The dip in his voice eased colder. “The Seraph found out, and when the queen finally died, he blamed the boy, claimed his prayers brought ruin. That he had betrayed their blood.” A slow exhale. “The Aureveil darkened from above that same night. Then—" Obrann’s hands flared wide, the gesture a parody of wonder. “Gods descended, not to heal, but to punish. They tore the angelic city from its roots, split it in two. The realm fell, and with it, every name the Angels had ever sworn by. Including the Seraph himself, his House name of Elaherion dying with him.
“That boy’s betrayal doomed them all. The Seraph had trusted his defiance, believed loyalty would hold, and that was his final mistake.” His eyes slid to Callum as he said, “To save one, is sometimes dooming thousands. And to imagine you know better than a king is treason, commander. Had the boy let his mother die in silence, the Angels would still exist.”
The Angels, ethereal and wreathed in wings of unyielding white. Their greatest weapon was not their brutes like Luamis or their flames like the dragons, but their minds. They could peel back thought, unravel memory as though tugging a single thread.
With a glance, they could press an idea into your skull so deeply you’d swear it had been your own.It wasn’t just reading thoughts, it was rearranging them. Sculpting will until it became unrecognizable, until you couldn’t tell what was yours and what had been planted.
It was an unmatched, untouchable gift. And extinct.
Callum’s chin rose, his voice colder than I’d ever heard it. “That is the story the world remembers, but it is far from the truth.”
Obrann’s expression turned to granite, unreadable save for the tremor in his jaw. His glare slid over him, then moved to Gemma, sweeping like a blade across a line of prisoners.
“I will not make the same mistakes as that forgotten ruler,” he said. “I do not give second chances.”
My eyes caught on Elva as I shifted. Another man stood at her side now, beside Fritz, armor strapped with chains crossing like an X over his chest and abdomen, hands folded with soldier’s precision. A sentinel.
Another cage dressed as a guard.
“You will each find a goblet before you.” Obrann raised his own and drank deep, crimson staining his lips. Reclining against the throne, he added, “One is poisoned.”
Of course it was.
“Here is how this will go. You drink from them and one, or perhaps all, of you die. Or,” he chucked, “name my son’s killer, and two of you will be spared.”
No one moved. Not because the chains made the task impossible, but because we were bound to each other. We would not betray. Not even here. Not even now.
But betrayal is not what I had ever planned. Neither were dying for my corruption. I forced a swallow, bracing to rise—
“Before you confess your mother’s sins,” Obrann huffed, “shall I ask you or her to explain the stolen scripts I found in her cottage?”
My blood chilled.
Callum didn’t skip a beat as he said, “You don’t need to ask either of them when it was one ofyourguards who placed them.”
Technically, not a lie.
The room shifted, the stillness tense as Obrann inclined closer. “You’re accusing me of framing you, is that what I’m hearing?”
Another lure. He wanted Callum to say yes, to hand him the justification to end this.
“No, Your Majesty.” Callum pushed to his feet, chains groaning as they dragged against stone. “I’m saying you believe only what keeps your crown steady. Even if it means choking down every lie.”
Obrann raised a brow.
“You see,” Callum went on, “it wasn’t the son who betrayed the Angels. What song, whatlesson, never taught is that the Seraph had already sealed their fate. He forged an alliance with the witch queen, conspiring to topple the Gods. But they quarreled, so the witch queen cursed his wife with a death no healer could undo. And when that wasn’t enough, she damned him outright whispering to the Gods of his treachery, trading his secret for favor. Erasing the threat before it could rise. When they came to burn his empire, it was not for the son’s betrayal, but his own pride.”
The man beside Elva shifted, just barely, veins standing out like dark cords against olive skin.
Obrann sneered. “Stories,” he said, composure beginning to fissure, “have a way of twisting into little truth and tall tales.”
“And history,” Callum returned, “isn’t always written to remember the truth. Sometimes it’s written to protect it.” His voice didn’t stammer, but the anger simmered on the edge. “Don’t you wonder why the witches lost their magic?” His glare dropped to Obrann’s knuckles where rings gleamed as he asked, “Are you going to let them win again?”
Obrann didn’t flinch, but his fingers stilled against the throne, refusing to drum. “You think I consort with the witch queen?” A low laugh. “I am no such fool.”
Callum bowed low at the waist. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I only suggest we should not always trust the stories we’re told.”
Obrann’s smile widened. “Then please share where you think the Angels disappeared to.” Callum said nothing. “Precisely.” Obrann leaned back. “Perhaps one or two Angels were spared,” he murmured, savoring the thought. “But what does that make them, survivors or traitors?”
