Chapter 8
Isank onto the edge of the bed, every ounce of strength draining from my body.
Time became meaningless as I sat beneath the crushing weight of it all.
Saerena was dead because of me. Solmire had burned because of me. The Firstborn had been freed from the Veil because of me.
Somewhere beyond this city, Rìan was still out there. Plotting. Scheming. Waiting. Because of me.
He’d come for me that night, when he'd found me dying. I was certain of it. He'd come to call in his bargain. To summon me, just as he'd promised he would.
And now that I'd siphoned from him... now that he knew we were bonded… He would come again.
Dread settled like lead in the pit of my stomach.
I was safe here. Aedric had promised I was.
Aedric.
He’d teased me just a few hours ago as he brushed my hair, smoothing the tangles with infinite care. I'd nearly melted into the kiss he'd stolen afterward, warm and familiar, the sort of kiss that made it easy to believe nothing could ever touch me while he was near.
Then he'd turned around and ordered an innocent healer’s execution.
He loved me. Everything he did was to protect me. I had to believe that. Had to trust that he knew what he was doing. That whatever he chose was for the greater good.
And yet something inside me soured. Once again, the claws of doubt raked through my heart. How could he be so gentle one moment, then condemn a woman to death the next? How could he tell me he loved me, then stand by while the Full Circle sentenced me to torture?
No. That wasn't true. He hadn't stood by. He'd fought for me—I knew he had.
So why couldn't I find my footing? Why did every answer only seem to breed another question?
I wrapped my arms around myself, searching for some fragment of the woman I'd been only weeks ago. The woman who'd fought for love and been willing to die for it.
There was nothing. Just an ache where certainty used to live, and the quiet, disorienting feeling of being completely lost.
At some point, a tray of food appeared. A thick stew fragrant with beef and barley, still steaming faintly. Chamomile tea, no doubt chosen for its calming properties.
I ignored all of it.
It wasn't until I opened one of Aedric's cabinets and found his wine stores that I finally stirred from my daze. My stomach churned at the thought of food, but the wine... that I could manage.
I tipped my head back and drank deeply, never bothering to pour it into one of the ornate crystal glasses lining the shelf.
Bottle in hand, I drifted into Aedric’s study. I hadn’t yet ventured inside.
The walls were lined with shelves of thick books. A mahogany desk sat immaculate against one wall. An unlit fireplace rested opposite it. The moment I stepped inside, the hearth flared to life with a cheerful crackle, making me jump.
The desk was impossibly orderly. Papers lay stacked in precise piles, quills arranged beside gleaming ink bottles with such deliberate symmetry that the entire thing looked less like a workspace and more like a display.
I put down the bottle and pulled a heavy tome from a shelf.
The moment I opened it, I knew it had never been read. The pages were pristine, the spine unbroken. I tried another. And another.
All the same.
I ran my fingers along the strange, unfamiliar characters inked across the pages. I wished, fleetingly, that I knew how to read. At least then there might have been something to occupy my thoughts. There weren’t even any illustrations.
“How’s the story?”
I nearly leapt out of my skin.
Hamish stood in the doorway, his broad frame filling it entirely. His stance was solid, feet braced apart, hands clasped behind his back. Always a soldier. Always ready.
My gaze caught on the knife at his belt. Had he used it to slit Saerena's throat?
My stomach lurched.
"I wouldn't know," I said, unable to keep the frost from my voice as I snapped the book shut with a dull thud. His shoulders sagged ever so slightly.
I wanted to hate him—this cold-hearted executioner who carried out his lord's will without question. Who'd murdered an innocent healer simply because Aedric had ordered it.
Hamish was always stoic, always reserved. But in that moment, he dragged a rough hand down his side, as though Saerena's blood still stained his skin, and it was enough. Enough to betray the regret buried beneath duty. Enough to tell me that carrying out the order had cost him, too.
Her blood was on my hands as much as his. Another death. My fault. He might have been the blade that fell, but I was the hand that wielded it.
Whatever anger I'd clung to dissolved beneath the awful weight of that truth.
I lifted one shoulder in a weak shrug. "I can't read."
His brows lifted just slightly. Barely a reaction, but enough to send heat rushing to my face.
He stepped forward and gently took the book from my hands, studying the cover. “You wouldn’t like this one anyway.” He read the title in gold lettering on the cover. “The Codified Lineages and Tax Obligations of Lesser Flame Holdings, Third Revision.”
I made a face.
He huffed and slid it back into place. “You can’t read?”
“No.” I tugged absently at the braid over my shoulder. “And judging by these shelves, Aedric can’t either. Has he even opened a single one of these?”
“Probably not,” Hamish said. “He’s not big on reading.”
I thought back to his rooms in Solmire. I’d never seen a book there.
I scoffed. “What a luxury. To know how to read and choose not to.”
He studied me with new interest. “There were no books in the mortal lands?”
“Paper makes good kindling,” I offered curtly.
Hamish nodded slowly, his gaze settling on me as though he were seeing me properly for the first time. “Survival first, then.”
Survival. Saerena hadn’t survived.
“That’s usually the way it goes.” I took another swig.
My fault my fault my f—
“You’re drunk,” he frowned.
I shrugged. “Yes.” I paused, then held out the bottle. “Why aren’t you?”
A humorless breath escaped him as he took it from me. “Trust me,” he said. “I will be.”
He drained what remained in one long swallow, his throat working as he tipped his head back. He wiped his mouth, tucking the empty bottle under an arm.
“I’m glad you’re alright,” he said gruffly, and turned toward the door.
But I wasn't alright. I didn't know if I'd ever be alright again.
"Wait—"
He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "Can I come with you?"
I had to get out of this room. Distract myself with something. I couldn't bear another moment alone with my thoughts.
For a long moment, he simply looked at me.
My heart sank. I shouldn't have asked. He had duties to attend to. He wasn't about to waste his time walking me around Dheren. Not unless Aedric ordered it.
"Where do you want to go?" he asked.
I blinked, surprised. He tilted his head, waiting for an answer.
"Just… out of this damned room."
The corner of his mouth curled upward softly. Kindly.
"Alright," he said.
He set the empty bottle on the laden tray as we passed the bed, and then led me into the corridor beyond.
Dheren was a city built not outward, but downward. I found myself gripping the railing as we left the fortress and descended, my stomach tightening as the city opened beneath us.
This was not Solmire. There were no gardens here. No bath houses. No leisurely beauty meant to impress or soothe. This was a city built to forge soldiers, to house bodies meant for war.
We crossed a stone bridge spanning the chasm. Below, a vast training ground lay open to the heat rising from the Vein. The air shimmered. Soldiers filled the space in perfect formation, sweat beading on their skin as they moved in flawless unison.
Males and females trained together, indistinguishable in discipline and strength.
The females’ heads were shaved clean, their hair cropped close to the scalp, just like the males.
As they moved, runes beneath their skin lit along their cheeks and throats, glowing faintly with each exertion, as they practiced drills.
The exercises were brutal, a seamless blend of punishing physical exertion and controlled fire magic. Flames flared and vanished in rhythm with their movements, shaped and recalled with practiced ease.
At the center stood a commander. The runes beneath his skin flared, and instantly the entire formation shifted direction.
Another flare of runic light. Again, the soldiers changed course.
They moved as one, bodies turning, fire answering, every motion precise and synchronized with unnerving perfection.
“Is he…” My voice came out thin. “Is he controlling them?”
Hamish glanced at me from the corner of his eye. "Yes." He paused at the railing, giving me a moment to watch. "Though they're allotted a measure of autonomy during certain exercises to train reaction times and judgment, in case their commander is killed."
I stared at the scene below, my stomach tight. “Why would anyone choose to do this?”
Hamish didn’t hesitate. “Most don’t choose.”
I turned to him.
“They’re conscripted,” he continued. “All faeries, usually with little or no innate magic.” His tone remained steady, untroubled. “It’s considered a great honor. They’re given a purpose. A role to defend the Court.”
“But the beads…”
“They grant power.” I caught the faintest note of yearning in his tone. “Power they would never have otherwise.”
He stepped away from the railing and motioned for me to continue with him.
“The commanders are beaded too,” I pointed out. “Who do they answer to?”
His knuckles blanched at his sides. “Sairus.”
I noticed he didn’t call him father.
“Is that wise?” I gaped. “For Sairus to control Aedric’s army when he contested his rule in the first place?”
Hamish turned toward me, his expression hardening. "Let me be clear. Aedric may have entrusted Sairus with command of the army, but all magic in this Court answers to Aedric. The fire that rises from the Vein is his to command."
My brows shot up. That was more power than I had understood him to hold. I knew Aedric was formidable, but to command a force of nature itself?