32. Emmerick
Chapter 32
Emmerick
W hen everything went cold and dark, I’d been considering the nerve it took the King of the Sahlms to ask for my help. Almost valiant.
The more infuriating part was I’d happily provided answers, unable to fathom the idea of denying Sybilla comfort. I’d pushed her into a corner, and she’d lashed out by planning to marry that asshole, and yet...the thought of her sick or suffering still felt like having my chest ripped open.
Darvanda’s worry had seemed genuine, which bothered me more—that he cared for her when it should’ve been me. Yet she’d rarely let me in the room for longer than a few minutes when she’d experienced bad days despite how well I knew her.
Sybilla never showed vulnerability in front of anyone. She’d sooner die alone than let another soul in her bedchamber when a flare-up was occurring. Yet she let him see tender parts of her. My anger always seemed to be a gateway to my vision blurring, the room chilling, my control waning.
When I came to, I was standing in the throne room of Helos. Something wet and warm coated my hands. Looking down, I saw blood dripping from my fingers. Beneath the crimson, my fingertips were charred like they’d been smeared in coal.
Dark magic…
Again.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood tall.
My vision tunneled. Someone entered the room.
“King Mattock?” Ryssa’s shadow-logged voice whispered from behind her veil.
“Don’t come near me!” I held out a blood-soaked hand. “Go...”
Ryssa’s cloaked form approached. She seemed to look down between us, and I followed her gaze.
Haward.
A flash of him saying, “My brother is not made for royal life. He will need to be handled.”
So callous, so calculated. And then I slashed his throat. Amber smoke surrounded him, removing the color from his face, causing his cheeks to sink in. Then the tendrils of it ran up my nose, and the evil within felt fed.
My mouth turned dry to see the repercussions of my actions—the stiff look of shock written on Sybilla’s cousin’s face. He lay in a pool of murky scarlet, which seeped into the gray grout between the black marble tiles.
“King Mattock, is it you?” Ryssa whispered.
Eerie how her words nearly matched Darvanda’s.
My hands shook. “Yes? Who else would I be?”
My broadsword lay next to Haward’s body, and I reached for it.
“Don’t,” Ryssa ordered. I’d never heard that tone from her before. “Let me take the sword. I’ll hide it. We will smooth this all out.”
What atrocious loyalty.
I deserved to be in a prison cell.
“I killed him?” I asked. Just like I’d killed those women in the pleasure hall, just like I’d killed countless others whose faces haunted my dreams.
“It was not you,” she answered before she picked up my broadsword. “Go clean yourself up. I will handle this, my King.”
With shaking hands, I said, “I can’t...You can’t.”
Her cloaked head tilted. “Trust me,” she said. “Go.”
On trembling legs, I left her there to clean up a mess that was not hers. I deserved worse than a dungeon…I deserved the gallows.