Chapter 26 Bronwen
Bronwen
“What is this one called?”
Out of the five tomes I’d flipped through today, I’d found drawings of a dozen or so swords, knives, and other blades that could’ve been it.
Some Benedict had marked for further research.
Others he’d dismissed with a shake of his head, like he could tell by instinct that they weren’t the one.
I didn’t blame him. One of the entries said the blade was used to slice food and enchant it so that anyone who ate it would fall in love with you.
Definitely not what we were looking for.
August leaned closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, his eyes scanning the page in silence. His brow furrowed as he concentrated on the language I couldn’t understand.
“Blade of Aros,” he read aloud.
The drawing showed a dark hilt with twisted, swirling designs, and a stone embedded in the center—black, with the faintest shimmer, like it was holding something back.
“Forged by the greatest bladesmith of his time with the help of a necromancing faerie,” he read.
“They created a stone that held the souls of every creature it was wielded on. Gifting the stone its souls, it gifts the holder the ability to lead armies of the dead under absolute control. But the balance is still not there—so every time the person summons an army, a price must be paid.”
“That sounds promising,” I muttered, glancing up at Benedict as he leaned in to take a look.
“It does,” he said. “But I’ve never seen that one. And I’m not convinced it could actually transfer a soul.”
He was always skeptical, but he still scribbled a note beside the page, just in case.
I flipped a few more pages until another blade caught my eye. It was a short blade as thin as a needle with an etching of a symbol.
“And this one?”
August let out a breath as he looked again. “Uniros. With one drop of blood drawn, you can make the person see anything you want them to see, but it only works for moments.”
“That’s not it,” Benedict said.
I leaned back in the creaky wooden chair, rubbing my temples. “I despise this,” I muttered. “I’m not made for sitting in a dusty room flipping through centuries-old tomes every single day. This isn’t helping. This is exhausting.”
August glanced up from his own pile, his expression sharpening. “You say that every day.”
“Because I feel it every day,” I snapped. “I’m not a scholar. I’m a witch who’s used to actually doing something.”
August’s eyes narrowed. “You also say that every day.”
“Because nothing changes!” I shot back. “We sit here for hours, digging through rot and dust, and for what? You’re just using me—using what I am. That’s all this has ever been, hasn’t it? You needed help with research, and then I ended up in your bed, so now you get both.”
Maybe it was that I was truly bored, or maybe it was because I felt like we hadn’t gotten any closer to stopping Carrow and the clock was ticking.
I could never admit it to him, but I was scared.
Scared of Carrow coming back—and coming after me, but more importantly, scared of what it meant for August.
He stood slowly, the movement tight with frustration, rage simmering behind his eyes.
“Need I remind you that I could have compelled you this entire time? I could have had you abandon your family and stay with me just to find the answers I needed, but I didn’t.
Can’t you understand that? You always think my intentions with you are bad.
Yes, I withheld things from you, and yes, I needed your help…
but I never forced you.” He turned sharply and moved toward the door.
“I thought you didn’t want me out of your sight,” I called after him.
He paused. “You’re safe here with Benedict. No one else comes up to the archives.”
And then he was gone, the door thudding shut behind him.
The room was silent except for the slow turning of pages and the steady scratching of Benedict’s pen. I hadn’t realized how loud August’s presence was until it vanished.
Benedict’s voice came softly, almost cautiously. “Augustus has never compelled you?”
I turned to him, shaking my head. “No.”
He studied me for a beat, then asked, “If I may… why did you come here with him? Why would you put yourself in such a dangerous position?”
“We made a deal.”
“A deal?”
If August trusted him enough to let him in on our plan, then surely he could know.
“Me for the freedom of witches.”
He studied me for a moment. “That seems like a lot for one girl to have on her.”
“Well, my father is—” I paused, feeling the familiar weight press on my chest, “my brother is the leader of the coven. It’s worth it to me to know he and our descendants will be protected.”
I expected him to ignore my answer and continue his work like he always did every time we had a conversation, but the rustle of parchment had gone still. I looked up.
Benedict was staring at me.
“What?”
“Those were your parents Carrow killed.”
I nodded slowly.
He set his pen down, the scratch of ink on parchment falling still. “Well, that explains Augustus’s actions.”
I frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“He’s reckless sometimes,” he continued, “but not careless. Not when it comes to you. What he did that day—he didn’t do it for appearance. He did it for you.”
I sighed as I ran my hands through my hair. “Why must vampires always be so cryptic? What are you talking about?”
Benedict looked at me like I was the confusing one. “When he took their bodies down and buried them.”
My hands started to shake.
“You didn’t know.”
There was no way he did that.
“How—how do you know that?”
“After it happened, we were sitting at dinner—one that Augustus was supposed to attend—but he wasn’t there.
Carrow didn’t seem to care. Normally he would be furious if Augustus missed, but he was almost happy.
But then Lavina mentioned that one of her latest meals couldn’t stop talking about how a man with white hair took the witches down himself and ordered the Legion soldiers around.
He had the soldiers burn the gallows while he carried the bodies past the town’s gates.
Carrow nearly killed us all when he heard that. ”
I sat frozen. The words barely registered.
He had the gallows burned. In daylight. He didn’t do that for show. There was no advantage. No gain. He did it because he cared.
Because he loved me.
The realization hit so hard I could barely breathe. It hadn’t all been strategy. It wasn’t just manipulation and necessity. There were real feelings beneath it all—there always had been. I hadn’t imagined it. I hadn’t been a fool. He loved me.
And I’d broken it.
I didn’t deserve him. Not after what I’d said. Not after what I accused him of.
And gods, what I would give just to have him look at me the way he used to. To feel that again—if only for a moment.
I ran through the castle, my footsteps echoing down the corridor as I turned sharply into the west wing.
The heartbreak and guilt tangled in my chest like vines, tightening with every step.
Pushing open the door to our chambers, I didn’t stop until I stood in front of the tub where he soaked in silence.
“Leave us,” I said, not looking at the servant by the door.
The servant hesitated, glancing toward August. He gave a nod, barely a movement, and the servant bowed and exited swiftly.
August pinched the bridge of his nose, not even glancing up. “Are you ready to kiss and make up?”
“You buried them.”
He froze. “What?”
“You buried them,” I repeated, the words strangled in my throat. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
His eyes lifted to meet mine, confused but cautious. “Winnie—”
“You could’ve told me the day we came to the castle,” I said, stepping closer, trembling. “But you didn’t.”
He stood from the bath and stepped out, water streaming off him as he wrapped a towel around his hips. “You’re not making any sense.”
“My parents, August!” I cried. “You buried them! Where did you bury them?”
His face shifted. He took a step forward, his arm lifting like he meant to reach for me, but I raised my hand and stepped back before he could touch me. My jaw tightened, and I swallowed hard, trying to keep it together.
“Take me there,” I said. “Please.”
The snow began to fall again, thin flakes spiraling down over the fresh-turned earth like some twisted kind of blessing. The ground, still soft from the first thaw, clung to my boots in damp clumps.
There were no markers. No headstones. Just two patches of uneven dirt, sunken slightly and dark with moisture. Graves, but only in the most technical sense. Anyone walking by might think it was just a patch of land that hadn’t yet recovered from the winter.
They were tucked just outside of town, past the place where everyone leaves their wagons for Market. Secluded. Hidden.
I didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
August stood a few paces behind me, silent.
I could feel his eyes on my back like a weight.
The cold pressed in around me, but I barely noticed.
My hands were clenched at my sides, fingers stiff from the cold and the tension that refused to ease.
The kind of tension that didn’t go away.
That settled in my bones and stayed there.
“I will have them marked. So you can come back. Mourn them properly.”
My eyes stayed fixed on the dirt. “How thoughtful.”
He let out a long breath. “They’re buried now. And the stage is gone. It’s done.”
“Done?” I laughed. The sound was brittle. “Nothing about this is done.”
I turned toward him, not bothering to hide the venom in my voice. “You think this erases what happened?”
“No.”
I had no one else to lash out at. No one to take the brunt of my anger. All I had was him.
“But it makes you feel better, doesn’t it? Like cleaning up the blood absolves you.”
He flinched, just barely. “That’s not why I did it.”
“No?” I took a step toward him. “Then why now? Why not then? When it mattered?” I shoved him, expecting him not to move.
But he stumbled back a step, eyes still trained on the ground.
It caught me off guard—how easily he let me push him.
How he didn’t even try to resist. For a second, I thought I saw guilt flicker in the downward tilt of his head, the way his shoulders sagged, like my words had landed exactly where I wanted them to.
But instead of satisfaction, all I felt was more rage.
“Why didn’t you try to stop him? You should have stopped him, August! ”
Now he looked at me, and I forgot how to breathe. Tears shimmered in his eyes, and it caught me off guard. I had never seen him unravel like this before. He took a step closer, and I didn’t move, too stunned by the sight of him.
“He sent some of his men to my home that day. They tortured me. Cut along my arms to drain me of my strength, drove stakes through my body, and left me barely alive on the floor. He knew that I would have tried to stop him if I had sensed what was happening.” The next words came quieter. “He didn’t give me a chance, Winnie.”
The words struck like a blow.
Tortured. Drained. Left for dead.
I’d been so consumed by my pain, my rage, I’d never thought to ask what he’d suffered. It had been easier to blame him than to admit the truth: that he hadn’t abandoned me. He’d been broken, too.
The day it happened, he was fighting his way through the crowd to get to me, pushing and clawing, desperation in every step.
But his movements were sluggish, strained.
His strength had been drained, his body still broken from what they’d done to him.
I remembered the flash of white hair in the sea of people, the way he stumbled more than once. And now I understood why.
I looked away, the grave swimming slightly in my vision as the first real crack formed in the wall I’d built to keep him out. He hadn’t known. He hadn’t let it happen. He’d been a casualty too.
Not the same kind. Not nearly. But it twisted something in me to realize I hadn’t known the whole story either.
I turned to him. “I didn’t know,” I whispered.
“I tried to tell you, but your mind was far away.”
I hesitated. The truth hovered just behind my teeth, sharp and dangerous. If I said it, there would be no taking it back. Would he hate me for it? Would he see me differently? My heart pounded as I weighed the silence between us.
But he deserved the truth.
“The night I came to you… my plan was to kill you.”
His lips parted just slightly as if the words had struck him. “What?”
“I thought you had planned everything,” I said quickly, the words tumbling from my mouth before I could stop them. “You told me it was all a game of seeing how far you could push me until I broke—and when I saw them hanging, I thought it was your final move. Your final attack.”
I took a breath, but it didn’t slow anything down.
The words kept spilling out, desperate and raw.
“But then I came to you that night and realized it wasn’t you.
You didn’t do it. But I was already too far gone—too angry, too focused on revenge to back down.
So I took your magic to stop you from stopping me. And now…”
I shook my head, tears burning behind my eyes. “It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t betrayed you, you would’ve stopped me and none of this would’ve happened. We wouldn’t be racing toward the end of the world. I’m sorry. August, everything is my fault and—”
He cupped my face and wiped a tear that I didn’t realize had fallen. “It doesn’t matter now. None of it matters now.”
But it did. It mattered more than anything. He pulled me in and kissed me. This kiss wasn’t like the others. It wasn’t built on lust or tension. It wasn’t punishment or relief.
It was like he meant every inch of it.
And with it, every feeling I’d tried so hard to bury surged forward like a tidal wave. The truth rang louder than ever.
I was in love with August.