Page 296 of Burn of the Everflame

At last, the only people seated were the Guardians. They had fought with me before. I realized with uncomfortable clarity that there was no guarantee they would do so again.

Cordellia stared at me, arms tightly crossed, ignoring my mother’s adamant whispers to stand. Her dark brown eyes smoldered with indignation at Garath’s earlier insults and the lifetime of mistreatment he had so flippantly told her to get over.

Hurt was a stubborn weed. Left unchecked, it spread with abandon. If the hands that tugged at its roots were the wrong ones, the deeper they’d grow. Sometimes, it spread so fast, pushing out so much other life, the only solution you could see was to set it all ablaze.

“So this man wants to control you all,” Cordellia said icily. “He wants to tell you where to go and what to do. He’ll give you orders that only benefit him, and he won’t give a damn if it kills you. He’ll even decide what’s acceptable for you to think. Everything you’ve built, he’ll take for himself, and if you don’t submit to him, he’ll kill you.” Her glare slid toward the Twenty Houses. “Where have I seen this before?”

“What was done to the mortals was wrong,” Eleanor said. “We don’t want your kind to suffer anymore. Isn’t that right? We’re ready for change.” She looked around hopefully at the other Descended, some of whom nodded, some simply looking away.

Cordellia let out a wry, breathy laugh. “You know, I met Vance before he was a Guardian. His wife was a painter. A good one. You put her work next to the thing she painted, and—” She whistled. “Identical. No training, just natural talent. She couldn’t afford paints, so she’d take flower petals and crush them up to make her own. She liked to paint the same flowers she used—she told me it was like giving them a chance to live forever.” Cordellia smiled sadly. “Real sweet lady.”

She leaned forward, clasping her hands on the table. “Twice a year, Vance would come to Arboros and spend every spare coin he had buying her the most brightly colored flowers in the market. That’s how we met—his eldest was the same age as my twins. They’d play together while he shopped. After my girls died, his wife painted the most beautiful portrait of them. It was the only thing I took when our home⁠—”

Cordellia choked up. She looked down at the table, clearing her throat to play it off, though when she lifted her head to speak again, her eyes were lined with silver.

“Vance was a different man once. He was a man who loved his children and bought his wife flowers. The monster he’s become is the monster you all made him.” She pointed at Eleanor. “You say you’re ready for change. Maybe I should be grateful. But if I’m really being honest, all I can think about is how many good people had to die for you all to catch the fuck up.”

Cordellia dragged herself to her feet and turned her head to me. “So help me gods, if there isn’t peace for the mortals when this is over . . .”

“There will be,” Luther cut in. “You have our word.”

I squeezed his hand and nodded.

“Then we’ll fight in your war,” Cordellia said. “But I’m giving my word to every person in this room—my war doesn’t end until there is.”

That afternoon, I took to the skies on Sorae. I flew first to Montios, where Alixe’s rider had already arrived, though two hours of searching for the Montios Descended had done him no good. Only when I arrived did they emerge, and only when the rider left would they speak a word.

I explained the dire situation, the battle that stood before us, and how critically I needed their help. When their council met—the very same group that had inspired me to transform my realms’ governance and abdicate my Crowns’ power to the people—they voted a resounding no.

The attacks in Sophos, Meros, and Umbros had rattled them deeply, and they feared doing anything that might draw Ophiucae’s attention. They were convinced they could stay safe as long as they stayed out of sight.

I reminded them, with increasing fervor, that their place in the mountains was more precarious than it seemed. One strike of Ophiucae’s magic (or one well-placed rebel bomb) could bury them in a tomb of snow and stone.

I reminded them that their silence would not spare them from an enemy who judged them for who they were, not what they did, and that Ophiucae would come for them eventually—and when he did, there’d be no one left to save them. I reminded them that being the last to die still left them dead.

I reminded them that courage is a virtue.

But I was unpersuasive. The centuries they’d spent in search of enlightenment had left them no better, wiser, or kinder than any other selfish human who feared their death. In the face of self-preservation, their piety gruesomely transformed.

Restraint is a virtue, too, they insisted. It’s righteous to protect our own instead of risking their lives for those who do not share our ways. The Blessed Mother called us to isolate for this very reason.

I’d lost the letter from their late King, and in its absence, they insisted my interpretation of his cryptic words was wrong. Even what the goddess Montios said to me on the island was dismissed. A personal calling for you, they claimed, not an order for us.

The peril of giving every person a voice was that sometimes, the worst ones spoke the loudest.

The more I rebuked them, the further they entrenched. With their minds made up, and with my singular vote on their council too small to make a difference, there was nothing I could do. The worst part wasn’t knowing that if I failed, their deaths were inevitable—it was knowing that if I succeeded, they would take it as proof their choice was the right one, and they would never change.

Dejected, I flew back to Lumnos, my frustration simmering into something more complex. Months ago, I’d scolded Henri for saying that change could never come without violence. Now I was shouting at people to fight. I wasn’t sure if I was the one who lost my way, or if Henri had been right all along.

When I landed, my mother and brother were waiting. I put my disappointment aside, and we held each other’s hands as we walked the long miles back to Mortal City, telling stories about Andrei along the way. We did our best impressions, barking out his favorite lines—which, so often, were the bits of wisdom that had guided me through my hardest trials.

We fell quiet as we turned down the footpath to the blackened circle of earth that had once been our home. When we reached Andrei’s gravesite, Teller held our mother close, I clutched her hand, and together we let our tears flow for the man who had comforted us, protected us, loved us, chose us.

He gave up everything for me and Mother, even though we didn’t share a single drop of blood. For Andrei Bellator, love was enough to call us family, and for his family, he would do anything. Sacrifice anything.

And though he wasn’t perfect—who was?—gods, was I proud to bear his name.

I knelt on his grave, and I finally let go of the strength I’d been trying so hard to maintain. I let myself feel it all—the grief, the anger, the loneliness, the fear. I let myself mourn all the lives I wanted but couldn’t have, futures where Andrei was alive, Ophiucae was good, and Luther and I didn’t have the Kindred’s curse standing between us.