Page 108 of Burn of the Everflame

“Move back,” I said irritably. They stilled, staring at me. I raised my hands, palms out. “I said move back.”

All but Doriel obeyed. They hesitated, eyes bulging at the magic swirling at my fingers. Perhaps in reflex, their hands flew up to conjure a shield—an empty effort, with their magic strangled by the Forging spell. “Please, no⁠—”

“Burn,” I gritted out.

Burn, my godhood sang.

Flames ignited the glossy, lacquered shelves, and the mountain of books became a bonfire. It was hard to tell whose screams were louder, Doriel or the Sophos Descended. Both lunged to save what they loved, and both slammed into a stone barrier I raised from the marble floor.

“What are you doing?” Teller cried, but I didn’t hear him, too engrossed in the dance of the ruinous flames. As the fire grew hotter, my heart grew colder, and the silvery glow surged across my skin.

Burn.

Destroy.

Teller seized my arm. “Diem, stop.”

Our eyes met, and what I saw turned my stomach: fear. Not of my magic or its consequences, but of me.

My flames abruptly guttered, leaving a thick hill of ash. Doriel climbed over the barrier and frantically dug through the mess. A shimmering veil of light began to emerge. Beneath it lay the books, in pristine condition, and Obaneryn—shaken, but unburnt.

Teller let out a quiet swear and dragged a hand down his face. He glanced around at the library. Books were strewn across the floor, tables overturned and chairs smashed to bits. My makeshift stone walls had pierced holes in the silken carpets, and the black ash swirling in the air left a dusting of soot on every surface.

When he looked back at me, his fear had become something so, so much worse: disappointment.

I pulled Doriel’s knife free from the toppled table, then prowled toward the two Sophos Descended. Their faces turned a ghostly pale as they backed up against another bookshelf, trapped in my path.

I held up the knife. “If you lie to me, I will know,” I snarled, “and I will bury this blade so deep in your flesh they will never find it. Am I understood?”

They both gave terrified nods.

“Did you have anything to do with my father’s murder?”

“No,” one blurted out as the other shook their head. “We stayed at House Benette all night.”

I begged my Umbros magic to find a lie.

As usual, my prayers were met with silence.

“Do you know anyone else who did?” I demanded.

Again, they denied it. Again, no sign of deceit.

I gripped the dagger so hard, my hand began to shake. “Then why did the knife that killed him look just like this?”

“We don’t know,” one said.

“We swear,” the other agreed. Their lip trembled. “Please, Your Majesty, don’t kill us.”

The knife clattered to the floor, and the frosty, familiar darkness ripped me wide open and swallowed me up.

I’d done a fine job of proving my power, earning my enemies’ fear, alienating my brother, and leaving the world around me in ruins. The one thing I hadn’t done was find my father’s killer. And now, with my final clue at a dead end and my time running out, I never would.

“Go back to your realms,” I said, “and don’t ever come back.”

I turned, and I did the only thing I seemed to know how to do: I ran.

I ran from the library and through the hallways, out of the palace and toward the melted iron gates of the palace grounds. I ran until the scratchy roar of a gryvern met my arrival. With a snarl, Tybold snatched me in his talons and took to the skies. Behind us, Sorae shrieked her protests—even louder when I ordered her to stay.