a negotiation, perhaps some verbal sparring, but not this. Not a public dismantling of his character in front of his own men.

"You are really declaring war on the Reen kingdom, Sovereign of Solkanaia!" He yelled angrily, his voice was cracking with fury. But the rulers of Solkanaia remained neutral and deadpan about his outburst, their silence a wall he could not break through. They had faced down monsters and gods, and a shouting king did not impress them.

"You should remember that we have the golden rabbit, Rahaja. With the blessing of the golden rabbit, we can win every war," Dawn said, and her voice was calm, almost conversational, as though she were discussing the weather.

Rahaja paled as he heard that. The golden rabbit was a legend, a myth, a symbol of divine favor that had been lost for centuries—and yet, if Solkanaia truly had it, the balance of power would shift irrevocably. But then his eyes narrowed, and a new thought seemed to strike him.

"But the golden rabbit is useless without its saint. Maybe you held the golden rabbit! The Haltus had the saint’s silk, how will the golden rabbit choose to stay here?!" He accused, his voice rising with desperate triumph.

The Haltus—the ancient enemy of Solkanaia, the kingdom that had waged war against them for generations—had long claimed to possess the saint’s silk, the only thing that could bind the golden rabbit’s power. If the Haltus truly had the silk, then Solkanaia’s claim to the rabbit was hollow.

Qazaethel was clearly losing her patience. Her jaw tightened, and her hands curled into fists on the reins. She was tired of this. She was tired of Rahaja’s posturing and his insults and his desperate attempts to find cracks in her armor. But before she could speak, Dawn stepped in, her voice as calm and steady as ever.

"Why? You speak as if you have seen the saint’s silk, Rahaja. Have you seen the Haltus reveal the saint’s silk?" Dawn calmly asked, and her question was a blade hidden in silk. She did not raise her voice. She did not sound accusatory. She simply asked, and the question hung in the air, waiting for an answer that Rahaja could not give.

His face went red, then pale, then red again, and he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He had not seen the silk. He had only heard the rumors, the same rumors that had been circulating for years, the same rumors that the Haltus themselves had never confirmed. And in that moment of silence, his entire argument crumbled.

"Go home, Rahaja. And bring your army with you. They have families that are waiting for them. I do not want them to die, same for my army," Qazaethel said, and her voice was softer now, almost tired.

She was offering him an out, a way to retreat with his pride intact, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might take it. But then something shifted in his eyes, something that looked almost like desperation, and he took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, gathering his courage, and when he opened them again, there was a fierce, wild light in them.

"I challenge you! Sovereign of Solkanaia to a sword match!" He screamed at the top of his lungs, and their armies gasped. The sound rippled through the ranks, a collective intake of breath that echoed across the plains.

Even Liv was shocked, her hand tightening on her sword as the implications of the challenge raced through her mind. A sword match. Single combat. The fate of kingdoms decided by the edge of a blade.

"Your Majesty, allow me to do the match on your behalf," Liv said, stepping forward, her voice urgent. She was already calculating the odds, already planning her strategy, already preparing herself to step into the ring in her sovereign’s place. But Dawn snapped a glare at her, a glare that said everything without a single word.

Dawn’s eyes were blazing with protective fury, and the message was clear—she would get mad if Liv dared to even try to get in that ring. Liv stopped where she stood, her jaw tight, but she did not argue. She knew better than to argue with Dawn when she was like this.

Qazaethel scoffed slightly, a small, dismissive sound that carried across the field. She turned her gaze back to Rahaja, her expression cool and unimpressed. "Don’t worry, Dawn. Liv is not going to get hurt. I will face him myself," Qazaethel assured Dawn, and she dismounted from her horse in one fluid motion, her boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. She handed the reins to a waiting soldier and turned to face Rahaja, her eyes never leaving his.

"Rahaja, if I win, Reen is mine!" Qazaethel said with a smile. It was not a warm smile. It was the smile of a predator who had just spotted its prey, the smile of a ruler who had been waiting for this moment for a very long time. Then she glanced at Dawn, her expression softening for just a moment.

"Don’t tell Eiravelle about this," she said, and her voice was quiet, meant only for Dawn’s ears. Eiravelle was in the eastern palace, eight months pregnant, and the last thing she needed was to know that her mate was about to fight a duel to the death. Dawn nodded, her jaw was tight, but she did not say anything. There was nothing to say.

Then there was a strong wind, a sudden, howling gust that whipped across the field and made it look like there was a sandstorm. The soldiers shielded their eyes, their banners snapping wildly, and the horses shied and stamped, their nostrils flaring. But Qazaethel walked through it as though it were not there, her steps steady, her gaze fixed on Rahaja.

She raised her hand, and in a flash of golden light, her glowing phantom sword appeared in her grip. It was a blade of pure, burning energy, its edges crackling with power, and it hummed with a sound that was almost like a song. The wind tore at her hair and her clothes, but she did not flinch. She walked forward, her phantom sword blazing in her hand, and the army of Solkanaia watched their sovereign step into the storm with the kind of awe that only came from witnessing something truly divine.