Thatwas what haunted his nightmares most days—the shell of a woman who wouldn’t respond to anything. Ovir, mercifully, guided her back to their cottage and told Elias and Farrah what had happened while Brela sat and stared at nothing, her deep amethyst eyes empty. She didn’t flinch when the cruel man had caressed her cheek before leaving. Didn’t register the food in front of her nor the warm bath Elias and Farrah had set her in to clean and heal the skin that had been shredded along her hip, arms, and ribs.
It took two weeks for Elias to pull her out of the oblivion, and another week before Farrah got her to make a noise that wasn’t screaming or whimpering while she slept. Four days later, Brela whispered her own name and nothing more. A week and a half after that, she was speaking in complete sentences again, but there was a hollowness to her voice.
It was a miracle the Night Terror hadn’t been released at Gerrart’s home after finding the Veil Scholar’s dagger. It was a miracle only a sliver of that shadow wolf had been unleashed against the Wraturo. It was a miracle Brela could still take a breath at this table and face the prince with some shred of control, even if it made her tremble in her seat.
“Your father was smart to use the city against me, but Calcheth is a wasteland now. Even the Veil Worshippers believe the city is cursed, so we’ll be able to pass through without fear of being seen,” Brela whispered.
Serill’s voice trembled slightly. “Three years ago… You were with the rebels that killed the seventy-four soldiers stationed there.”
Farrah tensed, a move that did not go unnoticed by Cason. Nor did the angry flare of Brela’s nostrils and twitch of her left shoulder get past his sun-blessed senses. Elias wondered how much of the chill in the room came from Farrah and how much came from that shard in Brela’s collarbone.
Brela’s jaw worked itself a few times before she finally spoke. “Just like everyone, I thought Calcheth had already been abandoned, but when I arrived, I learned something far worse. The population of Calcheth before those soldiers took over was two hundred eighty-seven.”
Elias watched Cason freeze, almost as if he’d stopped breathing. Those details had been carefully excluded in the reports across kingdoms, but it seemed that the King of Severina knew far more than he let on.
“Do you know what Calcheth was known for producing?” Brela asked. Serill shook his head and her nostrils flared again. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. There was no strength in crops, no trade of materials, not even a worthy collection of Veil shards. They just… lived.”
It took her another moment before she could speak. “My target was General Ourri from Anfroy. No other details, no explanation, but I was given free rein to kill him how I wanted. Ovir learned the General had just raided Calcheth with help from Rooke, which put me a week and a half behind.”
Brela slowly set the blade on the table and pushed it away from her hand, Farrah gently nudging it further out of arms reach. Ice trailed Farrah’s fingers, coating the wood, and with a quick hand signal from Brela, Farrah pushed her seat back and stood. Elias was surprised she had stayed so long, and he desperately wanted to follow her, but she shook her head and walked out the door.
The four of them watched silently as Farrah’s icy footsteps melted away.
Elias saw the single tear slip down Brela’s cheek—for their friend and for what she was about to say as she looked back toward the prince. “Do you not see what your version of that story fails to mention?” Serill, thank the gods, paled and looked utterly ashamed. “You mourn the seventy-four dead soldiers who invaded my home. I mourn the two hundred sixty-seven innocents who were painfully massacred before I arrived.”
Cason’s shoulders had sunk so deep, he had almost shrunk below the back of his chair. The man who counted to keep his power in control noticed the numbers didn’t add up.
Brela trembled in her seat, her voice a rasp. “I mourn the twenty women and young girls who were on the brink of death, chained in the middle of the square, naked, while those men raped and brutalized them before slitting their throats one by one.”
Serill’s face turned ashen as he held a fist over his mouth. Cason swallowed, and judging by the greenish tint to his skin, Elias would bet that the fire wielder was also about to be sick.
That cold, calculated calm washed over Brela’s features as she tensed. Her pale eyes were devoid of all emotion as she stared at the prince. “There were no rebels, Serill. There were no slips in patrol. I walked directly through the front gates and killed all of those soldiers myself.”
* * *
No one flinchedwhen Farrah stood and left the room. Brela understood. She had felt her friend’s ice growing colder by the minute as she tried to stay to support Brela. If she hadn’t given the signal and forced her to leave, would Farrah have sat through those last, gut-wrenching moments?
Brela had always given Farrah permission to excuse herself whenever she needed; had never made her listen to those stories after knowing what the woman had suffered. Farrah always tried, though, but those last moments of Calcheth were always too much, and she’d never let her friend hear those words ever again.
She regretted not forcing Farrah to leave the minute she handed over that map, but Brela needed to give her friend a chance to understand why she had given it to her and not Elias. At least he had gone after her once Brela had finished speaking, thankfully taking the knife with him as well. Sharp objects within reach were not a good idea.
In most cases, it would have been Brela to chase after Farrah—to hold and soothe her and build that strength back—but this time it needed to be Elias to talk with her. And Brela needed to deal with the two men still struggling to keep from emptying the contents of their stomachs.
Cason looked like his eyes might burn a hole through the table in front of him. A mixture of horror and anger flickered through his features, and she knew he was counting something, but it wasn’t to tame the fire. No, that heat had been doused the minute she had mentioned that Calcheth hadn’t been abandoned before those soldiers had arrived. It wasn’t a loss of control—it was as if all of his power had been sucked out of his chest and replaced by the cold Farrah was releasing.
Serill had gone so still, Brela was sure that his view of the world had just been wrecked.
The ignorance of Severina always disgusted Brela, but she needed the prince and Cason to understand what was at stake. If Serill wanted to be part of a better world, if he wanted to be a better king, he needed to know those truths. Even if they were hard, even if they broke her and gutted him, she would do it for just the small chance he’d protect what was left of her home.
Brela sighed into the silence and gestured to the map she had drawn. “Prince, consider all of this my reciprocal trust. For the books, for my freedom, and for your kindness. And if you still want to stand up for my people, I offer you anything you want to know about my time in Valisea.”
She glanced to the captain who was still staring numbly at the table.
His horror could have been at the brutal truth of the raids that so many ignored. Calcheth wasn’t the only Valisea city to suffer in that manner, but those details were never made public.
His horror could have been directed toward Brela—for what she’d done to those seventy-four soldiers. Maybe he was questioning how she had done it and survived. The gods knew Brela asked that question every time she was reminded of the city. One minute she was singing as the Night Terror in Calcheth, the next she was staring at Elias and Farrah in their home a month later.
More likely, his horror was at the realization of who he had been flirting with over the last week. At the realization of who he had slept with last night. At the cold, calculated assassin that had broken some of the walls he’d built around himself. That façade she’d seen from him at the inn in Averlyn.
