Page 224 of Burn of the Everflame

Then again, every choice the Kindred made was a wrong one: binding the gryverns, casting the Forging spell, cursing Ophiucae, forcing me to wear their Crowns. Time and again, instead of freedom, they had chosen control.

If this was one more thing that had been condemned to a life in chains, then I would have to free it, too.

I’d barely lifted my hand before Ophiucae grabbed it and pressed my bloody palm against the disc. The lock opened with a click.

He yanked the book from its bindings and sank into the chair at the center of the room. “I’ll start with this one,” he said, cracking it open on his lap. He threw a tight glance at the book he’d tried to burn. “You can take that one, since you were so determined to save it.”

I picked up the half-singed book, blowing ash from the cover to reveal its title: A History of Our Mates. I flipped through its pages, shocked to find stories, penned by the Kindred themselves, about the mortals they’d loved. In school, we’d learned so much—too much, in my opinion—about each Kindred, especially Lumnos, but never a word about their mates. Until now, I’d never even seen their names.

Each section had page after page of detail—sketches of their faces, their likes and dislikes, stories of how they’d met, their feelings on the Kindred’s arrival and the conflicts it had caused. I was stunned to read how Ignios had fallen for the man who’d led the resistance against them after he took her hostage. In fact, it was their union that eventually put an end to the fighting by proving that even the most hostile among them could turn hatred into love. How fitting, I thought, that her Descended now fought in my army at the Guardians’ side.

My hand grazed my mark. If the Kindred had left behind this much detail about their mates, they must have wanted them to be remembered. Why had this been locked away instead?

“I told you I kept the children safe,” Ophiucae said, interrupting my thoughts. His eyes roamed over the pages of his book as he spoke. “You didn’t believe me, did you?”

“Can you blame me?” I asked. “You’d happily watch the rest of the Descended die.”

He turned the page without looking up. “A poisoned tree must be ripped out at its roots. The children I’ve spared are the seeds I will use to grow a new one, healthy and strong.”

“I would have thought you Kindred learned your lesson about cutting down trees that don’t belong to you.”

“A world belongs to whoever is powerful enough to take it.”

“Is that what the people who took over your home world said before they destroyed it?”

He ignored my biting tone, calmly gesturing to another pedestal. “Read about it for yourself, if you’d like.”

I set down the charred book and walked to the one he’d pointed out, squinting at the markings on its leatherbound cover. The ink looped and swirled in a beautiful design. I began to see a pattern, almost like . . .

My eyes darted to Ophiucae’s hip, where Sorrow’s Edge dangled from the side of his chair. Similar markings were etched in gold up and down its blade.

“Is this your native language?” I asked, holding up the book, and he nodded. “What does it say?”

“Our Beginning.” He threw a scowl at the book on the Kindred’s mates. “They should have titled that one Our End.”

I frowned. “Why do you hate their mates so much?”

“My siblings abandoned immortality for them. We were the last of our kind. We had a responsibility to keep living and carry on the legacy of our people.”

“Isn’t that what they did by starting their families? Aren’t the Descended their legacy?” I paused, grappling with the words that came next. “Am I not yours?”

His gaze rose to me. “That remains to be seen.”

His stare was too heavy to hold, too laden with a fate I wasn’t ready to confront. I looked down at the book in my hands, running my fingers over the swooping letters. “This language . . . can you teach me to read it?”

“No need. The content inside is written in your tongue.”

“Can you teach me anyway?”

I looked back up at his silence to find him studying me with an inscrutable expression.

“Why?” he asked.

Because I want to know what’s written on that sword.

“Because it’s my history,” I said instead.

He bristled, and I knew I’d made a grave mistake. His Umbros magic would have sensed my dishonesty—and he would be wondering what I was lying to hide.