Broken by the Horde King (Horde Kings of Dakkar #4) - Zoey Draven Page 0,148

and I felt her arms come around me, pulling me into the warmth.

“The guards said you’d come. I could scarcely believe it,” she whispered. “Twice you’ve come in a single moon cycle when I have not seen you for two years.”

The guilt that crept up on me was familiar. A son’s guilt. But I was a Vorakkar. Lomma understood that. She knew the sacrifices that needed to be made.

Sacrifices that she had perhaps made for me, though it had not been her right to, I thought quietly, leaning back to peer into her eyes.

“I came to collect my mokkira,” I murmured to her.

“Maeva?” she asked quietly, knowing. “Lysi, I’d heard she’d returned.”

My brow furrowed. And she hadn’t gone to see her? To lend her support to Maeva’s family?

Disappointment spread in my gut.

“I need to speak with the Sorakkar.”

She hated when I called him that but he had always been a Sorakkar to me. I couldn’t remember when I’d last addressed him as Pattar and he seemed to prefer it that way.

His presence loomed behind her, emerging from the doorway of their room. I paused when I noticed his limp, a padding underneath his trews that signified a bandage.

“You were injured in the attack?” I rasped.

“It is a small thing,” he grunted. My mother sighed, casting my father an impatient look over her shoulder.

I doubted that, considering he still wore bandages nearly a week after the attack. Dakkari healed quickly. The wound must’ve been deep.

“Why didn’t you send for aid?” I asked him, walking towards him, skirting around my mother to reach him. “You know my darukkars would have come. They could’ve been here in a day.”

His shoulders straightened as I studied the face that looked so much like my own. A stubborn brow, pursed lips, wide, rough features. A scar tracked down my father’s cheek, an old battle injury.

“The ungira moved in quickly. There was no time,” my father snapped. “I didn’t expect aid from a horde. I can handle the defense of my own saruk.”

Impatience rose.

“I’m not just a Vorakkar, I’m your son. This is about your pride. Not about your saruk’s protection,” I growled. My father’s gaze narrowed and he stepped towards me at the insult, though he knew there was truth in it. “When was the last time your darukkars had need of their swords?”

His expression was dark and I saw my mother moving towards us, felt her hand rest on my forearm.

“That’s enough,” she said quietly. “Both of you.”

My jaw pulsed. A moment into seeing one another and we were already at each other’s throats. Perhaps we were more alike that I cared to believe.

I blew out a rough breath, knowing my mother was right.

“You don’t think I care about what happens to the saruk?” I asked quietly, gentling my voice. “You don’t think I care about what happens to you? To Lomma?”

A huff left his nostrils. He looked past me to the closed door. Finally, he said, “I know you do, Kiran. Of course, I know.”

I nodded, feeling my mother’s hand squeeze my arm.

“But the ungira came in the night,” my father said, limping towards a raised cushion before he lowered himself with some effort, hissing slightly. He rubbed at the bottom part of his leg as I took the cushion opposite him. “There truly was no time to send for help.”

His voice was suddenly so tired. It was a side of my father that I saw very rarely.

There had always been tension between us, which had seemed to double once I’d become Vorakkar.

“We lost five darukkars. Dozens more were injured. The ungira…” My father trailed off. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I’ve just come from the horde of Rath Kitala,” I told him quietly, finding his gaze, as my mother sat beside him, running her hand across his broad shoulders in comfort.

“Kitala?” my father asked, surprise in his voice. “Because of this red fog that plagues the east?”

“Lysi,” I said, swallowing. Hesitantly, I said, “I’ve seen it.”

“And what do you make of it?” my father asked in a hushed voice, leaning towards me. “What was discussed among the Vorakkars?”

“It is growing,” I told him. “Every day, it grows, consuming more of the land.”

“And what is it?” Lomma asked, her brows furrowed in confusion and concern.

“We do not know,” I told them. “All we know is that we haven’t seen a Ghertun emerge from the Dead Lands. No one has. And that this fog…it drains our energy, it drives beasts from their homes. It makes