“It’s something we can be proud of, Seph. A home, rather than a prison. Or at least I like to think so.”
“Last time I came here, you said the younglings would always need to learn to fight. What changed, old friend?”
“I can’t take credit for it.” He swats a hand at me, playing bashful. “Surely you remember a conversation I had with a certain stern young woman?”
I blink at him as our walk stalls near the front of the Firehold, having made a big loop.
Antones stops and looks at me square in the face. “You called me a nurturing man, not a killing one. You said I was a lover, not a fighter, admitting how trite it sounded. You said I shouldn’t try to raise fighters in Lukain’s image . . . and I decided you’re right. So I’m not.”
I swallow hard, vaguely recalling my words that clearly left an indelible mark on the new leader of the Grimsons. “You also said there was no room for lovers in this cruel world, Antones. You said we all must fight, at some point, to survive.” I wince. “Do you still believe that?”
He nods deeply. “I do. Though there may not be room for love inmyworld, I can’t say the same for everyone. Truehearts above, I see love budding in these halls on a daily basis. How can I deny that? And when it comes to the fighting, well, I’ll be ready. I’ve still remembered a thing or two from my time with Lukain. So have the other ‘elder’ statesmen of the Firehold. We’re prepared if trouble descends the ladder from the Floorboards.”
His final words leave a bleak taste in my mouth, because I understand the allusion. “Trouble like Skartovius Ashfen, you mean.”
“You know what he is, Seph.”
“Aye, but you don’t, Ant.”
He smiles gently at me, like I’m a child of twelve summers again, first making my mark here. Antones says nothing, letting me live with my lie, because there’s no point in debating me.
Just like love is found here—and was spotted in Old Endolf’s cave between him and my mother—it must be clear to Antones I’ve found love as well.
And, like he said, how can he deny that?
As if mentioning the handsome devil summoned him, a voice echoes down the hall from the front drop-in entrance of the cave, carrying to my ears and making my skin prickle with its urgency.
“Sephania.”
I spin to the sound of Skar’s brooding voice, a smile on my lips—
Which dies instantly when I lay eyes on him and the small body cradled in his arms.
“Truehearts flog me, itcan’tbe,” Antones breathes.
I gasp, rushing over. “Palacia?!”
Just like that, all the fond memories, all the joyous reminisces of roaming this place—the romanticization of a place that was truly awful when I lived here—comes crashing down as the realization of my world punches me in the face.
Because it’snotPalacia in Skar’s arms.
Not entirely, anyway.
I can’t tell exactly, but my friend is either dead . . . or she’s on her way to becoming a vampire.
Part
Four
The ancient vampire takes a long sigh and a sip of blood from the chalice on his old table. He prods his chin with the feathers of his quill, tapping, debating where next to lead the tale.
He has felt forthright and true up until this point in the telling. In writing a truncated history of Olhav’s and Nuhav’s births, and the decline of the empires surrounding the northern and southern Olhavian Peaks due to the vampire infestation first discovered in the silver mines, he has come to recall many things that once eluded him. Memories he hasn’t reminisced about in ages, since the old days when they first happened.
He decides his tale is almost complete. It is a short history, missing many details, yet what he has written will suit his purposes. As long as he gets the last bit right—the most crucial, damning portion of his writings.
The vampire begins a new page after dipping his pen in the inkwell. He flattens the page and writes “20 YEARS AGO” across the top in his elegant script.
Where we last left off, sixty-odd years prior, Lukain Mortis had been born from a taboo relationship between Alacine Mortis and her adulterous Silverknight paramour, Heskul Angul.
