Asher snarled, but it was swallowed by a note of triumph. The priestesses voices rose in pitch, until their song grew sonorous and escalated beyond any reasonable hope that it might continue to go ignored.
The Lieutenant General stuttered to a halt, and in his silence, the priestesses sang. A quiet, breathtaking refusal to see their beloved Sasha buried…
…when she was meant to burn.
When the eyes of the Caledonians turned at last to their slaves in horrified awe, my eyes fluttered closed. Blind to the display of shimmering magics they couldn’t see, my head fell back as a breath filled my chest and stretched my ribs.
I didn’t need to break Asher’s wall to touch the core of his power—the berserker was already loose. Already inside me. All I had to do was lose the war being fought behind my ribs and let him have exactly what he wanted.
The empath.
All of it.
Too much.
Too fast.
I groaned when the tide flipped, and all that tantalizing priestess magic surged into him. When he was made to choke down every last drop, until his unshakeable control began to splinter. Growing frayed at the edges. Stuffed full, his seams bulging under the strain.
Another wave pulsed through me. Power Asher couldn’t swallow fast enough to stop what was coming.
Because I handed over the empath, just as I’d promised.
But for one, glorious moment, the berserker wasmine.
As if thrown, a spear of pure energy launched through me—too fast for any to see—and found its mark.
Face ashen with impotent fury, as if he knew what might happen, the Lieutenant General stepped back, away from the podium. Back from the heat building beneath swathes of Caledonian blacks, he took his undead priestess by her nape and hauled her tight to his side.
And not a moment too soon.
Another surge of power rippled through the air, and the priestess’ dirge hit a climax that echoed through my marrow, before it fell silent with an almost deafening boom. And with it, every last drop of priestess magic fell upon the casket. Seeping through the cracks. Coating the flag and the flowers in a fine, glimmering dust.
A dust that began to smoke.
At first, a few wisps of curling white that might’ve been incense—until the flowers began to crisp.
Entranced, I watched. Witness and stranger, both, held in silent thrall for the space of three breaths that seemed to drag on for decades.
And then, with a crack that blew my hair back, blistering heat erupted through the wood.
The same shade of the Sasha’s eyes.
Icy, crackling blue flames.
A Tritan burial fit for a Head Priestess.
Fire so hot, it consumed the casket in a mater of seconds and sent the first three rows of the audience staggering back with cries of pain and confusion. Leaving nothing but row upon row of silver-blonde heads bowed in loving respect as they endured the head and bid her farewell.
But I was robbed of my moment to grieve with them.
My gaze torn from the quiet beauty of her inferno. My senses were totally ensnared by what I had unleashed.
Head turning in slow, halting ticks, jaw hanging slack, I blinked and looked directly into a blazing sun.
My enemy.
20
