Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I feel a sharp pain across my hand as I write, causing the quill to scratch across the page. Before I can brace myself, Margaret strikes me again.
“Start over!”
Flipping over the parchment, I start at the top. Even though I had nearly finished the last page, something erased all my progress. Sighing, I write again, but this time the quill in my hand has iron barbs that dig into my skin and cause my fingers to bleed.
“Start over!” She strikes me again.
I can’t see the parchment—the desk is slick with my blood. With my left hand, I drag through the liquid, searching frantically as panic rises.
“No, no, no…” I whisper, knowing this torment will never end unless I find that page.
“Start over!”
I gasp, startling awake. My eyes dart around the dark room, looking for danger, but there is none. I glance down at my hands, expecting bruises and blood, but they are clean and dry, only the scars to remind me. I sit up, taking a few slow, frazzled breaths as I wait for the fear to subside.
A nightmare.
The last thing I remember is Wrath carrying me after I hit burnout. How long have I been out? It took Rowena a week to wake up after the festival. Every muscle fiber in my body complains as I lower myself back down.
I lie in silence, staring at the ceiling to steady my breath. The walls inch nearer, closing in like a vise as panic threatens to swallow me whole. I stand and toss my cloak around my shoulders like a shrug and slide into slippers to enter the hall.
When I had nightmares back home in Cathros, I would go out on my balcony to get some fresh air. The view of the sea always calmed me down, and although there isn’t any ocean here in the North, perhaps a view of the mountains could ease my weary soul.
I open the door to a random balcony, closing it softly behind me.
It’s dark outside, and I have no idea what time it is.
Above me, stars glitter against the mountain peaks like tiny spectators.
It is a sight I never tire of. Khalessor looks carved from a dream, every color too vivid to belong to the waking world.
It’s snowing, a light dusting of flecks falling from the sky around me.
The frigid air makes my nose run, and my body has a slight chill that won't go away no matter how tightly I pull the cloak around me.
Using my pointer finger, I draw swirls and other small designs on the frosted railing to distract myself.
Despite my shivering, I can feel my body relax.
Small flecks of snow cover my hair, the waves still flowing loose down to my waist from sleep.
The balcony door behind me opens, causing me to glance over my shoulder.
I see Wrath dressed in a thick black coat with a fur collar.
His face is slightly displeased by the cold as he steps out to join me.
Snowflakes nestle in Wrath’s dark hair like glittering stars.
His magic skates across my skin, and I realize how accustomed I’ve grown to the sensation of it.
“You’re awake,” he comments.
“How long was I out?” I ask.
“Three days.” Wrath’s eyes scan my scrawlings. “How do you feel?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Why?”
“Thinking,” I reply plainly, inhaling a deep breath. “I know, dangerous.”
His brows lower. “Who said you’re not allowed to think?”
I shrug, not necessarily in the mood to explain the details of my father’s retributions. If Ulrik had his way, I would have never spoken in his presence. Maybe then I’d be a perfect daughter. Not a person, but a blank canvas for him to paint.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
“Aren’t you going to force me to answer anyway?” I counter, not in the mood for repartee. I may be used to the feeling of his magic, but the violence of pulling words from my mouth will never be familiar or welcome—nor is it conducive to my plan.
If I can’t get Wrath to respect my boundary, then all of the information I collect will be for nothing. His mood dictates how far I’m able to plan, but he won’t know what to believe if I can find a way to outsmart him at his own game.
Wrath doesn’t respond right away. His shoulders are rigid, as if he can’t quite relax around me. He studies me like a riddle he can’t solve. “Not tonight,” he finally replies.
“The Eldertree spoke to me during Lunithia,” I tell him, changing the subject. “Rowena told me it used to speak to everyone.”
“The last person it spoke to was me, nine years ago.” Wrath pulls down the edge of his right sleeve.
“What did it tell you?”
“You must rule.” His voice is low, as if the memory haunts him.
“You’ve only been King for nine years?” Surprise fills me. The other rulers of Dratheria have held their thrones much longer. “Who was king before?”
“Someone who believed the curse was a good thing.”
“You overthrew the King?” I ask, completely intrigued.
Wrath takes a deep breath, waiting for a moment before speaking. “My father pulled many strings in the shadows,” he says vaguely. “After that, I was installed as king.”
I pause, considering his choice of words. Installed. Wrath made it sound like he was selected, rather than a choice. He was forced into the role by his father’s expectations, rather than born into it.
“You didn’t want to be king?” I pick up on his hesitation.
“Our lives are threads woven along an unseen path—one whose reasons we may never fully understand.” The edges in Wrath’s voice have all softened. He avoids answering my question, which leads me to believe this role is not what he wanted.
“The tree told me, ‘Long live the queen.’” I hope he can decode the message for me.
“Interesting…”
“I don’t feel like a queen,” I say truthfully.
“I don’t feel like a destroyer of peace,” he echoes.
His admission surprises me. During the battle in Liora, I saw firsthand the skilled and savage warrior he is, and yet, he doesn’t resonate with such a title. Did he force himself to be that way just to fit a mold? Or is he manipulating me to feel pity for him?
“Then why do they call you Wrath's Blade?” I ask, returning to my drawing now that enough new snow has piled up.
“Is that what's keeping you up at night?”
I let out a soft laugh. “Of course not.”
“It started as a tale after we killed the King of Nythara. Everyone called me that, and eventually I stopped correcting people.”
“I thought Taryn killed Arthur?” I ask, recalling the tale she told me while traveling to Khalessor.
“She did.” Wrath nods. “Most don’t want to credit her because she was only nineteen at the time.”
The soldiers’ pride must have been wounded, losing their chance at glory in favor of a young girl. Taryn seems proud of her accomplishment, and despite people wanting to take it away from her, Wrath acknowledged it without question.
“Do you feel like you deserve such a title?”
“Do you?” he counters.
I ponder his question for a moment, considering the person in front of me versus the tales people tell about him.
While a bit abrasive and ferocious at times, Wrath is a king who cares for his people and fights for them on the front lines.
We may not see eye to eye, but I can recognize his tenacity and effort as a ruler.
I shrug. “The humans blame you for breaking the treaty.”
“Do you want to know why we attacked Nythara?” Wrath’s question is soft. I expect him to get defensive or angry in response to me, but tonight he seems… introspective.
I glance up. “Okay.”
“They kept traveling through Crossgate and attacking the Elvarrans in Corovya,” he explains. “They almost wiped out that entire territory before I finally stepped in. Did Taryn tell you what happened to her?”
“She did.” The Kingdom of Nythara was known for its hunting and fur trade. I wonder if that made its inhabitants equally skilled hunters of the Elvarrans.
“She is one of the lucky ones.” Wrath’s gaze darkens. “If you remember, there was little to no bloodshed for about five years after that.”
I think back to those years. Valentin wasn’t off in battle as much as he had been before I left. We would race horses in the gardens, sneak around the castle halls, and stay up all night playing games. They were some of my most cherished years, the ones I always look back upon when I feel homesick.
“Those were peaceful years,” I admit.
“It’s because we controlled Crossgate and kept it closed most of the time,” Wrath says. “Until your brother recently took control of it.”
“Yes, that was recently. Maybe five months ago?” I nod, remembering that Timothy and Valentin were away for quite some time at the beginning of the year.
“Since then, humans have been traveling to the base of the Northern Alps, poisoning the roots of the trees and rivers. It kills off the natural wildlife, so we have less to hunt, and it taints our water supply.” Wrath’s words feel hollow, almost haunted.
“We had to burn it away. That’s why it’s destroyed. ”
“I see.”
I remember what the lands surrounding the base of the Northern Alps looked like.
It is scorched and devoid of all life. Liora is equally downtrodden and ghastly, like they were struggling to survive.
It is likely why they always requested more supplies and aid from my father.
If there are no animals to hunt, they would need a constant supply of rations.
They were so desperate for money that they attempted to kidnap me, descending into madness.
“Is that why you traveled to Cathros?” I ask curiously.
When Gilead, Stanik, and Taryn came across me in the gardens, they were scouting for something. The three stealthily scaled the back wall just as I had reached the clearing, killing Timothy with ease. What were they looking for?
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Why do you think?”
“I don’t know!”
“That’s not an answer,” he challenges.
“You wanted to find out why the King of Avelisar had traveled to Cathros?” I say the first thing that comes to mind.
“Come on, Raelys.” He sounds almost disappointed in me. “You know why.”
I don’t want to come to terms with it, but deep down, I know the truth. Yet, I feel so foolish, playing right into Wrath’s hands. He accepted my deal too easily, binding me to him, leaving this damned mark on my skin.
“Me?” I say softly.
“Yes.”
“You knew as soon as you saw my necklace,” I state the obvious, still wary of him. “Then why not take me right there? Why accept my deal?”
“You needed to come with me willingly.”
“So you could manipulate me into thinking you’re some type of savior?”
“I am desperate, Raelys,” Wrath says despondently. “You are my last hope.”
“I’m no one’s hope,” I whisper, feeling the weight of all of my defeats and disasters compounding into one.
“You’re mine.”
I’m stunned into silence. The way he looks at me sends a flutter through my chest, but I push it away, denying the desire. I tell myself that it’s only the mark that makes me feel this way, yet whenever we’re alone, I see a side of him that makes me doubt it.
“Now that I’ve answered your questions.” He reaches out, completing the swirl I made in the banister earlier. “You must answer one of mine.”
“What is it?”
“Why do you have those scars on your hands?”
My palm moves to instinctively cover my scarred flesh, even though I know he’s seen them.
The weight of this burden drags me down like an anchor across the sea floor.
Maybe it’s best to let go and float to the surface for air.
Maybe, by the grace of Itheon, he’ll understand that we are both trying to survive in this court of curses and crowns, bound by the expectations around us.
“My governess enjoyed using physical punishment during my lessons,” I say vaguely, finally admitting what happened to me.
“How long was she with you?”
“Since I was ten.”
“Your governess harmed you for over a decade?” His anger is palpable.
I nod, trying my best not to let my emotions show on my face. It is strange to talk about this with anyone, let alone Wrath. I am ashamed that I was too weak to stand up for myself—that I let Margaret get away with it for all those years.
“I’m sorry.” Wrath’s words feel sincere. “You are not weak; you are resilient. Your pain will never be a measure of who you are, nor dictate your path.”
I built walls so high to protect myself that I forgot what it felt like to see past them. And yet Wrath found a way to break through, gentle where others were ruthless. His compassion runs deeper than anything I’ve known, and still, I can’t help but feel I don’t deserve it.
“Thank you…” I lower my hands, no longer shielding them.
Wrath's tender gaze sends a burning flush across my skin.
Everything around me suddenly becomes attuned to him.
Something stirs in my chest the longer he watches me.
My pulse quickens as my gaze drops to his plush lips, wondering what it would feel like to kiss him.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine, replacing all common sense and logic with desire and want.
Get a hold of yourself, Raelys.
Wrath’s head tilts slightly, as if sensing my thoughts.
A silky lock of his hair falls, brushing against his cheek.
Wrath’s expression is unreadable as an invisible string slowly pulls us together.
I go still. He is so close I can count every eyelash.
Something curls in my stomach from anticipation as he nears, yet I don’t pull away.
The door opens suddenly, and Kieran steps onto the balcony. “Your Majesty?”
My breath catches, and I jump back slightly. Embarrassment scalds me like boiling water. I search for reprieve, my eyes darting to the floor, the mountains, the sky, anything. I was about to kiss Wrath. My adversary was a moment away from shattering the careful restraint we both held.
The urge to flee fills me, and panic slowly consumes all logical thought.
My conflicting feelings send me into a tailspin of mortification.
What am I doing, pining over the king? I must still be exhausted, my mind not yet back in order from the burnout, nothing more.
I am surely misinterpreting the situation.
There is not a chance in the seven kingdoms that Wrath would ever kiss me.
“Goodnight, King Wrath.” I leave the balcony without another glance.