Page 160 of Burn of the Everflame

The Centenaries hurried to block my view. “Take a step toward her, and you’re dead,” one of them growled, their glare almost urgently harsh.

“I didn’t come here to hurt anyone,” I said. “I’m trying to help.”

“We don’t need your help,” another said. “We’re safe here. They can’t get through the godstone.”

I balked. “That’s your plan—hide until the war ends? What about the people in your city?”

The Centenary shrugged. “They can protect themselves. They’re not our responsibility.”

“Not according to Yrselle.” I tried to step toward them, and more blades raised to stop me. “Her grace did not stop with the one hundred of you. She opened her city to everyone, even the people other realms had turned away. She gave them protection from the other Crowns and a place to build whatever life they pleased, no matter who they were. She took outcasts and exiles and she gave them a home.” I looked at Symond, who had remained curiously silent. “Yrselle took pride in her realm. Tell me, did that die with her?”

His mouth tightened. He slowly looked me over. “You think you can defeat him.”

An observation, not a question.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly, “but Yrselle did. I am trying to be worthy of her faith.”

Symond shot a glance behind me, and the man holding my shoulders let me go. I kept my hands high, far from my weapons, as a gesture of peace.

“I should have come sooner,” I admitted. “I don’t know if I could have prevented what happened, but I should have been here to try. You needed your Queen, and I let you down, and I’m sorry.” I let out a resigned sigh. “I’ll never be the Queen that Yrselle was. The world she created here for you, where you are safe and favored and given everything you please . . . that world no longer exists. I want to rebuild Emarion into something better, something inspired by this diverse, welcoming city that Yrselle built in Umbros, but I need your help to do it.” I took a deep breath. “I want you to join my army.”

Tragedy, it appeared, had not stolen their sense of humor. The small room turned deafening with the echoes of their laughter. Most scoffed, some glared. Symond showed no reaction, holding my gaze in his pitiless stare.

From the shadows, a woman emerged, cradling something in her arms. A man stood close by her side with one hand resting on her shoulder and the other extended in front of her, ready to cast his magic at any second. I noted his distrustful eyes—a captivating shade of sea glass that marked him as a Meros Descended—before looking closer at the black-eyed woman’s hands. A silvery symbol I recognized all too well glowed faintly on her wrist. In the swath of fabric she held against her chest, an infant’s face stared back.

“Umbros hasn’t fought for another realm since the Blood War,” a different Centenary said, pulling my attention away.

“This is a fight for Umbros,” I said. “If Emarion falls, this realm goes with it.”

“Let’s kill her and get it over with,” another grumbled. “Put the Crown on one of our heads instead.”

I shook my head. “That’s not⁠—”

“We should offer her as a trade,” another chimed in. “If we give her to the man who attacked us, maybe he’ll leave us alone.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” another asked. “It’s been too long since we had someone to play with.” She snatched a pair of pliers and strutted toward me. “And we did get out all our favorite toys.”

Ah, shit.

I recognized that insufferable pout.

“Hagface,” I said. “You’re looking well.”

She scowled. “I can’t wait to be the last thing you ever see.” She lifted the pliers to my eyes. “Get ready to reunite with your dead Prince.”

“My Prince is not dead. And if you kill me, he’ll bring my entire army down on your head.” I stared at Symond. “Do you really want to fight a war on two fronts?”

His eyes narrowed.

“Maybe the new Queen is right,” said the woman holding the baby. “We can’t hide in this room forever. Perhaps it’s time we looked beyond our own borders.”

Hagface snorted. “Motherhood has addled Drusila’s brain. Let’s hope the brat doesn’t end up like h⁠—”

Drusila cocked her head, and Hagface went unnaturally still, arm trembling as she turned the pliers away from me and angled their sharp points so close to her own face, they brushed against her lashes.

“Stop,” Hagface begged. “Please . . . p-please, Drusila.”

“Our numbers are few,” Drusila said coolly. “Speak ill of my child, and they will be fewer.”