Текст книги "The wolf and the crown of blood"

Автор книги: Elizabeth May

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

A figure moves in the wreckage. I walk through the rubble to the remains of what was probably a charming little town hall twenty minutes ago. A woman huddles there, hunched and shaking, and in her arms is a man. I know a corpse when I see one, and he is firmly, emphatically dead—and I’m his murderer.

I stare at the woman curled over her deceased love, the oathbreaker’s mark glimmering on her wrist. A declaration of her guilt. She swore her life to the Accords, and she reneged. She failed in her duty.

I should finish this. Put her out of her misery and call it a night. It’d be a mercy, and the stars know I’m not in the business of being merciful, but…

There’s something hypnotic about her grief. She’s lost everything in the space of a single night, her entire world reduced to ashes, and it’s like being confronted with a mirror image—horribly, viscerally familiar.

But centuries of loss and duty have carved out all my soft places, everything in me that should have been the king Scillari chose me to be. Now, I look at this woman, and images fill my head of golden spires crumbling to dust. The air in Turpori stinking of bodies. My brother, broken and bleeding against my side as we staggered through the streets humans tore apart with stolen power.

A rustle of wings jars me from the memory. I don’t turn. I’d know that aura anywhere, cold enough to numb.

“You missed one,” Alexios says.

I keep my attention fixed on the woman. “Didn’t realize you were keeping such close tabs on me.”

“Someone has to.” He moves to stand beside me, wings settling. His irises glow in the dim light—the same color as the blood on my clothes. “Especially when you hesitate over simple executions.” His breath ghosts across my ear as he leans in. “Did that little princess fuck with your head and get too deep under your skin? Is that what this is?”

My hand shoots out, wrapping around his wrist. “Don’t.”

“Or what?” His smile is mocking.

“Don’t,” I repeat, very softly. “No games. Not tonight.”

His expression falls with a sudden understanding. “You’re thinking about Turpori.”

It’s not a question. He understands me too well, knows all my scars like they’re his own. After all, he found me in the aftermath and offered me purpose when all I wanted was for the realms to bleed the way I did.

I nod.

“Put those memories back in their box.” His voice is almost gentle. “Lock them away.”

I can’t help but watch the woman again. Some strange heaviness settles in the pit of my stomach as the screams echo from the lockbox of my memories. “Ever consider trying mercy? Change things up?”

Alexios jerks his head toward me, eyes blazing with inner light. “You can’t be serious.”

“Thought exercise.”

“Don’t start that thought exercise shit with me. One human skips their tithe? Fine. But then another follows, and another, and soon I’m drowning under the pressure of a thousand broken vows. So don’t stand there and preach to me about mercy when you don’t carry what I carry.”

At this moment, he’s not Eternal of Asteria. He’s a male buckling under his burdens—the Shroud, the neglected tithes, two realms balanced on his shoulders.

“If you feel so bad for her”—he gestures to the woman—“go on and Claim her. See how long your compassion lasts when you’ve got her every thought bleeding into your skull and her constant existence pressing against yours.”

I hesitate. There’s a feverish light in his eyes I don’t like, a manic energy thrumming beneath his skin. He’s fraying, and I’m not sure I want to be around to witness the shape of what’s left when he finally loses it.

“This isn’t working,” I say, picking my way through the minefield of his mood. “Beating them into obedience isn’t a solution. The Vartenans already hate us, and someday, we’ll have another war on our hands.”

“Then give me an alternative to the blood and the tithes.” He spreads his arms. “Tell me how else we keep the realms at peace and maintain the Shroud without sacrifice. Come on, enlighten me.”

“You could try showing yourself once a century. Attract the crowds, speak to them. It wouldn’t go against the Accord’s clause about interfering with Devaliant rule if you—”

“I can’t,” he says through his teeth.

That pulls me up short. “What do you mean can’t?”

“Their voices get too loud.” He taps his temple. “I don’t hear them when they’re dead, which is why I prefer to visit their corpses.”

I knew he could sense his Claimed and sometimes hear their thoughts. I hadn’t realized proximity sharpened the connection until it was physically agonizing for him. But then, no god in history has Claimed as many as Alexios. No god has held an entire realm barrier together with their power alone.

“You came to me full of vengeance once,” he continues with a sigh, “determined to make the humans pay for what they did to our people. You understood why this was our only option. So if you want mercy for her, what are you willing to trade?”

I swallow down a surge of bitterness at how easily he wields our shared past like a dagger poised over my chest. “You never bargain for human lives.”

He gives a sharp, mirthless laugh. “That’s because I’m still choking on the last deal I made with one. It’s currently splitting my skull in two. Be grateful I’m making an exception for my favorite Wolf.”

“So, those are my options? Save her or kill her?”

“Yes,” he says simply. “Choose.”

He makes it sound so simple, as if he’s not asking me to crack my ribcage open, pry out a shard of this woman’s soul, and stake it to mine. “My mother taught me it was obscene to Claim someone without soulbonding with them. It’s sacred. For Chosen only.”

For those who earn the right to touch your wings, to share your breath and know your soul. To soulbond is to bare your jugular to someone’s teeth and say, Here, this is where I’m softest. This is where I break. I won’t Claim anyone I’m not willing to soulbond with.

“Well, your mother’s dead, along with everyone else who believed in sacred anything. This is what’s left. These are the choices we make now.” He jerks his head at the woman again. “Choose. Kill her clean, or I’ll make it last. You know I will.”

So I obey because I’m his Wolf—his weapon. And a weapon doesn’t get to choose, not really. It simply cuts.

The woman clutches her dead lover tighter. “Please,” she whispers. “Please.”

“Shh,” I say.

My hand closes around her throat, and her pulse flutters against my palm like a trapped bird. With a sharp jerk of my hand, I snap her spine and drop her to the ground.

Alexios watches me. “Don’t ever ask me for mercy again.” He turns to leave, then pauses. “One last thing. The princess’ body—did you find it?”

I keep my face blank. “Not yet. Scavengers probably got to it. I’ll get her for you.”

Once I’m finished with her.

“You better.”

Something dangerous flickers in his expression, a warning of what he’ll do if her corpse isn’t found. Thunder rolls across the sky and lightning flashes, painting everything in harsh white light—the broken buildings, the scattered bodies, the blood turning black on the ground. Alexios’ mood making itself known. His wings rustle as he walks away in dismissal.

“Clean yourself up,” he says over his shoulder. “You smell like a slaughterhouse.”

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17

EVANDER

THE FLOATING ISLANDS of Caelestis dot the horizon like a string of pearls.

Often called the crown jewel of Asteria, the city is a breathtaking expanse of crystal spires set against patches of lush greenery. Elaborate sky gardens float overhead, loaded with hanging vines and luminous flowers. The pools of starlight scattered across the landscape are connected by bridges between the islands, ending in waterfalls that cascade over the sheer cliffs and into the sea below.

I veer west to the smallest island in the chain. Zephyr’s home dominates the cliff face, an elegant spire with glowing blue wards winding around every pillar and arched window—a warning to anyone uninvited to back off. But I’ve known Alexios’ spymaster since I was an infant, and she’s one of maybe seven gods I trust. Well, trust is a strong word—let’s call it confident apathy. I doubt she’ll stab me without a good reason.

Probably.

I drop onto the landing platform, my boots leaving bloody prints behind. The smell of metal and leather thickens as I stride toward the smaller building just off her sky garden.

Zephyr’s workshop is a cozy space with vaulted ceilings and marble columns inlaid with runes to enhance her magic. Workbenches and tables are pushed up along every wall, littered with half-finished works—the flowing fabric of a formal gown, leather armor, some training garments. Zephyr makes any wearable for the right price.

“You’re dripping on my floor, you degenerate.”

I huff out a laugh as I turn.

Zephyr stands in the doorway, her black wings tucked against her back. She’s all lean muscle and sharp edges, always buttoned up and proper, with her dark hair pulled tightly in a braid. Her light brown skin glitters in the runelight. She has an elegant face that’s the kind of pretty that doesn’t stick overlong in your mind—until you see her eyes. One black, one silver. No other god in the realm shares those irises.

“Funny,” I say. “I thought you’d be used to blood by now.”

“On the battlefield? Yes. In my home? Absolutely not. I ought to take you out back and shove you in my pool.”

“I’ll send you a cleaning crew.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, and a tattoo peeks out from under her collar—angular marks, each representing a campaign during the war, back when she led armies instead of trading secrets. Whether she has tattoos other than those, I couldn’t say. I’ve never seen Zephyr in anything but her high-collared uniform.

“Why are you here, Wolf? I’m on a schedule.”

“I need clothes.”

“You’re wearing clothes,” she says dryly. “Granted, they’re more blood than fabric at this point, but I didn’t think that bothered you. Unless you’ve suddenly developed standards?”

Hilarious.

“Not for me. For a female.”

That gets a raised eyebrow from her. “I thought you preferred your lovers wearing as little as possible. Did you actually find one who gets off on bloodshed as much as you do?”

If she only knew.

I can’t help but picture the Devaliant in my lap, blade in hand. The look on her face after she cut me up, all that anger turning into something darker. Hungrier. I can’t wait to feed all that rage.

“She needs a functional wardrobe,” I say, ignoring her question. “Clothes that can hold up in a fight or on rough terrain.”

Zephyr is quiet for a long moment, just staring at me. I stare right back, daring her to ask.

“This girl,” she finally says, “must be special if you’re asking me to dress her.”

“She’s a means to an end.”

“Well, whatever the end, she’ll need to come in for measurements.”

“I have them memorized.”

And then I’m speaking, spilling numbers like secrets. The architecture of her. The flare of her hips and the dip of her waist. The delicate circumference of her wrists, ankles, and throat. I map the Devaliant in digits and degrees, charting her body as one might the stars.

The air thickens as Zephyr’s magic unfurls. She perches on her workbench, liquid shadows spilling from her fingertips to pool on the floor. Her loom rises from the darkness. It’s an ancient-looking thing made of black metal and gleaming filaments. Honestly, I can’t explain where it comes from when she pulls it up out of nothing. Zephyr’s power is singular in Scillari—the magic of creation, the ability to pull from the realm at will.

She begins to weave.

It’s mesmerizing to watch her work. Shadows gather in her palms, becoming solid and real. Piece by piece, armor takes shape—leather molded to invisible curves, scaled and segmented for ease of movement. The hide is soft yet reinforced, lined with silk for comfort against bare skin. Metal follows, but not the crude stuff of mortal forges. This forms a mesh so fine it might as well be liquid. It reinforces vital areas without adding bulk or weight. Perfect for someone small who needs to move fast.

Someone like my nemesis.

There are a hundred little details I wouldn’t have thought to include. The precise flare of a vambrace, the cant of a shoulder piece, the slight thickness of the chest piece for protection. It’s so clearly made for a woman as petite as the Devaliant. I can already picture how it will cling—the perfect mix of allure and armor.

“No fastenings for wings,” I instruct. “Closed at the back.”

Zephyr’s hands go still. Her stare digs into me as if she’s trying to pry open my skull and peek inside. I know how it must look, commissioning armor without consideration for wings. Plenty of demis lost their wings in the war, but it means losing status—being permanently ground-bound and barred from battle.

But she only nods and keeps her questions to herself. Her fingers twitch and pull more shadows from the air. They twist between her knuckles while bits of starlight cling to her skin. I’ve seen her kill a man with those same gentle movements.

“It needs to be tight. Make it cling,” I add, just to see her scowl. She doesn’t.

She turns, reaches again into the heart of the loom, and tosses a garment at me. I catch it, glaring down at the scrap of clothing in my hand.

It’s a nightgown. Black silk and lace, a swooping V-neckline that plunges to the navel, and cobweb-fine silver embroidery that gleams in the workshop’s low light.

My mind blanks out to images. The Devaliant laid out across my bed, breasts straining against the fabric, the juncture of her thighs a shadowed tease. Tearing it off with my teeth and fucking her in scraps of starlight.

I swallow hard, my throat tight. Then I lift my gaze to Zephyr’s. “This isn’t what I asked for.”

The demigoddess has the audacity to look amused. Like she knows every filthy, depraved thing I just pictured. “No, but I’d bet my best blade it’s what you wanted.” She leans back and raises an eyebrow. “Will there be anything else?”

I exhale slowly through my nose. I’m not about to engage in a verbal sparring match with Alexios’ spymaster. “Someone told me to get her sweets. Good advice or no?”

“Decent,” she says with a shrug. She turns and rummages through a chest behind the workbench, pulling out a silver box. “I was saving these for myself, but go ahead and take them.” She flips the lid, revealing rows of confections wrapped in parchment. “Ambrosial clusters. Roasted nuts and dried fireplums drizzled in nectar and rolled in edible gold. Useful for your purposes?”

“Perfect.” I take the box from her and tuck it into the bundle of clothes. “Thank you.” I turn to leave, then hesitate on the threshold. “This stays between us.”

She’s closer to Alexios than anyone in the realms. I trust her with my life and my secrets, but I also don’t pretend to understand the complexities of her bond with the king, the way her eyes follow him when she thinks no one’s watching.

Her mouth thins. “Keep it from becoming a problem, and he won’t hear anything from me.”

Oh, Zephyr. It became a problem when I didn’t cut her throat.

*   *   *

Bathwater runs down my spine and drips from my wings as I give them a hard shake. I’m toweling off when her scent crashes into me.

“Fuck,” I mutter, my eyes slamming shut. Not now.

It’s everywhere, clouding my thoughts—jasmine and lilac, the sweet floral fragrance of my guestroom soap. I tug on my pants and shove a few of Zephyr’s treats into my pocket, heading up the stairs.

And there she is, the bane of my existence, wandering my halls.

My shirt. That’s all she’s got on. The hem skims her thighs, one sleeve slipping down to bare the curve of her shoulder. So much skin begging to be touched, to be bitten. Her silver hair is a messy tumble down her back, and I want to grab it. To twist the strands around my fist and yank until her throat is bared to my teeth.

Get it together.

I fade out of sight, wrapping myself in invisibility. Some dark, depraved part of me gets off on the idea of stalking her through these halls and waiting until the right moment to snatch her up, pin her down, and—

And then what? the last vestige of sanity mocks. Fuck her or kill her?

The Devaliant goes rigid. As if she can feel my stare and sense all the violent, filthy things I long to do to her.

She whirls to face my direction. “Wolf. I know you’re there.”

I stay silent as I circle her, letting my power brush down the elegant line of her spine, then the dip of her waist and the curve of her hip. She shivers.

I lean in close, still unseen, my breath teasing her ear. “You like me watching?”

She scowls. “Have the courtesy to do it to my face or leave me alone.”

With a chuckle, I let the invisibility bleed away. Her gaze rakes over me, taking in my bare torso, the black trousers riding low on my hips. I flex my wings a little for show.

Her eyes snap up to mine accusingly.

I just flash a grin. “You’re far from the guest room. Lost your way?”

“Can’t sleep.”

I wait for more, for all those messy human feelings to come spilling out. But she keeps her expression smooth and unruffled. The Devaliant mask firmly in place.

“You never told me which parts of the tower were off limits,” she adds. “I’d hate to stumble somewhere I’m not wanted.”

I’m not fooled by the innocent act; this girl is always looking for lines to scuff out. Any excuse to disobey. It’s in her blood.

“There aren’t any locked doors here,” I say. “No forbidden wings or chains rattling in the attic. I’m not your jailer.”

“Really.” Before I can stop her, she’s reaching for the handle to her left. “Then why don’t I start with—”

No.

I slap my palm against the door to keep it shut. She blinks up at me, startled.

“Correction,” I say, shoving down all the memories threatening to bubble to the surface. Stay the fuck down. “See this obsidian seal right here?” I tap the carved symbol on the wood for emphasis. “Memorize it. Burn it into your brain. Consider it the one hard line in this whole fucked up arrangement. If I ever catch you opening this door, that’s it, Devaliant. Your stay of execution ends, and I’ll make you wish you’d died on that mountain.”

She snorts. “That reminds me of an old story in Vartena about a naïve bride who gets the keys to her new husband’s castle. He tells her she can explore anywhere she likes except that one special room. No explanation, just a command. Want to guess what she found when she finally looked?”

“Let me think.” I back her up against the door. “Rotting corpses? The bones of all the other stupid girls who couldn’t follow simple instructions?”

“Close enough. So what’s in this room? The remains of dead princesses who bored you?”

The memories begin shoving at the box, screams echoing from hundreds of years ago.

Stay. The fuck. Down.

“Everyone has rooms they keep shut tight,” I say, dragging my focus to her. “Where we put the ugliest parts of ourselves. I’d bet even a perfect princess has hallways she keeps locked down, doors she doesn’t want anyone going through.” I press my palms to the wall on either side of her head, leaning in. “Could be real fun picking those locks and digging up all those things you think you’re hiding. That appeal at all? Or you want to tell me to fuck off?”

Anger sparks in her eyes. But beneath that…

Fear.

Good, I think. You should be afraid of me.

“Thing is, Devaliant,” I continue, “I don’t need to hide what I am behind closed doors. You know exactly what kind of sick bastard you’re dealing with. I get off on violence. I get hard when I hurt people. I’ve killed more humans than you’ve had hot dinners, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. And yet here you are, strolling around wearing only my shirt like you want me to bend you over and show you how monsters fuck.”

Her mouth parts slightly, and a breath gusts past her lips. But she doesn’t back down or retreat. “The alternative was strolling around naked,” she snaps, as if I’m being particularly dense.

“Doesn’t sound like a problem from where I’m standing. Toys can be clothed or unclothed, depending on my mood.”

Her scowl deepens. “If you wanted a naked toy, you should have bargained for one.”

“I suppose I should have,” I say with a smirk, reaching into my pocket. “Maybe one day, we’ll renegotiate your wardrobe. Let’s try something else tonight.” I pull one of Zephyr’s sugar clusters from my pocket and hold it between us.

“What’s that?”

“Me being generous.”

She looks at the treat like it might grow fangs. “Prove it’s safe.”

“Doubting my good intentions?”

“Why in the realms would I trust your intentions?”

Fair enough.

I bring the sweet to my mouth and sink my teeth in. Decadence explodes on my tongue—ambrosial honey and succulent fruits, toasted nuts, and the decadent crunch of edible gold leaf. Exquisite.

Holding her gaze, I slowly lick the honey off my finger. “That do it for you?”

She’s staring at my mouth. “I guess so.”

I peel the wrapping off another cluster, and she tries to take it from me, but I push her hand away. “No. Toys get hand-fed when I want.” I press the sweet to the seam of her lips. “Open up. Think twice before biting.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll bite back.”

Her eyes flash. Do it, they seem to say. Push me until I push back and make you bleed.

“Behave,” I murmur.

Her lip curls like she’s holding back a snarl, but she leans and takes the candy delicately between her teeth. I swear the world stops. The noise she makes shoots straight to my cock—a low, throaty moan that has no business existing outside a bedroom.

I am going to devour this woman whole.

I’ll lay kingdoms at Zephyr’s feet. Shower her in the corpses of her enemies—any gruesome offering her spiteful heart desires—because Bryony Devaliant is licking honey from my fingers, and I’m about to lose my damned mind.

“Thought you might like that,” I say roughly.

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t sound so smug. Why did you bring these?”

“Maybe I wanted to see what you’d do with something that exists purely for pleasure. No purpose, no greater meaning. Just…” I trail off as her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “Indulgence.”

“And what’s the catch?” She bites down gently on my thumb. “Are you hoping to earn my trust with sugar?”

“Your trust is worthless to me. I want to watch you come undone and know I’m the reason.”

“Such lofty ambitions.” Another scrape of teeth. “You’re not even subtle.”

“I’ve been guilty of far worse crimes than ambition, and subtlety is for courtiers and grifters. For little boys who don’t know how to take what they want. I prefer the direct approach.”

“So do I.”

Quick as a snake strike, she buries her hand in my hair and wrenches my head back with a strength that surprises me. Pain lights up my scalp, sharp and immediate, and a strange, giddy amusement stirs in my chest.

Fuck yes. This is what I wanted.

“Tell me why you really brought me this,” she hisses. “A test? A trap? What game are we playing right now?”

For a moment, all I can do is stare at her—this wild, reckless creature who sees the monster in me and snarls right back. “The same game we’ve been playing since you got here. Move, countermove. Disarm, attack. You draw blood, I draw more.”

Do it. Hurt me. Make me feel it.

She releases me with a disgusted sound and shoves at my chest. “The toy is going to bed. Enjoy your brooding, or lurking, or whatever it is demented gods do to pass the time.”

It’s too abrupt. Too much like a retreat. I want to keep poking at this woman and seeing what snarls out of her, finding hard lines and all the little things she craved when she was bleeding on the altar. I tell myself this is how monsters deal with any prey they toy with. They find weaknesses. They make it hurt.

My hand closes around her wrist. “Wait.”

A frown tugs at her lips. I can practically see her pondering all the ways she could break my hold.

“Let me show you the library.”

What the fuck? I want to swallow the words back. Pretend they never happened, because why would I be stupid enough to invite her there?

The Devaliant blinks. “What?”

“The library,” I grit out, because apparently my mind and mouth have decided to mutiny. “I want you to see it.”

There. I’ve committed now.

Dumbass.

Emotions flicker across her features. I tense, waiting for her to laugh in my face. To throw my offer back at me with a sneer.

But then—

“Okay,” she breathes. “I’d like that very much.”

I can’t look at her. Can’t breathe through whatever this is cracking open behind my ribs. I need to dig it out.

But instead, I just turn and lead her down the hall. I feel her stare between my shoulder blades as I push the library doors open.

She steps inside and sucks in a sharp breath, taking in the high arched ceilings, stained glass throwing color everywhere. A staircase circles up and up, railings wrapped in glowing roses. And the books. Hundreds of thousands of leather-bound tomes, scrolls, and stone tablets in a thousand dead tongues.

It’s one of my most prized possessions, this library. The only surviving piece of my life Before—a repository of my people’s history. Our language, our craft, the legacy of our magic before the war ripped my mother’s territory apart. Turpori is now temporarily split between Asteria and Nyholm until my brother and I reclaim it.

And I let a human pass the threshold. A Devaliant. The last woman in the realms who should ever see this sanctuary.

Amara’s right. I’m out of my mind.

“It’s incredible,” the Devaliant breathes. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

She tips her head to take in the tiered balconies and the domed skylights, reverence softening her features. This is the first time something of mine has moved her to awe. I want to trap that expression beneath glass just so I can keep it.

In truth, my library is a rather modest collection by Asterian standards—a few hundred thousand volumes as opposed to the millions that line the archives of Alexios’ palace. But to mortal eyes, I imagine it seems vast.

The Devaliant runs light fingers over the spines. “I can feel the power in each one,” she murmurs. “Like a current. It’s almost alive.”

I go still, a sudden wariness tightening my muscles. “Magic leaves a mark. In the right hands, a drop of power can rewrite reality.”

And in the wrong ones, it can raze entire cities.

If she hears the catch in my voice, she doesn’t let on. “I’ve never seen so many books. How old are they? How old are you?”

“A few are as ancient as the first Eternals, before our realms divided. Others are more recent acquisitions from the fallen libraries of Scillari in the aftermath of the war.” I flash her a smile. “As for my age—I’m a thousand. Old enough to have collected plenty of perverse pastimes.” I lean in, breathing my next words into her ear. “And young enough still to enjoy them.”

She shivers. “And luring wayward Vartenan royalty to their doom? Is that a recent hobby?”

“What can I say? I’m always in the mood for new experiences.”

The laugh that startles out of her is effervescent, and it sends a shrapnel burst through my withered excuse for a heart. What a lovely sound, her amusement. Musical.

She moves deeper into the stacks. I follow her, never more than a half-step behind, waiting for the inevitable moment when realization sinks in and her survival instincts roar to life. Remembering what I am, what she is.

But she doesn’t. The Devaliant has forgotten herself.

“There are more books here than in the entire palace in Hellevig. My sister, Theodora, would weep at the sight of it. Burst into flame out of pure, rapturous bibliophilia.”

I snort. “The scent of charred princess would be difficult to air out.”

That earns me another smile, this time more wistful. “Could you… send word to Theo? To let her know I’m okay?”

I should play gatekeeper. Should twist the knife until she understands exactly what it means to be at a monster’s mercy. And yet…

I’m not your jailer, I’d told her. And I meant it.

“Tomorrow,” I say gruffly.

The Devaliant gives me a grateful grin. “How do you have volumes from before the realms divided?” she asks as she continues down the stacks. “I thought all the records from that era were lost to the Great Burning when the Urnian Archives fell to human soldiers.”

“Not all. Some were smuggled out in the years leading up to the border wars between Asteria and Vartena when tensions were escalating.”

She pauses. “You fought in the war.”

Memories batter against the inside of my skull. The taste of ash, the screaming. My brother’s blood-slick hand clutching mine as his face twists in agony.

End it. Please. It hurts.

A blink, and I wrench myself back to the here and now. “Yes,” I say flatly. “I fought.”

“There aren’t many surviving books about the war in Hellevig.” Her voice goes soft, careful. “I heard Amalthea ordered most of them destroyed as part of her bargain with Alexios. But the ones we do have only tell the Vartenan side.” She fidgets, throwing me an apologetic look. “They say paying a tithe to the Eternal was better than losing more of our own. Alexios and the Dark King were killing us in large numbers, and nearly all of my family died before Amalthea…”

She notices my expression, the words dying on her lips. She must sense it—the sudden crackle of my power shivering through the air, the sparks of heat.

But the reckless creature barrels on.

“None of those accounts even mention what Vartenans did during the Godkiller Crusades—”

“Never call it that,” I cut her off, the words bitten out between my teeth. “Not to a god. Not if you want to keep breathing.”

I don’t tell her what we call it in Scillari. The Devouring. As if mere language could encompass the scope of that devastation, the breadth of all we lost. Everything they stole.

She swallows hard. “What should I call it?”

My smile is a dead thing, empty of warmth or mirth. “The war. The purge. The culling. Take your pick. But call it a crusade again, and we’re going to have a problem.”

“I wasn’t thinking.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry.

She’s fucking sorry.

Would she still be sorry if she knew? If she could see inside me, all the broken bits that used to be a brother, a son, a god meant to rule. Everything her family took from me.

I should tear into the fragile offering of her remorse and rip it to shreds. Even a creature like me can recognize the danger in it. The deadly, disarming lure.