Sweeping into a deep bow, he took his leave. I sat, reeling in his words. Wondering what would happen next.
And whether there was resentment and rebellion creeping into the halls of Thalvireth, beyond my own inclinations.
Vaeron and Maelsar strolled to the bench, towering over me when they came to a stop.
“Do you need more time?” my mate asked me.
I glanced past them to the pyre, the flames so strong now that I could scarcely bear sitting so close. Reds and oranges engulfed Heraphia’s body, hiding her from view.
“No.” The word was hoarse and thick. On shaking legs, I rose. Vaeron lifted his arm, and I tucked myself beneath it, like it was the most natural thing in all the worlds.
Maelsar haunted our steps as we wound through the garden and back into the palace. The cool, metal vine covered walls provided a modicum of relief from the oppressive heat.
People strolled about like nothing had happened that day, going about their lives, their focus only on what was right in front of them.
The sight angered me far more than it should have.
But that was what grief did—it made one gnash their teeth at those who were not suffering. It slid insidious thoughts into the minds of the afflicted, coaxing them into dragging others down to its watery depths.
I was no stranger to it, not after losing my parents and countless friends over the years.
With Heraphia’s death, it was different.
This time, I’d enter the maw with my eyes wide open and no intent to return.
Survival was no longer my goal.
Only destruction.
If the Korona wanted my power, I would give it to her—but she would choke on it. I would wield my agony like strikes of lightning, charring everything in my path.
As I should have done long ago.
55
The beating on the door was a war drum counting down the seconds until the trial by light. One fucking day left, and of course, Iaoth wouldn’t let me sleep. I cursed, shooting out of bed and hurriedly throwing on clothes. With a groan, Sylaira grabbed a pillow and smothered herself with it.
Every morning since Heraphia’s death, my annoying sister had been at our door before we awoke, encouraging my mate to go to the Divine Atrium and wield her power.
“What?” My voice crackled through the otherwise still air as I yanked on the handle and revealed the Korona.
“How is Sylaira this morning?” my sister trilled with fake concern.
“Still fucking asleep,” I growled, lips curling back from my teeth like a predator guarding its kill.
Iaoth breezed in anyway, making me grateful I’d closed off the sleeping chamber to her entry. “It’s been four days.”
“So?” I asked, raising a brow.
She perched on the edge of a chair without a care for the fact I was half-dressed. At least my morning erection was gone. Nothing killed lust faster than the sight of my sister’s face.
The Korona’s lips pressed into a firm line, her assessing gaze sweeping over me and landing on the words our father had carved into my flesh. I resisted the urge to place my palm over the scar and hide it from her view.
“We received word last night that they’ve had to retreat. Again,” she hissed, no louder than a whisper. For that, at least, I was grateful. Sylaira still didn’t know the extent of what was happening with the war. Still didn’t know we were leaving to go to the front—not as freedom, but as punishment.
At least keeping the information from her had been easier with her buried in her grief. Though her pain was mine, and I wanted nothing more than to carry out my plans if it would only carve a smile on her face again.
I dragged a hand through my hair and blew out a breath. “What do you want me to do? I can’t force her.”
