Chapter 8 #2
Sabine’s lip curls in frustration, and I half expect her to snarl that it’s their fault for living within Valvere territory.
I shift in my seat, unable to look at her.
It wasn’t so long ago that her father made the same devil’s bargain, letting starleons loose upon the innocent people in Duren’s arena.
At the time, Sabine did the impossible—rode a damn monoceros—to save them.
Now she wants to snuff those same lives out?
I clear my throat, and something about the sound makes her blink like she’s been shaken from slumber.
She sits upright, smoothing back the torn paper scraps of the map.
“R—right. Yes, I understand that. Of course, we don’t want anyone hurt.
But there still must be something we can do.
We have a monoceros. Goldenclaws. Starleons.
Gods who can turn day into night and banish souls to the Underrealm.
” She pushes out her chair to pivot toward Woudix.
“Claim Rian’s soul, as you did just now with Beneveto, and let’s be done with it. ”
I flinch. Rian is a bastard—absolutely. And he’ll pay for his betrayal. But her anger, her brutality…it’s like I don’t recognize her.
“I could,” Woudix explains, sinking back into his chair and resting one hand casually on his dinner knife. “But claiming a soul before its time upsets the balance of the Underrealm. There have been instances, in the past, where it’s caused…problems.”
A chill bites at my ankles, and I drag my feet further under the table’s shelter. I can’t help but think of Beneveto’s corpse snapping its undead jaw. Hungry for flesh.
“Then we’ll go.” Sabine turns to me with fever-bright eyes, picking up her own knife and dragging the pointed end across the map from Norhelm to Old Coros. “Rian wronged us as much as anyone, and now that I have the power to make him pay, nothing would please me more.”
I don’t think she notices how hard she’s digging the knife’s point into the map.
I shift in my chair, keeping the corner of one eye locked to that knife in her hand.
“What about your training?” I press my hands flat to the table, steadying my voice.
“You’ve come a long way, but even you said you’re not in full control yet.
Burying Rian in a rockslide is one thing—but what happens if you lose control again?
If it’s another Garden of Ten Gods moment, only this time it’s not just one man, it’s a city?
” I hold her gaze. “Maybe we stay. Just a little longer. Give you time to work more with…Woudix. Get your bearings before we push forward.”
I practically have to vomit the god’s name out. It’s repulsive, the idea that I’m advocating for her to spend more time with that graveyard-loving asshole. But it’s the only card I can think to play now.
Sabine’s fingers slacken on the knife as she twists toward the window. Outside, storm clouds churn—thick, dark, and wrong. I don’t think she called them with intention, but they’re here all the same.
“She’s ready,” Woudix says, low and certain.
I don’t care at all for his tone.
Vale stands, towering over the rest of us, and rests his fists with a finality on the table. “My interests are larger than who sits on a mortal throne. I care not for such petty squabbles—soon enough, we’ll rule over all mankind.”
Sabine folds her hands on the table and says measuredly, “That’s true, Father.
But wouldn’t you say a kingdom at peace would be far more welcoming to fae rule than one at war?
With Basten and I on the throne, we can ensure the public will embrace you with overflowing offerings, instead of putting up a resistance. ”
I bristle, hiding my emotion by tapping my heel on the floor. If you ask me, unleashing Sabine on the outside world still falls in the risky-as-fuck camp.
Vale considers this. “You can open Old Coros to me?”
I shift in my chair, biting back objections.
Sabine nods eagerly, sure. “The people will bow down at first sight of you.”
He taps his finger on the map, considering, and then stands.
“It’s decided, then. Lord Basten, you and my daughter will return to Old Coros as soon as supplies can be readied.
You’ll take the throne. Prepare the public for our arrival.
We will enter the town gates on the Blood Moon, and accept a devoted reception. ”
Sabine’s eyes go wide. “The Blood Moon? That isn’t much time. Only weeks. And the rest of the fae aren’t awake—”
“The Blood Moon.” His tone is final as he signals to Captain Tatarin, who begins to roll up the map.
Sabine looks down at her hands, steadies her feelings, and then looks back up with resolve. She nods. “We’ll take Myst and Tòrr.”
“Tòrr remains here.” There’s no crack in the foundation of Vale’s voice. He offers no explanation, but I recognize a hostage when I see it. He’s afraid that if Sabine has Tòrr, she might not fall in line with his plan. That we could rebel, turn against him.
Personally? I’m relieved—I’ll say it. It’ll be hard enough keeping Sabine tame during the journey, let alone a fucking monoceros.
“We’ll take Myst and Ranger,” I tell her.
“Regular horses won’t draw as much attention, anyway.
We don’t have Ferra to change Tòrr’s appearance again—and the people of Astagnon don’t know that you’re Immortal Solene.
Let’s save that information for when it’s most strategic to reveal, not when marching into the city on a monoceros. ”
Maximan says, “I’ll leave as well straight after this meeting. Ride ahead of you to Old Coros to alert Lord Kendan of your arrival. He’ll have the King’s Council prepared for your coronation soon after you set foot in Hekkelveld Castle.”
“Great.” I slump over my dinner plate, my appetite fled, as though the weight of that damn golden circle is already making my neck ache.
Most of all, I’m worried about that vengeful glint in Sabine’s eye. Since the Gloaming, she’s been unpredictable. A different version of herself. I keep her satiated as much as I can, but what if she slides so far that I can’t follow her?
No acolyte has lived more than a few months.
A soft hand falls on my shoulder, and I flinch. Always a soldier’s instincts. But it’s only Sabine, her big eyes so blue I could drown in them, her lips parted enough that I can see no sign of elongated incisors. I could almost pretend I imagined her feverish eyes earlier.
She tucks her head close to my ear.
“Volkany is my birthright,” she murmurs low, knowing my godkiss will pick it up, “but Astagnon is my home. It’s yours, too. So many good people there who don’t deserve to be crushed under the wheels of war. If we can stop it, we have to try.”
I scold myself for doubting her. My little violet is hardly a monster. She’s still the same girl who won over all of Astagnon as the Winged Lady, fierce and forgiving at the same time.
Able to rein in her own worst tendencies.
And as her acolyte, I’ll pray on my knees that she’ll stay that way.
“Okay,” I answer. “We’ll leave at dawn.”
And then, it’s a feverdream of motion—packing foodstuffs and supplies for the journey, oiling the horses’ tack, checking and rechecking that I’ve packed every knife I can strap onto my body.
The entire castle echoes with preparations, and in every raised voice and stomping boot, I can feel the restless shifting of people who don’t need a godkiss to know that something is coming.
Like we’re all trying to close a door against a storm we can’t yet see.