Skyre searched the hall, but there was no evidence of Hirí. Still, her phantom words clung to his thoughts and his skin beaded with sweat.
He won’t forgive you.
“I’m fine,” Skyre muttered.
“Mm. You should rest.”
The king choked on a breath. “If only I could.”
Sleep wouldn’t come. His mind wouldn’t accept it. He felt wrong—like he’d been shoved into this body and his skin didn’t fit. He wanted to rip it off.
“The first rule in wieldingcárthunis that a man cannae fear his own fire,” Nacht said quietly.
“Of course I don’t. I am Vaich. I am Chosen of the Sun.”
“Aye. And it’s a great fury that lives within you. But a burning blade grows hotter when swung. Rely on ferocity, and you’ll die aside your foes.”
“What does any of that mean?” Skyre burst.
Nacht cocked his head, the black sclera of his marred eye glinting in the lanternlight. “You’re young and untamed. You might live forever, but you’ll be dead on the inside. Suppose you might think about that the next time you cling to those words.”
He wanted to hate him. He wanted to scream—to fight. And maybe he hoped, in the end, he’d lose.
“I don’t know what to do.”
Was he hoping Nacht would tell him? Teach him how to heal? He was burning alive while everyone watched him, perpetually stuck between cinder and kindling.
“I feel as if that beast in the dark. The doors are all closed to me. I cannae…” His fingers fisted his hair. “Am I a god or a villain? Or just a fucking liar?”
He wanted to laugh, but it hurt.
“Suppose I’ll go mad and tear it all apart. Is that who you bowed to?” Skyre looked up at him—this man he had forced to kneel and pledge blood. “Is that the laird you serve?”
“I am waiting to see what laird I serve. When you ken, come and tell me.”
It was as if the storm had pierced the thatch to strike him. The words were the cold chasing his flame.
The holler bowed and turned to leave.
“Wait,” Skyre called. Nacht’s massive form paused, hanging on his order. “Summon the council."
“The council, my liege? It is nearly three in the morn."
“Aye. It mustn’t wait.”
The holler lingered, but didn’t refuse. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. Just one thing.”
“What is it?”
“Your mantle, sire.” Nacht gestured towards his collar. “You shouldnae leave it loose.”
Skyre bristled, reaching for the clasps.
They were open.
“Right,” he whispered. “How foolish of me.”
The Speaker’s words buried deep in his mind, and Skyre was determined to dig them out.
