“They could already be marching now,” Kael snapped.
The room erupted.
Nobles rose to their feet. Accusations flew. Old wounds reopened. Names were shouted, fingers pointed. Calanthe accused of hiding secrets. Nythra accused of hiding Maris away. Virellia pressed for immediate action. Someone demanded Maris explain what had really happened when she’d awakened the sigil.
Her name rang out like a challenge.
And she rose, chair flying backward.
“Enough.” She commanded.
The word was not loud. It didn’t need to be.
It carried.
The chamber fell into stunned silence.
She walked to the edge of the map, her fingertips brushing over the inky outlines of their kingdoms, their coastlines, the slowly bleeding edge of the Veil. Her voice was even, clear, a thunderclap in calm.
“You will regain control, or be stripped of voice.”
She looked up, eyes glowing silver, meeting the glare of each noble, one by one. Her sigil glowing.
“I am the Veil Breaker. I don’t care who your ancestors were, or what lines your blood claims. You answer to me. The only line that matters now . . . is the one we draw between this world and Eiren.”
Murmurs rippled.
But no one interrupted.
“We don’t have time for mistrust. For fractures. You want to survive? Then fall in line. I will not let her tear this world apart while we bicker in a tower of stone.”
She stepped back.
No crown on her head.
No blade in her hand.
And yet . . . not a single soul in the room dared to challenge her.
Not Kael.
Not Alarik.
And all she could think, as she felt the fire build in her soul was:
Let the bitch come.
Chapter sixty-four
One Chance
-Maris-
She dreamed, but not as herself.
She floated, suspended in a sky with no stars, no ground, only the endless shimmer of white light, burning like memory, like creation itself.
Four voices sounded.
