"Godsdamn you," he whispers, lip trembling.
"It's the only way." I wipe tears from my cheeks. They keep falling.
He surges forward and wraps his arms around me. As if he can keep me safe inside them. As if holding tight enough will change what's coming. The sob in his chest loosens the one in mine. Soon we're both crying too hard to speak.
"I figured I should be the hero for once," I whisper against his shoulder.
He squeezes tighter. "You've always been the hero, Temp. I was just trying to be worthy of being your brother."
That makes me cry harder. All the time we wasted on petty arguments. All the time I spent pushing him away. For what? In the end, we were always going to end up here.
Prophecies are more legend than story. They may vary in the telling. But they don't change. And they can't be erased.
We cry for what feels like an eternity. When we finally pull apart, we're alone. Malachi and Draven have slipped out without a word.
Jordi wipes his face. "Now we know what warriors are truly scared of."
I choke out a laugh. "You know what else scares them? The way you smell right now. You need a bath and a meal before you go anywhere with Draven."
"That I won't argue with."
We go home. He bathes. Eats. Packs what little he'll need for the journey north. We only have a few hours. I make every moment count.
I look around my dining table and wish I could freeze this moment forever. Kage, telling some elaborate story with his hands. Jordi, hanging on every word. Naima, rolling her eyes but joining the antics anyway. Margot, smiling despite the sadness in her eyes. Draven, shaking his head and correcting Kage's exaggerations.
And Malachi.
The warrior I never asked to be bound to. The man who has somehow become part of me. He's quiet, as always, listening to Kage's story. But the moment my gaze finds him, his eyes lock onto mine.
I don't know if it's the bond or the Rook in him, but he always senses me. Knows where I am before I move. And despite his perpetual annoyance with everything, despite his ability to perpetually annoy me, I find that he's the best thing to come from all of this.
I can only hope he doesn't hate me when he learns who I am. And that when my memories are taken, the goddess lets me keep these faces. These people. What they mean to me.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
For the first time in three years, I don't go to the clinic. I go through the motions of dressing, then change into a shapeless tunic I normally sleep in. I sit at my desk. And I start writing.
Everything I've learned. From Lenora's journal. From Malachi. From Jordi. From the Sages. From the Flame. I write it all down because I'm certain of only two things now. The first is that at some point, I won't remember any of this.
As I write, I realize why I've always been at odds with the history books. The ancient texts. The carefully curated archives of Veritas. Writing is self-serving altruism disguised as art.
Worse, disguised as fact. We recount history as we perceive it and hope we're remembered for telling the truth. But there are so many sides to every story. So many ways to perceive a single event. In the end, every account is true. And every account is false.
This is why we keep making the same mistakes. Not because we fail to see the signs. We see them. We simply cling to what resonates with our own experiences. Choose what serves our purpose.
In Lunaris, what serves the Council serves the residents. In Veritas, what serves the Order serves us. We tell ourselves otherwise. But the pattern is the same.
We are used, therefore we use.
Maybe that's why every organization, every order, every guild relies so heavily on logic and fallacy. They know it's in our nature to tear each other apart. All they have to do is provide the push. The weapon. Then sit back and watch.
Which makes me wonder about the gods. They invented this hierarchy. They sit above it all. So why intervene now? Why work together, summon mortals, bargain with us? What are they afraid of? I don't know.
What I do know is this: in the end, nothing will matter.
Except, perhaps, everything.
I close the journal as the knock comes. I push away from my desk. Take a breath. Prepare myself for the conversation I've been dreading.
