Chapter 32
The sun rises just like it does every day.
The birds chirp and the crocuses open their petals to the morning rays as our strange threesome packs up our camp.
Everything is as it should be … everything except the atmosphere that hangs between us.
The next time we stop will be on the outskirts of Amale.
Kieran has secured us a safe house just outside the capital city, a temporary respite where we can wait until the other governors arrive.
He claims it belongs to a non-magical friend of the resistance, but he won’t say who.
Every question is met with an annoying ‘trust me’ that makes it increasingly difficult to do so.
The only information he’ll divulge is to confirm to Cal that this supposed ally is covertly acquiring a detailed floor plan of the palace. Considering I am not well-versed enough in its schematics to fully form an attack, I can’t complain.
The time I spent in the palace over the years wasn’t that of an overly welcomed guest, but that of an inconvenient pest that the council was forced to tolerate because of my title.
The puppet king’s council is the real pest, one that Marks likely has no intention to exterminate considering he already controls them.
Whichever of the aevus sits the Amethyst Throne next will have to disband them if they wish to make any progress towards changing Corinth. I wouldn’t trust a single one of them as far as I can throw them.
Hooves beating on the dirt road are the only sound that’s shared between the three of us as we ride toward Amale.
My magic is still barely at half strength.
It needs to rest, and Cal was adamant that we stay for another day so I could sleep, but I refused.
We need to get to the city. We need to strategize and perform reconnaissance while the palace is abuzz with activity in the days before the Ascension Vote.
It will be our best chance to sneak in undetected and if we wait here, we might miss it.
Anxiety causes magic to dance to life under my skin. It seems emotions are the key to my power. Hurt, anger, and pain feed it like an accelerant on a dying flame. The roughness of my exposed soul like the bark of the tinder, my breath the oxygen that fans it.
Like a graverobber, I unbury my hidden emotions as we ride.
I turn over secrets of heavy stone and dig through the dirt of heartache and lies, careful to avoid the iron-clad coffin that contains my heart—the one place I don’t dare open.
Power rises within me with each shovelful until it begs for release.
I summon the only element I can call my own, filling the empty ground alongside the road with clusters of deep purple flowers as we ride past.
Godsbane.
Poison.
Death.
All names for the dark blooms that effortlessly sprout from my fingers. All names I’m starting to claim as my own.
It will cost my lifeblood to unmake a god, but no price is too steep to save my home. And if I’m going to have even a sliver of a chance at that salvation, I need to hone my weapon.
Glimmering green bands of my still exhausted magic swirl from my body, drawn to the magnetic pull of Cal’s aura. They tease and prod the edges until it parts for me. I bathe in the shimmering ocean of his power, letting it wash over me until I’m coated in it.
A ball of water forms in my hand, a multitude of magical droplets spinning in aqueous unison.
Cal’s head snaps in my direction, tendrils of his dark hair waving in a breeze that answers to me. The element that has evaded me finally succumbs to my will. Air doesn’t particularly care for my intrusion, but it recognizes me as the ally its master needs to live.
A prideful smile blooms across Cal’s face at the way our power dances, entwined in a delicate waltz that only we can see and feel. The edges of Kieran’s brown cloak ruffle in the wind but he pays it no mind. To him, it’s not the conquered final element, but a natural occurrence.
I push deeper into the shimmering mass of Cal’s power, ignoring the way my cheeks pink under the weight of his praise. I release the air and water in search of the final element he wields.
Even in my weakened state, the glow of our swirling viridian power could rival the sun.
Tiny sparks sprout from my fingertips to form a single flame that hovers just above my palm.
It’s engrossingly gorgeous, the way the orange base gives way to a flickering yellow center before tapering off into a blinding white point.
Each of the elements is capable of sustaining life or ending it. Despite the constant growth, decay doesn’t claw at me. The dark magic within me quiets in the haze of Cal’s power, not kneeling to him but satisfied to hover at the edges while I take from the god.
The heated call of the magical fire sings to me in a familiar tune: destroy, destroy, destroy.
I breathe it in, relishing in the temptation only for a moment.
The smoldering sensation courses through me, the flame duplicating itself in my other palm until I hold the beginnings of our ruination in my hands.
A blast of icy wind cuts sharply through the trees, breaking my focus. The fire extinguishes, the ashes collecting in my palms tempting me to call it forth again.
“Burning the godsdamned Kingswood down is certainly one way to get Marks’ attention, though I think that’s the opposite of what we’re hoping to accomplish,” Kieran huffs.
“I wasn’t going to burn the Kingswood down,” I chide.
“I couldn’t have stopped you.” Cal’s muttered confession settles over us like a wet blanket.
The call to lose myself in his power is strong, my inexperience too great to be trusted. I can practice on the demigods, on Kieran and other other governors when they arrive, but I have to resist the captain’s pull.
When push comes to shove, when we finally face Marks and I attempt to pour every ounce of my magic into him, my only chance at saving everyone is if I don’t know how to stop.
The closer we get to Amale, the more the weight of our monumental task settles over us.
The sun completes its arc overhead and disappears below the horizon, but still we ride. The moon never appears in the sky—a welcome relief for those who seek to traverse under the cover of darkness. The forgotten Goddess of Light grants us one small mercy at least.
The Starry Wolf and the Great Owl, constellations of the god-brothers Mikais and Nobus, stalk us on our trek into the heart of the Diamond Region. The clouds seem to deliberately move around them as to not block their all-seeing gaze.
The dirt road gives way to worn cobblestones as the dilapidated buildings on the city’s edge come into view.
Decades ago, under a different, kinder king, the edges of Amale were bustling with commerce and industry.
Talented tailors and dressmakers crafted highly sought-after fashions from shops that once lined these streets.
Culinary masterpieces were created to fill the stomachs of the rich who often traveled to the far reaches of the city.
But those hearths have long since grown cold.
As most trends do, the favor of the wealthy shifted in time, leaving the tradespeople without the income they relied on. After all, you can’t covet something everyone has, and the Corinthian nobility are driven by their desire to be coveted by those they deem less fortunate.
Only the poorest of Amale’s citizens reside here now. Weather-worn wooden planks make up the derelict homes and storefronts that line the streets. Instead of glass panes, long swaths of cloth hang from window openings and flit in the warm coastal breeze.
This late into the night, with no candles or fires burning to illuminate the shanties, the city feels inhabited only by the ghosts of those who once flourished here, the only noises the haunting whistle of the wind and the clacking of hooves on the jagged, cracked stones.
The ever vigilant military captain, Cal scans the buildings for any signs of soldiers or spies as Kieran leads us silently through the battered town.
I memorize the path, three right turns and a single left from the city’s edge.
Halfway to the palace and the Port of Gems, the shining coastal port whose waters are said to be as turquoise as the gemstones exported there.
Kieran comes to an abrupt halt in front of a row of run-down homes, each blending seamlessly with the other identical buildings spaced only feet apart on each side. They look abandoned. It’s been a long time since anyone looked too long at these houses, and I pray that doesn’t change now.
The governor of the Ruby Region dismounts, carefully bouncing on his toes as he lands to soften the sound.
Approaching the worn door, Kieran knocks four times.
One long, two short, one long—a code that’s immediately answered by two short and two long knocks.
Whoever is on the other side wasn’t just expecting us, they were actively standing guard.
The door swings open, revealing a large figure completely shrouded in a Corinthian gray cloak. Breath turns to stone in my lungs as two large hands reach forward and grip Kieran by the shoulders.
“Are you hurt?” the man asks in a husky whisper.
“No.” Kieran’s reply is quickly snuffed out as the hooded figure’s lips find his.
Cal gently clears his throat, a reminder to the men of our presence, but also a cue for me to fix my steamed expression.
Trust me, Kieran said. A lot of fucking good that that did me.
“We weren’t expecting you, Klein,” Cal says.
Elias Klein, member of the former king’s council and a loud advocate for a singular national religion, swings his attention toward us, letting the hood of the cloak fall back to reveal black curls and rich mahogany eyes.
“Captain,” he nods, a wide smile plastered across his traitorous face as he takes in Cal and avoids me entirely. “Come inside.”