She’s scared. Like the end of the journal said she would be.
I’ve learned a truth she’s worked more than fifty years to hide from me. All in a matter of an evening, her web of lies isunfurling, spinning out of control, and she can’t even look me in the eyes.
Because she’s scared of her firstborn son, as she always has been.
It must be why she hates him. Why she hates what he represents: change in Olhav. Change in the Five Ministries and her leadership role. He is an existential threat, and with Sephania at his side, they might just be able to pull off their revolution.
And it terrifies Alacine Mortis.
Skartovius Ashfen combines the most duplicitous parts of Alacine Mortis and the most ambitious parts. But he also has something she doesn’t, likely gotten from his long-dead human father: courage.
Courage to face his enemies head-on and never back down. My half-brother lived his life in obscurity until he crawled out of it and began his court. Hetookhis deserved nobleblood mantle even after he had been framed, and he didn’t need a fake alias like Overseer Verant to do it.
I’ve been looking up to the wrong person this entire time.
Alacine has no idea how overwhelmed I’ve become in the past few minutes. How my entire worldview has shifted because of her lack of caring, her lack of an explanation. She’s kept her back to me the entire time, fueling my rage. Only turning to ridicule, scoff, or chastise me for being a foolish young pup.
No more,I think. My mind screams the word.No more.
“I wish you could have been better, Mother. I truly wish you could have explained things to me, the way Skartovius Ashfen has. My half-brother.”
“Skartovius is a liar, son. You cannot listen to—”
My father’s silver saber cuts her words off as it sinks into her back, grinding against her spine.
With a gasp, Alacine Mortis spins, knocking the blade out of my hand. The most horrifying visage imaginable ignites across her face, even as her skin flares with fire.
As an ancient vampiress, Alacine Mortis does not simply burst into a fireball when I stab silver to her flesh. No, it curdles and coils her skin, bubbling and oozing with blistering boils and smoke as she tries to fight off the invasion with the power of her blood alone.
But even the Spymistress of Olhav is not powerful enough to ward off the effects of a silver sword for long.
As she faces me, clawing at me with a weak swipe, she opens her mouth to speak. Only black smoke comes out, her wordless sounds a wheeze and cough. The green veins of her neck turn black, spiderwebbing up to her chin, crawling across her face, even as her eyes blacken and swirl with inky smoke.
The veins consume her face completely, until I can no longer see the rictus rage on my mother’s face, and her hand falls from my arm.
She lets out a final croak of resistance past her weathered, ashen lips—
And then goes up like a fucking torch.
The heat of her screeching, withering body forces me back three steps, to the doorway of the dungeon.
My eyes bulge as I watch my mother burn.
Then she collapses, her skin dissolving to show a bleached skeleton beneath that topples to the ground in a clattering heap. It leaves behind a small soot-coated badge I’ve never seen before, in between her rib bones.
She might have been a menace to everyone around her, but Alacine Mortis’ skeleton looks just like everyone else’s: frail, thin, and easily breakable.
My jaw drops open and my mind whirls. For a moment, I wonder what I’ve just done—what I’ve gotten myself into.
With a murmur passing my lips, I say, “I wish your web of lies stopped at me, your son, you black widow.”
Chapter 47
Vallan
Following the joint attack by Alacine Mortis on the Grimsons and Manor Marquin, my master called me to Castle Galfeld.
Barnabac Craxon is not a patient man, and I know I must get to him swiftly to avoid punishment or discipline of some kind. Not that my master’s punishment ails me—I’ve become accustomed to his abuse.
