But that didn’t bother her because she knew who she really was. She was the Night Terror who had faced a celvusa, walking through the lair of her enemies who had no idea what power she possessed. And one day she would paint these white walls red, bring this castle crumbling to the ground after Night Carver tore through their flesh.
She made her way to the alcove with Veil artifacts, giving anyone with Anfroy colors or sun-blessed tattoos a wide berth. If Cason—the living embodiment of flame—hadn’t picked up on her magic, she doubted any other sun-blessed would detect it, but she wasn’t going to play those odds. It wasn’t a difficult task, considering nearly everyone parted for her like they had done for the captain in the village and at the inn.
Brela forced her gaze toward the Veil artifacts rather than search for the fire breather’s blue eyes that she had felt on her since she had arrived. The shard in her chest had chilled almost before she had seen him leaned against that pillar across the ballroom, arms folded over a deep blue and silver tunic. Uptight once again. Protecting himself.
Gods, that midnight blue looked good on him, though. And his crossed arms only showed off those incredible muscles and sculpted chest.
At least letting her mind focus on him distracted her from Ovir’s touch—the touch she had desperately tried to get rid of in the inn with Cason. Part of her felt bad for using the captain that night, but the majority of her reminded her that he was the enemy. That he supported the butchering of her people and destruction of her home. That the prince he protected was one of the men who purchased stolen pieces of Valisea.
The alcove was neatly organized, with a few men and women lingering in the corners to have conversations away from the busy ballroom and banging drums and music. Some of them quietly snuck out when Brela entered while others not so quietly hissed under their breaths.
Whore. Disgustingly scarred. Worthless.
Brela ignored them. Easily. Because her attention was on the Veil artifacts spread across the tables or displayed on pedestals. Vases. Swords. Blown glass-like figurines made of the Veil wall. A flour container that was grossly overpriced and incorrectly listed as a godly shrine. All lined up from perceived worth.
Claws continued to tap along her fortress, desperate to find a way inside to unleash the Night Terror Brela had chained deep in her mind. She only reinforced the walls.
The soldiers guarding the artifacts watched her with condescension. Of course they would. She didn’t look the part of a wealthy collector. No, she was someone’s decoration, and that someone wasn’t with her which just made her a lustful whore who admired pretty things.
Still, Brela kept her shoulders back and worked her way down the table to the less desired artifacts. Sands and water from Calesevain Lake. Small carvings and tapestries. Silks and strips of fabric.
Then her eyes fixed on the last object in the room. The book wasn’t old, but it had seen better days—the leather cover burned with ash-stained and ripped papers jutting from the top and side. Swirls of deep purple threads were sewn into the cover, patterned after the tattoos that once would have adorned the arms, backs, and chests of shadow-blessed magic wielders. Tendrils of jagged and spiked smoke, liquid and fire and vapor at the same time. Just like the celvusa’s constantly swirling body, made even more life-like by the frayed purple threads that quivered with the breeze from the window.
Brela had seen books like this before. Buried under rubble and barely preserved after the shadow temple had been ransacked and partially collapsed. Their traveling library got smaller and smaller the more they were forced to move—thefasterthey were forced to abandon their temporary homes and escape the bloody raids. After the last of the shadow-blessed were believed to be dead, books like these were the ones that got left behind.
Because no one had use for shadow magic anymore, let alone the books that taught those skills.
And now Brela stood in front of the one book that could not only help her protect the Veil Scholar’s dagger, but teach her how to control the chill of power that coursed through her.
For a small breath, she imagined what it would feel like to unleash shadow hell on the people inside this castle. Get revenge on the men who slaughtered her family. Her own strength. Her own power. Destroy them with the magic they thought had gone extinct.
And perhaps she would figure out how to summon that celvusa. She didn’t even care about commanding it. She’d summon it and let the creature tear her to ribbons so long as she clung to life long enough to watch it destroy the riches that were won through the death of her people.
14
Chains
Serill nodded to Enjorren as the Rooke prince was pulled into a different conversation, thankful for the chance to catch his breath. There was a reason he preferred the company of Cason. It’s not that he liked to hear himself talk, but it was the depth of conversation he could have with his fiery friend. With the Rooke princes, it was all about strength and raids and disgust for the Veil Worshippers who clung to life in Valisea.
Serill knew that wars were required, that fighting was inevitable and kingdoms would rise and fall, but he always hoped Severina would make a difference that wasn’t made in bloodshed. He hoped thathecould make a difference; be a better leader some day.
That’s how he knew Cason’s friendship was genuine. The man had left Anfroy in search of something better. No magic frightened Serill, and definitely not the fire wielder who had howled with laughter as the prince flinched while the healing symbols were tattooed onto his shoulder. Even if Cason had his hesitations about Valisea and the shadow-kind after what had happened to his mother, Serill knew he had a good heart. Maybe one day they could create a kingdom where everyone was accepted.
Too bad the shadow-kind would never be part of that world. If only he had been born a hundred years ago.
At least he could preserve some of Valisea’s knowledge now. That’s the real reason he supported these events. He didn’t care for the weapons or the bloodshed, but he could try to protect the history of the kingdom. The remnants of the shadow-kind preserved with kindness, even if they really had been the cruel tricksters everyone claimed they were. The Veil Worshippers were still people. It wasn’t their fault that they were born on the wrong side of the mountains. It wasn’t their fault that their god abandoned them and left them to die at the hands of this brutality.
He scanned the crowd, this time not looking for a scantily clad woman but for his friends. Boelyn was easy to find, deep in conversation with some of the Rooke royals. Finding Cason wasn’t a challenge either—he just looked for the empty space where people avoided the fire wielder. His eyes finally landed on Cason who had moved to his fourth pillar of the night. At this rate, he’d lean on all thirty pillars to glare at the ballroom before the good wine was even distributed.
The prince knew that even though the captain didn’t see him, he knew exactly where Serill was at all times. And he knew Serill was following him at a distance, even if he barely acknowledged it. To Serill’s excitement, Cason unfolded his arms and pushed off the pillar, his gaze trained deep beyond the dancing.
In a surprising move, Cason snagged a glass of wine from a servant who was desperately trying to scramble out of the fire wielder’s way. Though his eyes were focused to the right, the captain continued walking toward the large window overlooking the garden. No one dared stand in his way, as if he was burning his path out of the crowd.
Serill reached the walkway, finally daring to see where his friend was looking.
A smile crept over his face as he spotted the blonde woman in the alcove with the Veil artifacts. He looked back to Cason, a wicked grin on his face.
The captain paled, flashed his eyes to Serill as if to saydon’t you dare think about it.
