Page 59 of Burn of the Everflame

That voice.

That voice.

That beautiful, fearsome voice, whose command I would follow into hell itself.

“And if you spill a single drop of his blood,” the voice spoke again, “I’ll make sure your head lets go of your neck.”

Her, my godhood roared. Her. Her. Her.

The soft caress of her aura brushed my cheek, and hope turned into violent, explosive need. My rabid godhood thrashed at Ophiucae’s hold. Its hunger was so visceral, his nostrils flared in surprise.

“Let . . . me . . . see her,” I managed to force out. He withdrew his magic just enough to let me turn my head.

Diem.

My Diem.

Her long white hair, flowing wild and unbound over her shoulders, and those spellbinding eyes, dark as the brewing storm yet glowing with sparks of her power. That awe-inspiring inner fire I loved so dearly, unmissable in the lift of her chin and the set of her jaw.

I met her gaze, and my heart sang. Another swell of her aura curled around me, and even trapped as it was, my magic rose in fiercely devoted response. I needed to touch her, smell her, taste her, breathe her in, hold her so close our bodies might melt and forge together like iron.

Though her body was hidden beneath a cloak of billowing shadows, her face was gaunt, rendering her stare viciously severe. And her Crown . . .

Blessed Kindred, her Crown.

Not three peaks, but nine—one for each realm. No longer merely the Queen of Lumnos, or Fortos, or Montios.

The Queen of Emarion.

“I see my siblings gave you a few more toys,” Ophiucae said bitterly.

“Well, it is my birthday,” she said. “If you’d like to give me a gift, you can start with him.”

Even her voice thrummed with new currents of power. Her aura felt stronger than I remembered, and her skin was bright with the same shimmering glow as her sire.

“But the Prince and I were having so much fun,” he said. “As your father, it is my job to test him.”

A muscle flexed on Diem’s throat. I could almost hear her rising retort: You’re not my father. For some reason, she held herself back.

She dismounted Sorae and looked around, taking in the crowd of mortal soldiers, the palace—countless windows broken and wooden rafters aflame—and the bloody, motionless bodies strewn over the ground.

Including Zalaric’s.

She reached into the dark wisps of her cloak and pulled out a long sword, its dark blade etched with golden lines. “You’ve had enough fun for today.”

Ophiucae sneered. “That thing again. Be careful. Its last owner ended up with its blade through her heart. Put there by her very own daughter.”

“This realm is under my protection,” Diem warned. “Take your men and go to Omnos. The northern lands are yours to claim.”

“The entire continent is mine to claim,” he snarled.

Diem, my fearless Diem, took a few steps forward. “My Crown says otherwise.”

His silent pause stretched on, growing heavy with tension and threat. When at last I was certain he would try to strike her down, he pulled the blade away from my neck and sheathed it at his hip.

“Keep your lover. And your palace.” He released me from his magic and strolled toward the former Crowns. “I came for them.”

Diem glanced at the dethroned monarchs. Mireille was weeping. Doriel and Obaneryn clung together, trembling in each other’s arms. The other two looked like they might be dead already. Their pitiful state brought no trace of compassion to her face, only a cold, hard stare of hate.