It could have been Zel.
Kerasea spoke to her servant when she was bringing her back to the tower. If Zel witnessed the murder, Kerasea would believe her, but a servant child would not be viewed as credible by the Senate. By saying that she saw the murder herself, Kerasea would not only get justice for her priestess, but she could protect the girl, and I’ve seen how far she is willing to go to do that.
“Sleep on it, please,” Kerasea says. “At dawn, tell me your response. I’ll understand either way.”
I glance at the night clock. That’s around six hours from now.
She gives me a lingering look and then turns to leave.
“Kerasea,” I say, standing. She pauses and meets my eye.
There are so many secrets, so many lies, so many things unsaid between us. I want her. I want her away from me. I want to protect her. I want to hurt her.
“I swear on the gods, if I find you out of your chambers again tonight, I will kill you myself,” I murmur.
It wasn’t what I was going to say.
She shrugs. “I accept your terms, Praetorian.”
I walk her out, and we silently pad to her room. She unlocks the door and swings it open, then lights the nearest lamp. When I look inside, no one is in there. She is safe.
I move to close her door, and she glances at me again over her shoulder. For just a second, there is an expression of vulnerability, of a need for help, and then it vanishes and she starts to move her bureau.
At least she is finally following directions.
I return to my room, sit on my bed, and run a hand down my face. What do I do now?
My armor shines in the corner as if it is winking at me. And perhaps itismocking me. I became Praetorian half to avenge my family, to clear my name. And the other half was to have the power to administer justice, the way Hadrian did to that sentry. I never anticipated these types of moral dilemmas, and that was incredibly naive, as my position is rife with them. Instead of the black and white I expected, veritas is all shades of gray.
I know what my father would have done. He was a firmly moral man—his honor is ultimately what got him killed. He would have refused false testimony. He would have stuck to the truth even if it meant that Medea walked free.
But I am very much not my father.
I believe in the republic, in the rule of law, and in protecting the Senate—I am just more flexible in my means. But what is Kerasea actually asking me to do? Nothing. She wants me to say nothing. Is staying silent in the face of a lie wrong if it aids me in my goals? If it catches someone so powerful that they are above the law?
Is there even such a concept as the “right thing to do” in Pryor?
No matter how I debate this in my mind, in my heart, I already have an answer.
I snuff my candle and lie back on the bed. Sometimes I wonder if my father would be proud or ashamed of who I’ve become, but that’s a hypothetical. He’s dead—a victim of the corrupt Verity Guild, all of whom met their untimely demise. And I cannot live for ghosts and memories. All I can do is be what I am.
A monster who got away with multiple murders.
So, I suppose the better question is, who do I want to be?
LIII.
Kerasea
As I peel back the covers on my bed, I doubt I’ll get a wink of sleep. So much happened today. I haven’t even begun to process Mirial’s loss, losing myself with Torren, or that someone planted evidence in Zel’s room and set fire to the woodshed. I don’t know if Medea was behind the other murders, too, or solely Mirial’s death, but the likelihood of having two separate murderers in one palace is slim.
For just a moment, I allow myself the white-hot rage that comes with acknowledging everything Medea has taken from me. I thought she was being kind to me, bringing another woman in power under her wing, when truly, that was never her intention.
But as I lie down, exhaustion overtakes the anger. It’s not drowsiness—not exactly. It feels like I’m being pulled from this realm.
I’m asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow.
When I open my eyes, I’m in the temple of truth. Familiarity washes over me, but as I look around, it’s not the temple as I know it. I’m not in the grand apartments but someone else’s chambers—yet it feels as if it’s my own. Somewhere in my mind, I know that a commotion just woke me. I rise from bed, but I am not me.
