Ronin laughed, a throaty bark. “Relax, Your Highness.”
“Stop calling me that,” Tristan snapped, his hackles raising. Barely anyone had referred to him that way in centuries. And it was happening far too frequently lately. If his brother heard anyone calling him that…
“The Emperor wants me to expose the group,” Tristan said. “Has insisted I provide him the name of a rebel before his speech this weekend.”
“Odd that he’d ask you to do that,” Ronin said. “I would’ve thought he’d want you to stay as far away from us as possible.”
Tristan cocked an eyebrow. “Why?”
“You are at the core of our most sacred prophecy.”
Ronin closed his eye, his pale eyelid fluttering. When he finally opened his mouth, the words pouring out chilled Tristan to the core.
“Two futures sown, one future known. Born from phantom wings and mortal bones, a new Delphine will rise to…”Ronin trailed off.
“Will rise to what?” Tristan asked.
“That part of the prophecy remains a mystery. The lines are buried within the only remaining copy of the Fallen Goddess’s Compendium.”
Tristan tucked his chin. “The one at the palace in Delos?”
Ronin nodded. “The Teles Chrysos are desperate to retrieve it. Yet another reason they want you to join us.”
“I haven’t been back there in centuries. Nor do I expect they’d welcome me back willingly.”
“Perhaps they could be persuaded if you had an army of elemental-magic-possessing rebels at your back?” Ronin smirked.
Tristan snorted, then uncrossed and recrossed his legs, shifting uncomfortably at the conversation’s unexpected turn. “Why do they believe the prophecy refers to me?Phantom wingscould easily refer to one of my siblings.”
“The Teles Chrysos leadership claim the prophecy has already been fulfilled.”
“I’ve been saddled with an infertility spell since I was exiled,” Tristan mumbled. “Pretty sure I don’t have any children knocking around Ethyrios.”
“Not for a lack of trying, I’ve heard.” Ronin pushed up off the settee, crossing back to the credenza to grab another bottle of Delirium. “Anyway, the original prophecy was written in an obsolete dialect. There are multiple ways to translate the word born. Bred. Created.Turned.” Ronin gazed at him sidelong over a muscled shoulder. “What doyouwant, Tristan?”
“Peace,” he answered without a moment’s hesitation. “And opportunity. Foreveryonein this world.”
Ronin stirred his drink before returning to the settee. “The Teles Chrysos want nothing more than that.”
“More than what? For me to become the leader of a rebellion against my family?”
“Why not?” Ronin asked, his lips curling into a sneer. “Your family exiled you. Left you to rot in the colonies for centuries while they clung to a power they reserve solely for themselves and their lackies. Nothing will ever change as long as your brother rules Ethyrios. You know this. You’veknownthis. Who better than you to do something about it?”
“He will not go down easily,” Tristan replied. “And certainly not without a fight. Many lives could be lost along the way. Innocent lives.”
“True change is always painful,” Ronin uttered, his eye glazed with long-buried pain. “And rarely bloodless. Are you willing to make the sacrifice?”
“Are you?”
“I wouldn’t have approached you otherwise.”
Tristan twirled his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl and coat the sides. “If I don’t provide my brother with a name by tomorrow, he’s threatened harm against…someone I care for very deeply. He’s convinced that there are other members of your organization within the colonies’ councilors.”
“There very well could be.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t have any contacts in the colonies. And most of the membership on the continent keep themselves hidden, including the leadership. We’ve been communicating through coded messages. It’s possible that there are other Fae working for them here, but you’ll have to smoke them out yourself.”
