I shrug, not necessarily in the mood to explain the details of my father’s retributions. If Ulrik had his way, I would have never spoken in his presence. Maybe then I’d be a perfect daughter. Not a person, but a blank canvas for him to paint.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
“Aren’t you going to force me to answer anyway?” I counter, not in the mood for repartee. I may be used to the feeling of his magic, but the violence of pulling words from my mouth will never be familiar or welcome—nor is it conducive to my plan.
If I can’t get Wrath to respect my boundary, then all of the information I collect will be for nothing. His mood dictates how far I’m able to plan, but he won’t know what to believe if I can find a way to outsmart him at his own game.
Wrath doesn’t respond right away. His shoulders are rigid, as if he can’t quite relax around me. He studies me like a riddle he can’t solve. “Not tonight,” he finally replies.
“The Eldertree spoke to me during Lunithia,” I tell him, changing the subject. “Rowena told me it used to speak to everyone.”
“The last person it spoke to was me, nine years ago.” Wrath pulls down the edge of his right sleeve.
“What did it tell you?”
“You must rule.” His voice is low, as if the memory haunts him.
“You’ve only been King for nine years?” Surprise fills me. The other rulers of Dratheria have held their thrones much longer. “Who was king before?”
“Someone who believed the curse was a good thing.”
“You overthrew the King?” I ask, completely intrigued.
Wrath takes a deep breath, waiting for a moment before speaking. “My father pulled many strings in the shadows,” he says vaguely. “After that, I was installed as king.”
I pause, considering his choice of words.Installed.Wrath made it sound like he was selected, rather than a choice. He was forced into the role by his father’s expectations, rather than born into it.
“You didn’t want to be king?” I pick up on his hesitation.
“Our lives are threads woven along an unseen path—one whose reasons we may never fully understand.” The edges in Wrath’s voice have all softened. He avoids answering my question, which leads me to believe this role is not what he wanted.
“The tree told me, ‘Long live the queen.’” I hope he can decode the message for me.
“Interesting…”
“I don’t feel like a queen,” I say truthfully.
“I don’t feel like a destroyer of peace,” he echoes.
His admission surprises me. During the battle in Liora, I saw firsthand the skilled and savage warrior he is, and yet, he doesn’t resonate with such a title. Did he force himself to be that way just to fit a mold? Or is he manipulating me to feel pity for him?
“Then why do they call you Wrath's Blade?” I ask, returning to my drawing now that enough new snow has piled up.
“Is that what's keeping you up at night?”
I let out a soft laugh. “Of course not.”
“It started as a tale after we killed the King of Nythara.Everyone called me that, and eventually I stopped correcting people.”
“I thought Taryn killed Arthur?” I ask, recalling the tale she told me while traveling to Khalessor.
“She did.” Wrath nods. “Most don’t want to credit her because she was only nineteen at the time.”
The soldiers’ pride must have been wounded, losing their chance at glory in favor of a young girl. Taryn seems proud of her accomplishment, and despite people wanting to take it away from her, Wrath acknowledged it without question.
“Do you feel like you deserve such a title?”
“Do you?” he counters.
