Page 229 of Burn of the Everflame

I stood at the bars and watched Ophiucae keep his glowing vigil. He was so still, I might have thought him asleep, if not for the constant movement of his fingers, casting his virulent magic from a distance.

“I’ve got to get that sword,” I murmured.

And that book, I thought.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” Doriel said, pacing behind me on their thousandth anxious lap of the day. “I locked it in my personal vault after the first attack here, but you had it when you left the island. How did you get it?”

“The Kindred gave it to me.”

They stopped and looked at me. “Why?”

I hesitated. My trust in Doriel was feeble at best, but they might be the only person in Emarion with the answers I needed. “I’m trying to figure that out,” I hedged. “Did you ever study it?”

Their withering stare told me I’d been a fool to ask.

“What do you know about the markings on its blade?” I prodded.

“It’s the Blessed Kindred’s native language. We only have a few examples of it.” Their chest lifted proudly. “Of course, it was more than enough for me to decode.”

“Do you know what it says?”

“I do, though the flameroot has made my memories fuzzy. I remember it was a poem . . . something about love. And a sacrifice, I think. Blood—those old poems are always going on about blood.”

My forehead slumped against the bars. Sacrifice and blood were parts of the spell I was already painfully aware of.

Doriel closed their eyes, pressing their fingers to their temples. “There was a number. Three, perhaps? Maybe five?” They scowled. “Is this how other people live, heads full of details they can’t remember? What’s the point of a memory that you can’t recall when you need it?”

“The same point as a book you can’t read,” I muttered, staring at the object at Ophiucae’s side. “To gather dust for years, then surface at the worst possible moment.”

Suddenly, the light surrounding Ophiucae dimmed and receded into his silvery skin. He sat upright just as his gryvern let out a snarl.

“They’re back,” Doriel said, pointing to a stream of people on the Ring Road. We watched in growing dread as the line kept coming and coming, more returning than had left. The soldiers’ perfect lines and unnatural gait suggested that they hadn’t joined Vance’s army by choice.

“Those are Merosians,” Doriel whispered, voice breaking. “What if they got Obie?”

“Can you sense him through the mating bond?”

Their palm flew to their mark. “I don’t know. The flameroot made everything so . . .”

“Quiet?” I finished. My fingers wandered to my chest, toying at the fabric.

Doriel gave me a curious look. Their brows slowly rose. “You and the Prince?”

My hand jerked down. “No.”

When the group reached the city, I was relieved to see that there were far fewer of them than I would expect from the same kind of attack they’d waged on Sophos. Vance stationed the new arrivals on the outskirts of town, where they stood at attention, eerily still.

The soldier who’d escorted me to my cell jogged to Vance and whispered something that had Vance’s eyes sliding my way and narrowing. Instead of coming for me, he stomped into the hills to Ophiucae.

Their conversation was tense, both men looking deeply annoyed by the other. It ended abruptly when Ophiucae turned from a still-shouting Vance and walked away, while Vance’s glare shot daggers at his back.

The men had brought back casks of Merosian ale to celebrate their victory, and before long, mugs were full and eyes were glassy. I curled into a tight ball in the corner of my cell and buried my head as Vance’s men warbled tavern songs about the Descended and the retribution they deserved. I’d sung the same songs countless times over a pint in Mortal City, laughing and dancing with Henri, never really believing the violent words might one day come true.

I couldn’t help searching the crowd for his face. I spotted Henri seated by the campfire, eyes dark and head low. Someone offered him a mug and he waved them off, seeming more interested in the flames than the revelry. He lifted his head and turned it toward Lumnos, and then, a moment later, turned it to me.

I forced myself not to look away, pouring all my rage and betrayal into my glare. He held my eyes for a long time before he finally rose and walked off into the shadowed ruins of the city.

The merriment ended shockingly fast. In less than an hour, the city fell quiet as men with droopy eyelids staggered toward their makeshift beds. Some didn’t even make it indoors before they dropped to the ground and began to snore.