“What?”
“He’s here,” Tristen replies. His shadow curls up, creating a second wall to trap me in.
The cell starts to spin, my fangs sharpen for his blood; my ears long for his screams. I don’t just picture Selene. I see Sable, too. I hear echoes of everything Hector said as she died. Selene’s father is a catalyst; I intend to make him suffer.
“His body is,” Tristen clarifies as he runs a hand through his thick hair. “Along with a General Leander who said he was delivering a gift… from Everett.”
My mouth dries. Give me a dagger so I can plunge it into my ears. I never want to hear Everett’s name again.
“Solaria is being torn apart as we speak; the nobles are fighting for King Aridel's crown, and the army is in pieces. Turns out a portion of the soldiers were in Everett’s pocket. They turned on King Aridel, delivering his body to you as a symbol of their wish to join us. King Aridel’s got one hundred and twenty-seven arrows in him.” The sound of Tristen’s whistle is nearly lost in the rhythm of my erratic heartbeat. “He’s a thin man too, not a simple task, but fae archers are worth their weight in gold.”
Another revelation. I pinch the bridge of my nose. I think I’m going to vomit, but my stomach is empty. Maybe I can purge the shredded pieces of my heart.
Tristen rises and points his open hand towards me. He wiggles his fingers, waiting for me to accept his help to stand. “I’ll throw you over my shoulder if I have to.” He raises an eyebrow in warning. “Be angry; be numb. Fuck it, if you want to be a shell, be one! Shells are empty homes. I’ll reassemble you, and shove you back inside. I can’t make a new world without you, brother.”
He bends down, interlaces our fingers, and pulls me to my feet. My knees ache as I sway. He has to help me stand.
“Titus, you are the first person to oversee an army of vampires, fae, and mages. We need you.”
A shell. I’m a shell. Empty, forced to be filled with all the facts and revelations.
Forced.
Maybe that’s what I need, someone to force me, because I’d much rather stay in this cell and rot. But then they all would be right. Selene would be right.
It would all be for nothing.
Nothing.
It’s a struggle, but I step back and hold my ground. I’m not doing this for Selene or Everett.
I’m not! I hate them! I want to erase them from history.
My eyes trace Tristen’s boots, his strong legs, chest, and his face, which I have loved from the first moment he was placed in my arms as a crying baby. I’m doing this for him. For my other brothers and sister.
Tristen’s grin makes him look like a kid again. “Mages?” I mutter.
“Hector’s army,” Tristen replies, putting an arm around me as we slowly leave the cell. The cuffs chafed my wrist, causing raw, unhealed wounds due to my lack of magic. “They are calling you an emperor. The leader who will unite war-torn lands, a leader who will made kings bend a knee,” Tristen adds as we approach the stairs.
I can only make it up five steps before I shake my head. Tristen props me against the wall, pulls out a flask of blood, and brings it to my lips. I drink it down and shake my wrists.
Pulling a key from his pocket, he hesitates, studying my demeanor before unlocking the mage cuffs.
Fire races up and down my veins. It finds my injuries and heals them, except when it reaches my heart. That can’t be healed. It’s held captive by Selene’s magic. Caged until it deems my heart healed.
“I do not want knees bent,” I announce as we finish climbing the stairs. “I want a world where we stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder.”
I look down at the Vitalis. A fucking book was worth so many lives. The sheer power makes our small room feel on the verge of collapse. Reaching out, I press my index finger into the cover.
“Where is the sword?” Is that my voice? It’s cavernous, rumbling like a faceless beast that lurks in the shadows.
“I have it. I will hide it once we sort this shit out,” Tristen replies sternly. “I haven’t tested Elderan’s facts, but if he’s correct, that sword is the only thing that can kill me.”
I close my eyes, hold my breath, and flip the book open. In the dead center of the page is a rune, drawn in a faint black substance, but it’s outlined in a shimmering gold thread that moves as magic does. Lighter sketches surround it, preliminary work the artist did before finalizing the design.
“I can’t draw,” I whisper.
“We once couldn’t hold a sword properly, but we learned.” Tristen comes to my side. “Does that mean you’re doing this?”
