Page 63 of Burn of the Everflame

“Nine peaks,” Doriel breathed. “Those are my sparks”—they gripped Obaneryn’s arm—“and your waves. She stole our Crowns!”

“I didn’t steal anything. The Kindred have a habit of forcing their problems on people who’d rather be left alone.”

The former Arboros Queen edged forward. “You’re saying the Kindred gave our Crowns to you? Why would they do that?”

I shifted my glare to her, and she shrank back. “They must have decided you weren’t doing a very good job of protecting the continent.” I scanned the ruined palace, the piles of corpses, the burning city. “Can’t imagine why they’d think that.” I crossed my arms. “Why are you all in my realm?”

“They called a meeting to discuss a truce with the Guardians,” Luther explained.

“We thought your mother would feel more comfortable meeting in her home realm,” Doriel said cagily.

“Liar,” Luther growled. “You didn’t trust each other in your own realms, so you picked one of Diem’s. I’m sure my father was more than happy to oblige.”

“It was the only realm Ophiucae hadn’t attacked,” the Arboros woman admitted. “We suspected he was sparing it out of loyalty to you.”

A wave of uncomfortable emotions washed over me—a warm flush that left me reeling, and an icy burst of shame that cooled it away. I swayed a bit on my feet, and Luther’s head snapped toward me, his curious stare burning into my side.

I straightened my spine. “Your realms are now mine. I will give you one chance, and one chance only, to give your oath to your new Queen.”

The Ignios brute scoffed, the others frozen and stunned.

“Suit yourself.” I waved a hand, and soil shifted to form a bridge. “Prince, take them to the dungeon.”

“With pleasure,” he snarled.

“Wait,” the Arboros woman cried. She walked over the bridge and knelt in front of me, her fern-green eyes cast low. “I will serve you.”

I had so very much to say—so many vicious words about her weakness, how quick she’d been to betray me, her rush to yield at the first hint of defeat. But she had stood with the mortals when no one else would. Though her courage ran shallow, I had greater enemies to fight.

“Rise,” I said, and she obeyed. “What’s your name?”

Her cheeks reddened. “Mireille.”

“Mireille, you will return to Arboros as my emissary. You will tell the Descended there I am their Queen, and they are to obey my command.”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“Yes what?”

She flinched. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Wicked pleasure rushed through me. My conscience chided a warning: This is what corrupted them, too. The thrill of power, the joy in watching others submit. I shoved it away, clinging to my rage. “If any of your Descended refuse to accept me as their Queen, tell them they have one week to leave my realms.”

“But . . . aren’t they all your realms?”

“All but the Forgotten Lands.” I flashed a cold smile. “They’re welcome to try their luck with Ophiucae there, if they prefer.”

She blanched. “And the mortals?”

“They are free to live, learn, work, and travel with equal standing to the Descended in all respects. All respects, Mireille, no exceptions.”

She looked offended. “Mortals and Descended have always been equal in Arboros.”

“There is not a single place on this continent where mortals and Descended have been equal,” I shot back. “That ends now. The days of Descended rule are over.”

“Are they?” a voice called out.

My eyes swept over the soldiers who had crowded forward to watch. They stopped on a man in an Emarion Army uniform. His brown hair was thinning, grey beginning to sprout at his temples. His brown tunic marked him as a mortal, confirmed by his sun-leathered and battle-scarred skin.