Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
ASTER
I t was my fault. I’d given Morgana too much truth. The kind of brutal honesty that could break a person’s will to live, their reserve. And, at first I thought that’s exactly what I’d done as she collapsed. When the shadows overtook the room, I wondered if she’d lose herself to the madness like Galen had.
But there was something dangerous about this. It smelled lethal. Poisonous, almost. And when the fires followed it, I feared what sort of magic this was. I cursed, grabbing hold of her and stomping out the fire that had consumed Galen’s letter, desperately to try and save it. I took hold of it and ran from the room, twisting out of the figures that took form from the darkness and sliced through my jacket, into my arm. I curled my frame over Morgana to protect her.
They chased after me into the halls, up the stairwell, through the corridors until the large chandeliers near the main hall provided enough light that the darkness could not survive. I turned over my shoulder in time to see it hiss, fizzling out of existence as if it were no stronger than droplets of water over a blazing fire.
Only then did I slow my pace. I looked down at Morgana, her cheeks and arms scratched from the shadows that had attacked us. I wasn’t sure if that was Morgana’s doing—if she was fighting against herself in this wicked pursuit of agony—but it was lethal nonetheless.
After calling for the guards to control any of the fire that remained, I raced toward my room—one her servants would not expect her to be in. One where Erynna, Atlas, or any of the council would not expect her to reside. I rested her on the bed, removed her shoes, and wiped away the ash that could have infected her cuts with a damp cloth. They were superficial at best, but I had to make sure.
I pulled the covers over her, rested the charred letter on the bedside table next to her, and sat on the chair in the farthest corner so I could watch over her.
Just as the sunlight started bleeding through the sheer curtains, her eyes opened, bloodshot, her body trembling. My voice was but a rasp when I said, “You are safe, Morgana.”
Her head whipped in my direction. First, anger consumed her—it turned her cheeks red and her glare wide—but then something made her fade. The color, the rage, the uncertainty vanished as realization hit her like a blade. She started hyperventilating, clutching the soft covers and shaking her head. Then, around the time she reached for her face, she winced. “What… what the hells happened?”
My face curved into a frown. “We were attacked. Either by your own magic, or… something else. For our sake, I hope it is the former.”
“What?” she gasped and sat up, tearing the covers from her so she could stand. I watched, unsure whether I should stop her or watch her fall back down, but she merely wobbled and grabbed her forehead. “No. No, you’re lying to me. That letter. Where is the damned letter?”
I pursed my lips into a line, flicking my focus to the bedside table. She followed it, snatching it with a fierceness that tore the charred paper. She watched bits of the corners speckle into the air, fluttering to the ground. There were holes in the middle from the fire.
The world faded from her eyes. That fierceness, the ferocity, it all crumbled into a million pieces. Her brother’s words, his hope, his warning, all but reduced to ashes.
My heart clutched in my chest. Slowly standing, I approached her and held out a hand to touch her back, but she jolted away and clutched onto the paper. More of it crumbled into ash, and her voice croaked out in this miserable sob. I curled my fingers into a closed fit, letting it fall to my side.
“I am… I am sorry, little dove.”
The fury. It ignited within her as she whipped toward me and pointed a finger at me. “Do not call me that,” she hissed and shoved a flat palm into my chest. “You are cruel, Aster. Evil. If you lust after an iron-fist reputation, you have earned it. I will spend my days making sure every corner of our world knows the wrath of Aster Sinclair, cursed prince of Verdantis.”
I stilled. She looked at me with such hatred that I felt part of my heart chip away. I could not fight, defend my name, or even turn away. I was at her mercy as she let her hand fall back to her side, twist toward the exit, and rush out of the room.
Cruelty was something taught. I was certain of such a thing.
And if Morgana thought I was such a terrible monster, then perhaps it was for the better.
She could learn her magic, and I could find my cure. That would be that, and we would both be safe.
But the shadows welled inside of me like a storm brewing out at sea, and when I turned to my bathroom to soak away the heartache, they bled off my skin and taunted me from the darkest corners of the room. I succumbed to nothing as they forced me onto my knees and hissed at me to fail.
Aster Sinclair, they said. Wretched Prince of Nothing.