Page 234 of Burn of the Everflame

His head snapped to me with a suspicious glare. He took my hand, and I sucked in a breath at the sudden surge of his magic through my blood. It felt just like him: icy, determined, ruthless. And gods, its strength . . . I felt pitifully frail inside its grip, a glass bird in an iron fist.

And yet it wasn’t strong enough. Despite the pummeling of his magic, the flameroot’s muffling barrier didn’t budge.

He knelt and pressed his hand to the soil, and his well of power went from vast to infinite. It felt like all the energy in all the world, every force of nature and every living thing, flowed through his body and into mine. It focused into a sizzling beam to burn the flameroot from my blood—but the flameroot was stronger. Not even a whisper of my godhood escaped its grasp.

His magic built inside me with nowhere to go. My vision blurred, my blood turning molten. My skin felt seconds away from splitting open.

Ophiucae released me with deep, heaving breaths, sweat beading at his temples. “If that was a ploy to drain me . . .”

I collapsed and pressed my scalding-hot cheek to the cool grass. “It wasn’t. In Fortos, I thought . . .”

I held my tongue. I didn’t think I’d healed the flameroot from the Descended I’d freed from the Fortos prison—I knew. Perhaps there was some other force at work that day. It wouldn’t be the first time the gods interfered in my life without explanation.

Or perhaps there was at least one thing my magic could do that his could not.

Ophiucae walked on, and by the time I managed to recover, he lay on his back atop a hill, skin aglow with light. When I approached, his gryvern swung close and snapped its jaws. Even without Faunos magic, I understood: Ophiucae might trust me, but Xipherus did not.

I crouched beside my sire. Though his eyes were closed, his face was furrowed with effort. Sorrow’s Edge lay against his hip, and with his palms pressed to the soil, the book on the heartstone sat on its own beside him—both objects free for the taking.

His gryvern let out a snarl.

“Xipherus seems to think you’re up to something,” Ophiucae said, eyes still closed.

I glanced at the beast as it circled overhead. “He’d kill me if I tried anything. I’d really prefer to live.”

It was the truest answer I could afford to give—heartbreakingly true. So true that Ophiucae did not stir, and his gryvern angled away.

“You’re pulling from the Forging magic, aren’t you?” I asked.

He nodded. “I can’t believe I almost refused when my siblings asked to bind our magic to the land. I was afraid it would make us weaker.”

“Why did you agree?”

“My siblings never let me absorb their magic, and they ordered their brat spawn to do the same. I hadn’t felt my godhood for years. They offered to replenish it if I went along with the Forging.” His expression turned wistful. “I would have agreed to anything, just to feel magic in my veins again.”

The chasm in my chest opened wider, yearning for something to fill it. Despite how much I had wanted to be rid of my magic after the slaughter at Mort-Feu Pass, I’d started to miss its presence—not just for the strength it gave me, but for how complete it made me feel. Wielding a sword in one hand and magic in the other, I felt like the truest version of myself: the mortal warrior my father raised me to be, and the Descended Queen I had become.

Maybe that was why I’d lost myself on the island. Without magic, I’d been stripped of half my soul. Without Luther, I was missing half my heart. I wouldn’t feel whole until I got them both back.

“My realm was not always barren,” he said suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. “Those forests used to be green year-round. The most beautiful trees you ever laid eyes on.” His features pinched. “It was the only place on this miserable continent I ever liked.”

“When you showed me the children, I saw a tree in the forest regaining its color.”

He nodded again. “With no one of my line to walk its soil, the land withered. It’s healing, now that you and I have returned.” His fingers curled, clawing into the ground. “Another blight on this world we must put to an end.”

I pulled my knees to my chest and looked out over the grasslands. “Will the same thing happen here if Doriel dies?”

“Do not fret. I will not let what happened to my realm happen to any other.”

“But if Vance kills all the Descended, how⁠—”

I stopped.

The children.

Was that the real reason Ophiucae had saved them—to keep the Forging magic strong so he could draw from it forever?

And if the children grew into adults that refused to bow to the man who’d killed their families . . . what would he do with them then?