“Zephyra, I fucking—Ihatedyou. I wanted to string you to a noose.” She doesn’t understand. The blood on my hands—I killed so many merrow. I killed so many for my kingdom. But it… it was all a lie. Everything I held dear, everything I thought was true about myself, it’s all a fuckinglie.
With a soft, sympathetic smile, she takes my hand, leading me away from the mural.
“We’ll tell them,” I growl. “The second we find the heart and get out of here, we’ll tell the whole world.”
Her smile falters at that. “I don’t want to incite a war, Arion. Even with the evidence—they won’t want to believe us. I just want to escape. I want to go somewhere quiet.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” I kiss her hand, ignoring the ash and death thick on my tongue. My pulse slows by the second. “As soon as we find the heart.”
She nods once, spinning on her heel to examine the large space. “In the mural, Vila and Mortem werehere”—she extends her arms wide—“which means his heart can’t be far.” Glancing back at me, she adds, “Check the floor. It looks like it disappeared down…somewhere.”
I crouch, my palms skimming over the cold marble, searching for any sort of fracture or seam or handle while Zephyra paces what remains of the mural, casting another glare at Amaya. “I can’t tell which way the room is oriented in this. Gavriall?” she asks. “A little help with directions?”
He appears as if she conjured him, using his fingers to measure the distance between various painted objects in the tile. “The issue isn’t the orientation,” he says. “It’s the scale of the artwork.” His brows pinch, and he begins murmuring to himself. “The wedding. The ring. The knife. The betrayal. The murder.” He shakes his head. “The mural shows the exact layout of the temple—tiles, altars, even smoldering incense—but… there aren’t any statues.” He blinks down at her. “Where are the statues?”
Zephyra whirls. Without warning, she throws herself at Mortem’s likeness as if trying to tackle him to the floor. Her arms strain with the effort, and she digs her heels into the floor for leverage. “Move… you… fucking…bastard!” Then her gaze snaps up. “Vesper.Help.”
“What are you…?” Gavriall starts, but his eyes fly wide as the siren joins Zephyra in attempting to push the stone.
“It’shere,” Zephyra manages through gritted teeth. “There aren’t statues in the mural—it’s the only difference, right? It must beunderhim.”
“There is no way on this earth you are moving that.” Amaya leans against the wall now, arching her brow with palpable skepticism and turning a tile in her hand. Her bag, filled to the brim, rests on the floor by her feet.
My own feet move of their own volition, and I join Zephyraand Vesper at the statue, throwing my shoulder into the stone. My breath wheezes. My body bows. It makes little difference. I am too weak, I amdying, and Mortem’s statue is too heavy. The little magic left to me ricochets through my veins, however, straining forward.Down.And I know Zephyra is right. I know the heart is here, just below our feet, and I know the only way to reach it is with magic.
I exhale a harsh breath. “Everyone, step back—”
“No,” Zephyra snaps, snatching my face. Her eyes blaze. “You’re not using your magic. Not a fucking chance.” Over her shoulder, she snarls, “Gavriall, Amaya, get your asses over here andhelp.”
Unable to help it, I eye Gavriall skeptically. “Him?”
Any hesitation in his expression vanishes. “Move over, Stone.” And he plants his hands beside Vesper’s. Though Amaya mutters something aboutgetting this over with, she too braces her shoulder against the left wing beside me.
“On three,” Vesper grunts.
“One,” Zephyra counts.
“Two,” Gavriall echoes.
“Three!”
We all throw our bodies against it, but it doesn’t budge. Humiliation sets in my chest.I am too weak. I am dying.Even Gavriall shakes his head, cheeks pink from exertion. “That was embarrassing,” he mutters. “Thank the gods no one else is here to see this.”
Grinding my teeth, I resist the urge to wrench his head from his shoulders, but my limbs tremble. Bile climbs up my throat.I’m not strong enough.I can practically feel the poison in my veins now, and I can’t hide the sweat on my brow when Zephyra glances at me, concerned.
“Now what?” Amaya demands, already pulling away.
Gavriall sneers at her. “Aren’t you a demigoddess? That was a rather poor showing from a daughter of Tempestas.”
Though thunder rumbles menacingly above us, Amaya places her hands back on the wing.
“Again,” Zephyra says, ignoring them. “Put your hands on the base this time.”
On her count, we all push again, and this time—miraculously—thestatue moves. Just an inch. Just enough for us to gain critical momentum. My muscles burn. My lungs burn. We can’t stop, however, and when we push again, a jagged, earsplitting sound shudders through the temple. Mortem’s likeness shifts another inch.
A breathless beat.
Then another push.
