“Y–your Majesty—” A voice trembles as a man backs out of the room.
“Hold your tongue. I tire of your voice.” Wrath steps out into the hall, homing in on his prey. “She ismine. If you ever bore me with such trivial matters again, you’ll lose your tongue.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The man takes off, brushing past me as he retreats.
Wrath’s jaw flexes, his scar pulling tight. His gaze follows the man down the hall, ensuring he’s left. As his focus lands on me, my spine straightens in apprehension. His magic coils like a serpent from his anger, ready to strike.
His expression softens. “Raelys.”
“Hello…” I reply hesitantly, trying to pretend that I hadn't witnessed the scene that took place.
“Do you need something?” Wrath asks.
I shake my head. “Just on my way to the gardens.”
“Come, then.” He enters the room once more, leaving the door open for me.
I glance at Kieran, who stands guard as I pass by. I step into the room. Wrath sits at the table, his workspace tidy as ever. His pen flows with an elegant script across the page as he writes. I notice a coat of arms hanging on the wall, the shield stamped with his family’s crest.
“I won’t impose if you’re busy,” I say, wondering if he isn’t in the right mood for my antics.
“I figured you’d want to read this.” Wrath gestures to an open book. “Since you keep sneaking into the library.”
“It was one time,” I rebut. Striding over to the table, I study the ancient text. Parts of the ink have faded, leaving me to fill in the gaps. A name sticks out as my fingers trace over the page.
King Ivar Izydor’s reign lasted nearly sixty years, bringing forth the Dawnlight Era. Ivar was slain by Duke Warrick Wulfstan of Salasyr, who laid siege to the crown. He was successful, sitting on the throne for eight days before being killed by knight Balthazar Bainbridge. Isla Izydor was crowned queen at sixteen.
“Who is Ivar Izydor?” I ask.
“Your grandfather.”
“And Balthazar Bainbridge?”
“My grandfather. His actions ascended my house from common-born to high-born. He was given those lands in Myragos by Isla,” Wrath replies, and I glance up from the book to see if there’s any sign of jest, but he’s serious. “That is what brought on the Age of Blood and Ruin—the previous war of the seven kingdoms.”
If Roderick is Wrath’s father, and Balthazar his grandfather, then who is Casimir? While my copy of The Warlord Chronicles is battered and worn, the one Wrath gave me didnot appear that old. It must have been written within the last decade, as the writing style is more in line with present-day speech.
I’d had the thought before—could Wrath himself be the author? Is his real name Casimir? I don’t want to believe that and have been denying the possibility altogether. He’s playing tricks on me, a well-crafted plot to get in my head. He wants me to admire him, knowing that I’d spent my whole life studying that book, so that I’ll help him break the curse. It is a clever ploy, but I won’t fall for it.
“Ivar’s death brought on that much outrage?” I ask.
Wrath nods, standing to join my side. “House Izydor was the most beloved house among the Elvarrans. People did not take kindly to the slaughter of an elderly king.”
“And Isla’s death caused this war?” I continue with my relentless questions, my quest for the truth growing with each new finding.
“It wasn’t her death. It was when Nythara attacked the North,” he replies, eyes scanning the pages. “The events line up. The curse happened shortly after your mother’s last journal entry. She said you were about to turn eleven, and the curse has been in place for thirteen years, making you twenty-four years old, correct?”
“That would be correct,” I reply, waiting for him to elaborate.
“I think Isla sealed the magic off out of revenge… or maybe spite,” he theorizes. “We simply need to figure out how to reverse it.”
Why would my mother do such a thing? What little memories I have of her are all filled with her kindness. She’s not a vengeful woman. There’s something we are missing, a piece to this puzzle that we’re not seeing.
“Is there ever a time when you do not think logically?” I ask, trying to crack that composed mask of his.
His jaw flexes at my insolence. “There are very few times when I do not think logically, Raelys, and every time you seem to be involved.” Wrath closes the ancient text, sliding it over and replacing it with my mother's journal.
My brows raise in surprise. Perhaps I get under his skin more than I think I do, as Wrath certainly gets under mine. We clash like hammer and steel, the two of us constantly trying to outmaneuver each other.
