Stolen by the Rebel King
Chapter 427: Dawn

Chapter 427: Dawn

"Shit," Jonah cursed, scrambling to his feet. "Atticus, are you alright?"

"Other than some sand in my eye, completely fine," came his dry reply. Atticus pushed himself up as well, instinctively reaching for his magic but had to put himself to a halt just in case he worsened the situation. "What the fuck just happened?"

"You boys alright?" King Calarian asked. He came around just as Atticus stood to his full height, dusting the golden sand from his clothes.

"Fine," replied Atticus. "What was that?"

"That," King Calarian said, gesturing to the flurry of sand and the abundance of men lying on the ground, struggling to get up, "is what happens when you use magic to mine the ores. You’re lucky that when you tried earlier, it was just a small deposit. By the looks of it, magic reacted with one too many ores and resulted in that."

"But your men should know better than to use magic with the ores," Atticus countered, his eyebrows tightly knitting together. "So what really happened?"

"We don’t know yet," Calarian honestly answered. "We’ll look into it, but you boys better head back to the palace. The sun will rise soon enough and if you get back late, the journey will be rough."

Atticus sighed, running a hand through his hair. His eyes quickly surveyed the crowd of soldiers and miners that King Calarian had brought with them― there weren’t a lot of people but whatever number there was, most of them were on the ground now.

Thankfully, it didn’t seem like anyone had died from that explosion. Otherwise, it would’ve been catastrophic. Atticus wouldn’t put it past King Calarian to use that as an excuse to withdraw from the deal.

"I’ll have some people escort you back," King Calarian offered, waving his hand and calling two men over. They were situated furthest away from the blast and seemed relatively unharmed. "If you leave now, you should make it back just in time."

"What about you?" Atticus asked. "Are you planning to stay here in the scorching heat?"

King Calarian burst into laughter, clutching his stomach as he guffawed without a care in the world. "I’m a local," he reminded them. "And not just that, but the king of the deserts. There is no one who will survive this heat better than I will. Now go. The camels are getting impatient."

Atticus turned back to see the camels moving their lips. In sync, both Jonah and Atticus moved back instinctively. They had already been spat on once― a second time wasn’t necessary.

In one fluid motion, they mounted the animals and bade King Calarian goodbye and good luck. If magic was truly used in the mines, he would need it. After all, Atticus hadn’t been the one to order magic to be used, and King Calarian’s men weren’t suicidal enough to use it. There must’ve been a third party involved.

Call it a gut feeling but Atticus’s mind couldn’t help but flick over to Jean Nott. He had been awfully quiet ever since he had sabotaged Prince Alistair and killed Princess Drusilla. Ever since then, only the wind knew where he had been. None of Atticus’s nor Prince Nathaniel’s intel could track down any signs of the wanted criminal.

Maybe he was hiding in Xahan all along, with his eyes set on the same prize as Atticus. If that was the case, Atticus wouldn’t mind squashing his ambition right at the last step.

By the time they returned to the royal palace of Xahan, dawn was about to break. A gradient of deep indigo, touched by the remnants of the night, slowly yielded to the tentative advances of morning light. Wisps of silvery clouds caught the first blush of daybreak, painted in soft pastels ranging from lavender to peach.

Atticus crept over to Daphne’s bedroom, gently opening the door so that he made little to no sound. He had to remain quiet in case she was asleep — and she should be — for he didn’t wish to accidentally wake her up. Daphne would definitely have questions about his whereabouts through the night and Atticus didn’t wish to answer them.

It would only dig further into his guilt for abandoning her when he promised to be back.

Just like he had suspected, Daphne was tucked in bed, the blankets pulled up her shoulders. Surprisingly, the room was much colder than the corridor outside. It was even akin to the autumn weather.

Daphne had locked the windows and placed chairs right at the handles, preventing it from being opened without making a ruckus. What she was guarding against, Atticus wasn’t sure, but he had no doubt that she must’ve been scared to sleep alone. It must’ve also prevented the hot air outside from coming in.

Even without her awake, Atticus’s body was already ransacked by guilt, remorse crashing into him like waves.

He closed the door behind him and made his way over to the bed. Once he did, he squatted down right by her bedside, using a clean hand to comb her hair out of her face.

Daphne was beautiful, even in her sleep. She looked peaceful, ridden of all the stress and suspicion that had surrounded her in recent days. In the quietness of the room, Atticus could clearly hear her featherlight breaths, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm in tune with her breathing.

"Atticus...?"

’Shit,’ thought Atticus. ’She woke up.’

His first instinct was to get up and move away, but Atticus had barely even stood to his full height when Daphne reached out and grasped his hand in hers. Her touch was warm, but unlike the raging desert heat outside, this sort of warmth from her was like a sip of hot chocolate on a cold winter’s morning.

It was the warmth of home.

"What are you doing up so late?" she asked, her voice barely even audible. Atticus had to guess a few words, not entirely sure what she said. Daphne’s eyes remained closed as she continued to mumble. "Aren’t you tired?"

He steeled, unsure how to react. While Atticus had somewhat prepared himself to receive a good scolding for leaving her all alone, he hadn’t thought she would be so concerned with his safety and well-being. Maybe in the past, yes, but after things had soured with Daphne...

Atticus shook his head. Maybe she was just talking in her sleep, akin to drunk people speaking drunk words.

But then again, didn’t the saying mention that drunk words were sober thoughts?

"Come into bed," she said. "I made the room cold. You’re gonna be cold," she continued to murmur.

Now that Atticus looked carefully, the aquamarines of Daphne’s ring were pulsing gently with magic. His lips lifted into a small smile, admiring his wife’s brilliance. To think that she couldn’t use magic just a few months prior. Now, she could even so accurately maintain the temperature of the room without even being awake.

Atticus stripped the dirty outside clothes he wore until he was in nothing but his boxers. Then, he crawled into bed, wrapping Daphne in his arms. She curled into his embrace as well, snuggling deeper against his chest.

To Atticus, it felt more like she was worming right into his heart.

He placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head, her shampoo perfuming his senses.

"Good night, my love," he murmured.

The only reply he received was Daphne’s steady breathing, a sign that she had fallen back asleep once more.