Chapter 4
Basten
“There’s a reason the commonfolk have long used the term ‘Heaven’s Fire’ to describe the natural phenomenon of lightning,” Woudix explains in a blistering monotone.
“Bolts of lightning and the fey that gods wield are similar in scientific structure; the key difference is that lightning cannot be tamed. We can learn to command our fey, however. Bend it to our will like a broken horse.”
The damn God of Death stands in a grassy patch in the Twilight Garden, that walking carcass of a guide dog lying at his feet, pouring his attention all over Sabine like sun-warmed honey.
I don’t like it. Hell, I fucking hate it.
I chew on the side of my cheek while I slump on a wooden bench fifty paces away, at the garden’s edge, arms crossed so tightly I’m cutting off my own damn blood flow.
Ever since Sabine’s Gloaming reached its fever pitch and broke, she’s been the picture of health.
Physically, I mean. She literally radiates—especially when she isn’t paying attention—with a divine glow.
But her soul?
Her soul is in fucking tatters. Apparently, I’m the only one who can see it. The other gods treat her like she’s already seated on one of their ten thrones, guzzling from a golden goblet.
Since I drank her blood, I can sense things about her, more and more each day.
How heavy each step feels across the throne room floor.
How each smile pains her. She can’t even bear to look at her offerings, though they’d give her strength—all she can see is suffering people who need her for a power she can’t yet wield.
And so here we are. Someone had to help her. Train her. Teach her how the fuck to be a goddess.
I’d have dragged myself to hell by the fingernails before I’d let Artain, that deceitful bastard, teach her a damn thing.
Same goes for Iyre. She might be the Goddess of Chastity, but seriously, she’s the biggest bitch I’ve ever crossed.
I’ll admit that the God of Day, Samaur, doesn’t grate quite as much on my nerves, but I still don’t like the way he eyes Sabine like a midnight snack.
And Vale? That asshole is the one who put her in this mess with a blade in her heart.
Which leaves only one god.
Immortal Woudix.
He’s the only one out of their vicious so-called family I grudgingly approve of to help Sabine, despite every voice of common sense in me screaming that this is a bad idea.
Every woman in the castle drools after Woudix’s tall, dark, silent self, never mind that he could kill them with a single touch.
“I can tame lightning,” Sabine counters Woudix, holding up her palms.
I smirk to myself as I listen in. You tell him, little violet.
“Solene could tame lightning,” Woudix corrects. “You are not Solene. Not yet. Lightning may respond in unpredictable ways to your wildest impulses, but you will not be able to summon it at will until you’ve mastered your fey.”
Sabine huffs a long breath, leaning back on the blanket she’s sitting on at his feet. “Go ahead.”
“Fae bloodlines,” Woudix continues in his flat affect, “are not linear. They fork and spiral. It’s why locating the correct godkissed people can be a challenge for Immortal Vale.
Also, why it is not a quick process. During the Second Return, it took one hundred godkissed searchers twelve years to find Alyssantha.
Her resting place was discovered to be within the body of a young whore in the southern Golath hills. ”
Sabine leans forward, her legs crossed in the tall grass, hanging on his words. I can pick up on the wariness in her breath—she doesn’t trust Woudix an ounce more than I do—but her rabid hunger extends to knowledge, too.
If she could, I think she’d drink down all the facts Woudix is spewing like wine.
Gods help me, weeks pass like this. Hours upon hours of Woudix and her seated in the grass, with me watching from a distant bench, as he dulls my mind with such achingly boring lectures that I want to punch holes in my ears.
Me? I only care about fae lore enough to help Sabine through the worst of her changes. And to know my enemy. At least my time with Rian taught me that.
I assumed Sabine would be in lock-step with me.
Sure, she still curses out Iyre whenever their paths cross, and she refuses to so much as speak to Artain, but each day she leans a little closer to Woudix.
Her questions to him used to hang heavy with suspicion.
Now, all I hear is curiosity. Yesterday, she laughed at something he said.
And that motherfucker’s sense of humor is dull as a wooden axe.
I understand why she’s interested in fae history. She needs to know these things—what came before, what built this world, and what broke it. She’s trying to find her place in it.
But while she’s learning the past, I can’t stop thinking about the future.
That itch between my shoulder blades is getting louder.
The one that won’t let me forget the map of Lunden Valley.
The rumored movement of Rian’s troops. Astagnon’s encroaching battalions along the southern wall.
The itch that whispers what I keep trying not to say aloud:
You’re a king, whether you want the crown or not.
So fucking act like it.
“Lord Basten.” A castle messenger addresses me from a few steps away, and I jump.
Gods, I didn’t even hear his footsteps approaching. I’m off my game. Distracted. I blame Woudix and his sinful smile.
“What is it?” I snap.
Bowing his head, he says, “As you requested, the Luden River Valley refugees have gathered. They are waiting for you in Hailstrom Tower’s second-floor chamber.” He averts his eyes when he addresses me. It plucks an errant chord in my gut. He might as well have addressed me as Your Highness.
I sigh. Life was a hell of a lot easier when I was just Wolf.
“Right.” I groan as I push to my feet, sliding a growlesome look toward Woudix, who is currently cuddled up next to Sabine on their blanket, showing her illustrations from a dusty, leather-bound manuscript. He’s rattling on now about some fae tribunal eight hundred years ago.
It grates at me, walking away from Sabine. Leaving her alone with the Ender. I don’t think he can kill her, but he can do worse: Seduce her with his dark charm.
I’ll admit that I’ve eyed him like a hawk, but in the weeks they’ve worked together, Woudix hasn’t once tried anything.
No lingering looks, no flirtations, no fae bullshit.
Just those droning, endless lectures. Which—fuck me sideways—seem to actually be working.
Day by day, Sabine is…different. She’s steadier now.
Her heartbeat more regular. Her eyes clearer.
I just wish it wasn’t him helping her.
“Hey. Deathbringer.” I stride up to interrupt their conversation—moved on now to the fascinating topic of seasonal court decorations—and lower my voice to its deepest growl.
“I have somewhere to be. While I’m gone, if you lay one glowy finger on this woman, I swear by gods greater than you that I’ll hollow out your skull and use it as a piss bucket. ”
Immortal Woudix calmly tilts his head toward the sound of my voice, blinking at the threat as if I’m nothing more than a warm breeze. He’s in his human glamour now, but even like this, he gives off such otherworldly energy that it gives me fucking chills.
“Where are you going?” Sabine asks, looking up at me so sweetly it aches.
“Nowhere.” I soften my voice for her. “You just study. Take your time. I’m proud of how hard you’re working.”
The question remains in her eyes.
“Truly,” I insist. “I’m a paltry human doing paltry human things.”
She snorts but turns back to the illustration of themed seasonal garlands.
As I follow the messenger across the Twilight Garden, I roll my shoulders back. Trying to work out kinks from the old injury that still pains me, though recently, the ache has settled in my shoulder blades more by the day.
Shadows swallow us as we enter the Hailstrom Tower and make our way to a spartan meeting room on the second floor, with a single leather chair and a yew desk as the only furniture to speak of.
A gathering of a dozen road-weary peasants, their backs slumped with exhaustion, clusters in the room’s center.
Almost all of them bear the spiral tattoo on their chins.
When I appear in the doorway, the menfolk remove their woolen caps and duck their heads. “Lord Basten.”
Dammit—that ache in my shoulders is back, worse than ever.
Every throb reminding me I’m not a commoner like them anymore.
“Can’t we get these people some damn benches?” I bark at the messenger. His head cocks like a bird, puzzled by the request. I stare him down until he scurries off, and soon, a few wooden benches are carted in.
Once the villagers are seated, I circle the heavy yew desk and—after a deep breath—settle into the leather chair that reeks of privilege.
“Right. Thanks for coming.” I pick up the desk’s dagger-like letter opener without thinking, then realize I’m basically brandishing a knife.
I set it down and awkwardly adjust my position in the chair.
“I—I summoned you because I wanted you to know that your pleas to Lady Sab—to Lady Solene—haven’t fallen on deaf ears. ”
“We tried to make our case to Immortal Vale, as well,” a red-nosed woman in a tattered shawl says. “To all the woken fae. None of them listened.”
And you’re surprised? I think wryly.
I clear my throat. “Times are tense. Vale is intently focused on locating and waking the remaining fae. It’s all part of preparing for an inevitable war with King Rian’s forces in Astagnon.
For her part, Lady Solene is anxious to provide you with aid.
And she will—as soon as she’s able. She has a long journey ahead before she can harness her powers without, you know, blasting half a mountain apart. ”
Nervous looks answer me.