When I sight Lumendei on the horizon, it’s still a ruin clinging to a crescent-shaped slope on the edge of the sea. Seeing it—all of it—from this angle is like a knife in my chest, an undeniable confirmation of the lies I spent my life swallowing.
We land, Nyatrix guiding me, in the rotten swell of earth that was once my beloved gardens. At least in the sweep of night, withonly the moonlight by which to see, I’m not forced to consume every detail, to catalog every dead thing where I thought life bloomed.
Anger courses through me, and I curl my hand into a fist, biting down on my tongue to keep from screaming.
Nyatrix brushes my shoulder with her hand, turning to face me. She takes my face between her palms, impossibly tender. “Are you sure?” she asks me.
Just three words. She doesn’t need more. I know exactly what she means. I squeeze my eyes shut, expecting the telltale prick of tears fighting to be shed. But there is nothing. My tears have run dry. My sadness, it seems, has also transmuted into something else. Or perhaps, like me, it has been something else all along.
“Yes,” I say between gritted teeth, opening my eyes to stare into hers. “I’m sure.”
The Lupa Nox, the Avatar of Death, looks at me a moment longer, my face still between her large hands. Then she nods, and when she stalks forward toward the Spine, I follow her. I remember walking this path, praying to every Saint who might answer that I wouldn’t find a High Ecclesian lurking in the dark of the arch, chainmail glinting in the gloom. Now I pray that I will.
I would like to show Them how sharp my teeth have grown.
“My dearest Ophelia,” comes a voice that sends an ice-cold chill racing down my spine.
I draw in a sharp gasp of air and turn, peering into the gloom of the ruined gardens.
And there stands Renault Amadeus. Unblemished, unharmed, not torn into tatters by the gaping maw of that reptilian Hexen. My mind swims as Nyatrix’s gloved hand lands on my shoulder.
“You,” I choke out. “How?”
My question is more or less answered as the very same Hexen that snatched Renault from Nyatrix’s grasp comes slinking out of the shadows. Its forked tongue darts into the air, dark, beady eyes trained on us. Renault stretches out a hand and pats the Hexen’s shoulder as if it’s an old friend.
The cries of those beasts—how many times did I think it sounded like the High Ecclesia? I grit my jaw, swallowing hard. If only I had not been trained to doubt myself so thoroughly.
“What glorious things you two have become,” Renault says approvingly, striding forward. He’s dressed in full Host Knight regalia, the pale moonlight making his bronze armor glimmer like a jewel.
Beside me, Nyatrix holds her ground—utterly still, a predator sighting its prey. “Ophelia was always glorious,” she purrs. “You were simply too foolish to see it.”
Renault draws still closer to us, delicately stepping over a gnarled stump. The enormous Hexen shadows its master. “Perhaps,” he muses, coming to a stop, “you are correct.”
My heart beats wildly as I watch him as closely as I always have, analyzing every small movement of his face, his body, his eyes, desperately trying to figure out what he wants. Not too long ago, it was so I could give it to him, whatever it was.
Now I watch for an entirely different reason.
“He’s waiting for you,” Renault says with a sweep of his arm, gesturing toward the Spine. “Sempiternus. The First Son. Our Great and Glorious God. He’ll make a meal of you, grind up your bones and drink your blood.”
In my peripheral vision, I see Nyatrix bare her teeth. “He is most welcome to try,” she snarls.
Renault tilts his head up, like he’s stargazing. The Hexen beside him continues to hold still, the moonlight dappling its leathery hide. I try to determine the greater risk: the beast or my betrothed. I do not arrive at an answer before he speaks again.
“There is, of course, another option,” Renault says, leaning against a Saint’s crumbling pillar. “We could be a most Holy Trinity, could we not? The three of us need not bow to His desires any longer. Think about it—the wealth and influence of the House Amadeus, the military might of the Lupa Nox, the medicinal skill and academic knowledge of Ophelia Foundling.”
The clouds unstitch themselves from the black velvet of the night, pouring weak moonlight onto the gardens like liquid silver. Renault’s face is bright, brimming with pure belief. “We would have no need for gods,” he says. “We could create Sylva’s future together.”
I turn toward Nyatrix just as her thunderstorm gaze meets mine. It’s strange—all my life struggling to understand people’s intentions, the words behind the words, and yet with her, a single exchanged glance tells me everything.
“If I understand correctly,” I say, unfurling my wings, “you offer us equality after a lifetime of subjugation, Renault Amadeus.”
Nyatrix coils beside me like a snake.
Renault, ever the fool, beams. Were it not for the abomination at his side, for the ruin of the blighted gardens, it might be the kind of scene a historian would rush to record in the annals of Sylva’s history. The sea winds race up the cliffs, buffeting me with salt. My blood pounds, the power of the Votum pacing beneath my sternum like a great beast in its cage.
“Yes, Ophelia,” Renault says. “I am so glad you understand. Let us be done with the First Son. Let us establish a Holy Trinity and remake this world.”
Nyatrix’s fingers brush my cheek. I turn toward her and she steps closer, her palm cupping the side of my face. “What do you say, my love?” she murmurs, too quiet for Renault to hear. “Equality or revenge?”
