“How did you get this?” I asked, dragging my nail up his cheek and to the scar that bisected his brow. The raised bump was a reminder that he was capable of cruel, savage acts. That he’d fought more times than I knew.
That I’d slapped his sister. Hit him. Bitten him.
Perhaps, I was capable of violence too. I’d thought striking out, even in my own defense, would make me no better than those the Elessarum preached against.
Shame did not take root in my bones. Remorse haunted another soul.
Only a dark, stormy anger brewed inside me. The injusticeof it all made me want to crack the sky open and let the rage inside me reign.
And when Vaeron drank me in, I got the sense that he saw it. A flash in his eyes, a pulse down our bond, told me that herelishedit.
For a male so controlled, so emotionless much of the time, he certainly seemed to harbor a deep fury.
And mine was rising to match his own.
“Trying to defend my mother against the Demons who attacked our home,” he stated like he was repeating a fact. “I watched her die right in front of me, a sword through her middle. After that, I took Iaoth and ran. Because I failed then too.” An acute ache stabbed down our bond, long-suppressed grief surging to the surface. “That is when I also accidentally consumed Demon blood. My hair turned from the color of mist like Iaoth’s to the color of iron ore.”
Muscles in his jaw ticked, and he looked away.
“Did anything else happen?” I ventured, sensing he was holding information back.
“I don’t know what type of blood magic that Demon possessed," he started, each word dragged from his throat. “But my father was certain it would warp me into a monster regardless. That’s why he carved this reminder into my chest, so when I looked in the mirror, I’d never forget.”
Sympathy pricked my heart. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
His lips pressed to mine for the briefest moments. Like acceptance. Like an apology.
“We need to get going,” he murmured, pulling away.
Of course.
Because in a short while, I would say goodbye to Heraphia, for the last time.
Vaeron held me close while he pulled the plug for the tub.Continued to support me as my legs wobbled. Dressed me in a fine linen gown—a pure, divine white for mourning. For once, he donned the color too.
The rose garden brimmed with people I didn’t know—that Heraphia didn’t know—by the time we reached it. Rows of benches waited for Angels to sit. At the front, two thrones took a center view of the pyre.
When my focus landed on the sticks piled to create a platform, I froze.
No no no no no…
The days I’d lain in bed had been like hiding from the truth. And now that I stood out in the open, there was no running from reality.
A hundred gazes tracked my every movement. Weighed my vulnerability. Studied how Vaeron guided me along.
Because, of course, the two of us, with the upcoming trial by light, were the premier performers for the court.
They weren’t here to mourn my sister. They were here to measure the two of us.
A familiar figure crossed the garden, long, measured strides betraying no emotion. His regal posture, aristocratic nose, and long white hair were so similar to his nephew.
That Ithuriel was present at the funeral spoke volumes. Heraphia hadn’t mentioned running into him at all during her time here. And honestly, with everything going on in my world, I hadn’t even thought of the male whose house we’d broken into, seeking refuge.
“Has–has someone contacted Zuriel?” I asked, my voice no louder than a whisper. I wasn’t sure where he was in the Demon Realm, only that he was fighting on the front.
“I believe Herr Ilytharï sent a raven,” Vaeron murmured, a hand on my lower back encouraging me to continue down the aisle to the front.
There wouldn’t have been time for him to travel back, even if he had wanted to—or could have been released from duty for it.
