Her head snapped toward him. “What?”
“To Valisea. You don’t have to go.”
She frowned, but couldn’t open her mouth to let out the words that hung on her tongue. It had never occurred to her that she wouldn’t follow her friend, even if that meant going to shadow hell itself. But to face those horrors when she couldn’t even stand to listen to them… and to leave Brela to face that herself…
Elias loosed a breath. “I would stay with you, you know. Brela wouldn’t fault you or me if we didn’t go. In fact, she might be relieved.”
Now she finally understood why Brela had given the map to her, not Elias. Because he would always follow Farrah—or Brela would make him, on the off chance he hesitated—even if it killed him to send Brela alone to Valisea with her not-quite enemies. Farrah was given the map to give to the prince—the final choice of trust to the Severinian prince and fire wielder, but also the choice to stay or go. Not just for her, but for Elias, too.
Once again, Farrah had no idea how Brela could see those things before anyone else. If Elias had been the one with the map, Farrah would have been tempted to walk away before Brela’s truth about Calcheth had even begun.
Actually, she wouldn’t have shown up to breakfast.
Farrah set her hands in her lap, squeezing to keep them from shaking as she finally whispered, “You told me that you thought letting her go to Calcheth with Ovir was the biggest mistake of your life.” He nodded. That was one thing she cherished the most about their friendship and love. They never lied, even if it hurt. “You know it was also one of mine.”
“Farr—“
“Together,” she said, allowing her hand to reach across the bench to take his. As his fingers wrapped through hers, Farrah squeezed. “We’ve faced so many horrors on our own. This time, we do it together.”
Elias smiled softly and squeezed back. “For family.”
28
Shadow Speaker
Two hundred eighty-seven.
Seventy-four.
Numbers so large, but Cason could only make it to twenty as he counted. Counted it over and over and over again. In the grains of wood on the table. In the seconds that passed since he’d spoken. In the breaths from Serill and Farrah and Elias and… Brela.
He’d known General Ourri. The man had been to his home when he was younger. Cason had been at the celebratory dinner when Ourri had been promoted through the ranks by his father. The General had attended Cason’s graduation from the sun and moon temples, begging him to return to Ciethy and join his legion—leadhis legion at seventeen—rather than serve in Severina’s Guard.
Cason had sent his condolences to his father when he’d heard about the slaughter at Calcheth and the death of the General. It was the first message he’d sent to his father in years.
He regretted every word in that letter now—every curse he’d shouted at his roaring fire that the rebels in Valisea were vile, wicked cultists for what they had done. Cason wished he could take it back and burn that scrap of paper before the pen had ever touched the surface.
That behavior—the complete obliteration of Valisea, including women and children—was the reason he left Anfroy and never looked back. He thought it would be better to live in Severina where they didn’t care about his multiple gods-blessed magics or the raids. He thought that made him a better man than his father because he chose to avoid those riches, titles, and power.
His ignorance was just as horrible. Worse, even. He’d turned his back and pretended that Valisea deserved to suffer.
Where was that shred of honor in his chest? That little piece of him that he’d clung to his entire life, believing he was not to blame for what happened across the mountains?
All he felt was a shriveled, pathetic sliver of goodness, so consumed by the crushing weight of guilt that it might never surface again. There was no fire, no lightning, just remorse… and the terrifying, deadly calm voice of Brela echoing those numbers in his head. The same voice she’d taken in the wagon when she threatened to stake his body across five kingdoms for hurting her friends.
Brela shouldn’t trust them. Not because they would betray it, but because they didn’t deserve it. The prince could earn it back one day when he became King. He had the power to help her and what was left of her people. Serill had a good heart. He had been the one trying to preserve Valisea’s history.
Not Cason. All he did was burn everything to the ground. His relationship with his father. His connection to Anfroy. Era. All crumbled to ashes.
Even Brela.
How could she even look at him? How could she stomach the lightness in her eyes when she stood next to a fire breather? How did she have the strength to flirt and kiss and sleep naked and vulnerable next to a monster? How could she tell him she trusted him and didn’t want to be his enemy, and mean every word of it?
Her apology at breakfast had sucked the last breath out of his lungs. He should have said something, but no words formed. He didn’t know how to feel about the idea that Brela had walked through Calcheth, alone, and slaughtered seventy-four trained soldiers. It was impossible, but he knew—somehow, he knew—that Brela had snapped in that moment. That she could have taken on two hundred men and walked away.
She was the Night Terror. A fierce assassin and brutal creature.
And Cason didn’t blame her for what she’d become; what she’d been forced to do because no one else would or could.
