But Priam had always been a bit of a useless prick. Zadione would never understand what Qhohena saw in him or why theCrieréhad drawn them together.
Then again, she understood little of theCrieré’sdecisions. And she knew casting blame on Priam did little to excuse her own failure. Her own weakness. Her own role in the destruction playing out below.
Priam, of course, was not on the battlefield. He preferred to watch from afar, to ‘strategize’ rather than get his hands dirty.
Qhohena was there, though.
Not fighting; that was not her way. But there she still stood, a fourth proud golden dragon guarding the rear of the lines. She would not attack, but she would defend if she needed to.
Behind her were the healers, doing all they could to staunch the losses. Qhohena was always near the infirmary tents to hold those she could to life, to use her power to keep those who still wanted to fighthere.
Weaving amongst the healers and the injured was another young woman, her black hair braided down her back, silver eyes hard and unyielding.
Zadione knew that woman. Her immortal heart pinched in her chest.
Marielyn Ginnelevé. Xara’s closest friend, head army healer, and the only human to bear a gift of magic from Zadione herself. With all the death she’d brought to the world, Zadione had wanted to ensure her gift of healing existed somewhere with humanity.
Marielyn’s olive skin was streaked with blood and ichor as she ran from body to body. Her hands flared with silver light again and again, sweat dampening her brow.
Her magic, unlike Zadione’s, was not infinite. It was powerful but had its limits, and it looked like she was nearing them now.
The battle on the plains was slowing, Xara’s forces faltering under heavy losses. A glance between the young commander and Rulene led to a sound for retreat, to pull back into the woods where they’d made their camp.
To Zadione’s surprise, Kol did not give chase. The great black and gold dragon landed on the blood-stained field, maw dripping with victory, but he let them escape.
Zadione knew it wasn’t mercy glinting in his red-gold eyes.
He swung his gaze skyward to where she stood upon the mountaintop, and a surge of heavy, soul-shattering resolve washed through her.
She could stop this war. She’d known how for a while but hadn’t found the strength to do it. But after watching that battle, seeing all that mawkish, sickening death…
She would do it. Even if it cleaved her in two.
Kol slept soundly beside her,bare chest bathed in moonlight. Zadione wrapped her arms around her legs, watching him.
It was an odd thing, to watch a god sleep. Their bodies were so different from those of mortals. Capable of more power, incapable of aging. Able to occupy and exist in multiple dimensions, to see more of what happens than what is visible to only their eyes.
Yet the gods’ greatest secret was that they were far from omniscient. They saw more than mortals saw and lived longer than mortals lived, but they were not invulnerable. A god must sleep, a god must eat, and a god can die.
They were just very hard to kill.
Zadione loosed a heavy exhale, her breath stirring the chiffon curtains around their bed. He’d been so eager for her that night,so filled with the lust of his victory. It had hardly taken more than a soft smile from her to lure him into bed.
He shifted, rolling slightly. His hand reached out, brushing her bare thigh as if seeking her skin. She wrapped it in her own before she could stop herself.
She struggled in moments like this. When she could see beneath the shadowed and hungry exterior, see the being he used to be. Long before ambition had crept into him, like some gangrenous root taking hold, he’d been good. Kind, warm, compassionate—a true embodiment of his sun. Someone who both challenged and worshiped her, a partner—an equal—in every way.
Zadione didn’t know why he’d changed or what had caused the shift. And she hated what he’d become, the way he kept her locked away.
But her heart would always love him. Would always remember him as he was, not who he was forcing himself to become.
She toyed with the ring on her finger. The band wrought of black and white gold, twined and twisted together like a perfect vine. The large sunburst-yellow diamond in the center, the silver crescent diamond beside it.
A gift from when his ambitions had started to grow but he’d still craved her affection. A half-hearted apology he hadn’t believed in after the birth of the first of his shadow-wielding bastards.
As if pretty stones could quash a broken heart.
Still, she’d worn it. Couldn’t bring herself to take it off.
