Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
C reslyn stared at Zaleria with pure contempt. With absolute loathing. She detested this witch, hated her, and she’d never hated anyone in the entirety of her life.
Except now, maybe, Drake.
“You knew he would leave me.” The accusation struck true, and Zaleria offered a wry smile.
“Of course.” The witch licked the droplets of crimson from her sharp nails, and Creslyn’s hand instantly flew to her throat, her fingers coming away smeared with blood.
The injuries left behind by Zaleria were already healing, mostly in part to the magic of Crelsyn’s blood, but nothing could repair the damage done to her heart.
She struggled to feel something, some emotion to fuel her resolve, but there was nothing. Somehow, she was empty. The salt of her tears had already dried upon her cheeks. That gaping, cavernous wound of Drake’s betrayal had swallowed her anger, her grief, her despair. Now, there was only despondency, a shallow river of melancholy in which she would gladly drown. All of his promises, all of his proclamations of burning worlds and slaying her enemies, were a carefully crafted web of lies. He’d tangled her in them, wrapped each thread of deceit around her so tightly that she had no means of escape. Her mate had abandoned her, traded her life without a shred of remorse, like she was of no more importance than a handful of gold. And for what?
A fucking gem to make him all powerful, like that prick needed any more of a boost to his already annoying ego that was bolstered by ruthless arrogance.
Creslyn expelled a slow, measured breath. “And did you really kill the hag?”
“Oh, yes.” The fire crackled, highlighting half of Zaleria’s face in a sinister warmth. She smoothed her black hair from her face, her molten eyes flashing in the play of light. “All that remains of her is dust and bone.”
“I see.”
Creslyn peered up through the expanse of gangly branches where shards of moonlight attempted to break through the overgrown patches of leaves. It was quite late and though she knew it would be a risk to go traipsing through the bogs at night, she couldn’t very well stay here. Not with Zaleria looking at her as though she did indeed want to toss her into that bubbling cauldron. If she could just get outside of the bogs, where the sky was no longer shrouded, then perhaps she could follow the constellations to make her way back home.
No, not home.
To Brackroth. She would take Astrylys and return to Aeramere, where she belonged.
Lifting her left hand, Creslyn inspected the ring Drake had given her as a token of his utterly useless devotion. It would fetch a fine amount if she required funds, which she would undoubtedly need to make the journey. She pulled it from her finger and shoved it into one of the small pockets of her leathers.
Well, no use wasting any more time, then.
Creslyn turned and started walking in the direction where she thought Svartos had landed hours earlier.
Zaleria cackled, her lush laughter from before suddenly replaced with a heinous sort of noise. “And just where do you think you’re going?”
“I am not quite sure.” Creslyn huffed out a breath, and it misted before her. “I suppose I shall figure it out once I get there.”
“We had a deal, faerie.” Zaleria’s lips twisted into a scowl, her unnatural eyes glowing like pools of melted gold. She pointed one finger in Creslyn’s direction, her wickedly sharp nail aiming for her throat. “If you lost, which you did, then you agreed to stay.”
“Ah, but it was you who failed to specify for how long.” Creslyn lifted her hand, the mark of her house’s crest fading, the magic releasing her from its binding hold. She smirked, tilting her head to one side. “Or haven’t you ever heard to never bargain with the fae?”
Zaleria opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. She took one menacing step forward, her heeled boots sinking into the mossy earth. “Why, you foul little?—”
“Mind yourself, witch. You forget your place.” Creslyn threw both arms out to her side, summoning her magic. It spilled from the tips of her fingers in fiery orbs of sunlight splintered by brilliant rainbows. “I am Lady Creslyn Starstorm Celestine Kalstrand, and I do not take kindly to insults.”
“You think I’m afraid of that ?” Zaleria faced her head on, sparks of fire erupting in both of her hands. “Is that all you’ve got, then? Sunshine and pretty rainbows? Pathetic.”
Zaleria sneered.
Something inside Creslyn snapped.
For so long, she’d tolerated the teasing of her power, she’d suffered the mockery of her magic. She’d taken every jab and taunt in silence, with a strained smile, refusing to unleash her full potential for fear of the repercussions. She’d cared too much about what the nobles of Aeramere might say, she agonized over what her family might think if they found her out. Her magic was not of the stars, it was a fury of the sun’s blinding intensity, a mesmerizing maelstrom of illustrious splendor, a sunstorm of chaotic delight flawed by a harrowing sliver of darkness. Of fallen loveliness.
But she was not the pretty little faerie anymore.
She was the wicked beauty.
Creslyn reached for that darkness, that chasm she’d attempted to seal for far too long, and ripped it open. She embraced it, welcomed it. Her hair unraveled from its braid, and the strands whipping around her morphed from silver to inky black, the same streaks of icy blue, lavender, and frosty pink now vibrant and blinding. She stretched one arm out in front of her and pulled the other back, the storm of her creation more catastrophic than ever. Sunbeams shot around her in an unhinged sphere, each rainbow sharpened to a fine point, ready to strike.
Zaleria’s eyes widened, but the fire in her palms crackled and spit, sending a rush of heat forward in warning.
Creslyn’s sphere shuddered but held firm. She eyed the witch as they paced around each other in a slow circle. She was vaguely aware of other witches in the bogs who cowered behind huts and disfigured trees, watching the impending battle unfold before them. Their fear was palpable, the smell of it reminded her of freshly tilled earth and crushed herbs. Though whether they were afraid of Zaleria or her, she could not tell.
For their sakes, she hoped it was her.
Zaleria struck first, her fiery ball of fire aiming right for Creslyn’s head.
Creslyn whirled away from the attack, launching a hissing beam of sunlight flanked by honed shards of shattered rainbows. She moved like fluid music, remembering every move, every instruction of Kjeld’s constant demands. She spun and dodged, mindful of her footwork on the soggy earth, sending glaring sunbeams in Zaleria’s direction as the storm around her continued to strengthen.
The witch launched another fireball. This one singed Creslyn’s shoulder, and she hissed in pain as the smell of her own burnt flesh filled her nose.
“He’ll never love you. The Prince of Brackroth will always choose power over you. Over anyone.” Zaleria matched her, carefully crossing one leg in front of the other as she stepped, her ruffled skirts hindering her movements in the steady wind. “The blade drives him with bloodlust. It fuels him. The more he uses it, the more it owns him. Controls him.”
She ducked low, narrowly avoiding a blast of sunlight, then popped back up, her lips stretched into a feral smile. “Quite the curse, don’t you think?”
Creslyn faltered.
The Shadowblade.
It was the Shadowblade that cursed Drake, and it was all Zaleria’s fault.
“You.” Creslyn’s arm shot out, and a rain of dagger-like rainbows assailed the witch. They pierced her clothing and flesh, lodging dangerously close to her heart. “You did this to him. You hated that he didn’t choose you, that he didn’t want you.”
“I was not enough for him. And you…you will not be enough for him either.” Zaleria staggered forward, gripping the iridescent shard protruding from her chest. She attempted to yank it out, her hands sliding over its keen edges, slicing her palms until they dripped with her own blood. “What use was a prince, anyway, when I could have a king?”
“A king who could not afford you the decency to remain faithful.” Creslyn inched closer as Zaleria’s knees slammed into the soft earth.
Her body swayed, rocking back and forth, before she slumped over completely. She rolled onto her back, the vicious light in her eyes slowly dimming. Her pallor waned, the rosy hue of her cheeks fading as a trickle of scarlet slid down her chin.
Zaleria was dying.
Creslyn hesitated. She’d never slain anyone before, even if it was done to protect herself. Her stomach turned sour with remorse, and her magic ebbed, hovering at the tips of her fingers. She never imagined what it would be like to take a life, certainly not while her own was threatened, yet all the emotions she expected one would experience—horror, shock, utter bewilderment, panic—failed to rise to the surface. She found herself overwhelmed with a strange kind of understanding of who she’d become, of the world around her. Her perception shifted as she stared at Zaleria, whose blood loss was staining the patch of mossy ground beneath her fallen body. If war truly was coming to Aeramere, it would be like this from now on. There would be death and loss, and she would be a damned fool if she resorted to her former beliefs that her realm, her home, were untouchable.
But that did not mean she should withhold compassion. The witch’s death would weigh heavy upon her conscience, become a festering burden of regret unless Creslyn found some means in which to save her.
Creslyn knelt beside Zaleria, carefully grasping the rainbow-hued shard with both hands. She was a lady of House Celestine, and she knew every Starstorm before her to be both loyal and merciful.
She would be gracious enough to show mercy to the witch who cursed her husband.
“Surrender.” She spoke softly, her grip around the shard tightening, preparing to tug it free. “And admit you cursed the Shadowblade out of jealousy and spite, dooming my husband to a lifetime of servitude to that bastard of a king.”
Zaleria scoffed. Choked. The blood trickling down her mouth and chin was thick, and a horrible metallic scent lingered in the air. “I would rather succumb to my wounds than ever admit anything to you.”
“Very well.” Creslyn released the shard and stood, wiping her hands on her leathers. “So be it.”
Zaleria sucked in a gasping, garbled breath. “He will never love you.”
“You’re wrong, witch.” Creslyn’s lips pressed into a hard, fierce line. “Drake’s heart is mine . And whenever I see him again, I shall carve it out.”
A tremor wrecked Creslyn’s body, causing goosebumps to pebble all over her flesh as the bond warmed and a low, familiar voice entered her mind.
“Your blade…or mine?”