Page 315 of Burn of the Everflame

My boots splashed in puddled blood as I walked back up the line. Crimson liquid streamed through cracks in the dry, hardened soil, the scarlet veins mirroring the pulsing Fortos Crown and stretching further with every man slain.

At the front of the ranks, I turned to face the man who’d been standing at Vance’s side—Brant, his second-in-command. Even with his mind gone, he still wore a scowl, as if his hatred had become a physical part of his body.

Brant had hated me from the beginning. He’d never wanted me in the Guardians. He’d tried to sabotage my council. And he’d smiled when he slit my father’s throat.

No, killing should never be easy.

But sometimes . . . it was.

Swing.

Thump.

A cold, harsh apathy shadowed my soul. Across the bond, I felt Luther stir with concern.

Swing. Thump.

Swing. Thump.

Two more bodies at my feet.

On the last man in line, I raised my blade before I looked, hoping the grisly rhythm would carry me through—then I stopped.

This man, I knew well. His name was Dristan. We’d had a brief summer fling when we were younger. He’d been kind and friendly and, most importantly to teenage Diem, very tall.

My body locked up. My arms wouldn’t swing.

Dristan didn’t hate Descended. He didn’t hate anyone. He was the kind of boy who tucked flowers in my hair and told me that my strange grey eyes were pretty.

I staggered back, my body repelled by what I was asking it to do. I scrambled for the numbness of moments ago.

“He’s already dead,” I told myself.

Then he blinked—a reminder that he was very much alive.

My knees buckled, and I sank to the ground. I bent over and retched, my insides trying to expel the poison of what I’d done and still had to do.

“You should be grateful.”

I fell backward at the sound of an ancient, masculine timbre. Dristan stared down at me, but when he spoke, it was with Ophiucae’s voice.

“These men were going to kill you, daughter. Their minds were full of schemes to get around my protection.”

I climbed to my feet, hands trembling. “Don’t try to tell me you did this for me. I didn’t want them dead.”

“You wanted me to stop them from killing Descended.” He smirked. “I compromised.”

It had always been a matter of time before Ophiucae and Vance’s tenuous alliance imploded. It was never in question which of them would survive it, but that gave me little comfort at the role I’d played in their demise.

Dristan’s gaze drifted to Luther with a murderous glare that made my blood run cold. “It took me quite a while to repair the head your mate chopped off.”

I raised the point of Sorrow’s Edge. “If you try to hurt him⁠—”

Dristan chuckled—not the happy, boisterous laugh of the boy I’d known, but the ominous snicker of my sire. “Don’t worry. All that time gave me a chance to think on what you’d said, and I realized you were right. My anger caused me to lose my way. Revenge is the concern of simple, powerless men. I have loftier goals.”

Thunder sounded in the distance—odd, given the cloudless late afternoon sky. The wind was still, the air dry and hot, showing no sign of an approaching summer storm.

Dristan waved a hand, and Ophiucae’s ten-pointed Crown shimmered over his head. “These Crowns of ours have brought so much destruction. Perhaps it’s time to let them go.” It began to splinter with glowing cracks. “A fresh start—isn’t that what you said you wanted?” Fragments crumbled and fell to the soil. “A chance to move forward.” His Crown deteriorated until there was nothing left of it but a small pile of ash at his feet. He smiled, wide and knowing. “A blank slate, just like you asked.”