Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Roremar
The next evening, Roremar flopped back on the couch in his father’s old study, his legs kicked up over the side of its rounded velvet arm. Though he supposed it was his study now, a twisted thing inside of him never allowed himself to refer to it as that. He didn’t deserve to claim it.
These four walls, with their rickety shelves lined with old tomes and the aged wooden desk that wobbled a bit when you slammed the drawers, were steeped in his father’s memory.
This entire house was. Even after a decade, he lingered, and while Roremar had certainly done despicable things in his life, erasing his father’s imprint on their lives was one he couldn’t fathom.
Despite—
No.
His throat closed at the thought, and he pushed upright, taking deep breaths to try to get air down.
He trained his gaze on the clock behind the desk, trimmed in dark wood with polished silver accents.
Made by his great grandmother, it was one of his father’s prized possessions.
The hands got the time wrong often with how many centuries the thing had been around, running on mystlight, but they were carved with intricate details.
Constellations and beautiful artistry that made Roremar sick when he considered that his father wasn’t here to see them anymore.
Tonight, Roremar counted the soft ticks as he tried to regain his breath.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” Roremar called, dragging a hand over his face and standing. Fates, he was tired, but he collected his features into the controlled mask he always wore around his mother, no matter how much pain lanced his chest.
But it was Nico who popped his head around the door. “How’s everything going?”
Sighing, Roremar strode to the desk and fell into the leather chair behind its broad surface. The material was cold, unfit to him. His sword—his father’s sword—was propped against the edge, always within reach.
“I’m almost done here,” he answered, assessing the papers piled before him.
Nico picked up a slip from the edge of the desk. “Mining on Zyon? Is this new?”
Roremar shook his head, organizing the files. “It’s been stalled for about five years, but they want to pick the project back up.”
“What are they searching for?” Nico asked, flipping to a new page.
“Damned if I know,” Roremar groaned. Leaning back against the chair, he propped his chin on his fist. A fire crackled away in the corner hearth, filling the silence as he tried to recall the details.
“The original documents are about some new oil that it was believed could coat thread when spinning it to make it more durable. Now it seems to have evolved into flowers and roots found in their mountain ranges that they think can be mulched into dye and enhance whatever objects the threads comprise to benefit readings.”
Nico let out a low whistle. “That’s sort of impressive.”
Roremar grunted. “I guess it is.”
Truly, the projects Deacon Silventa worked on were fascinating, Roremar just didn’t have room to process them.
Their father wasn’t a man who lived quietly.
He was industrious, always jumping onto new jobs and hobbies.
Roremar always suspected it was partially out of necessity—to provide for their family and dream of a future where they didn’t struggle—but also because he was a restless, exploratory spirit.
Someone who sought adventure and thrill.
Their oldest sister had inherited that trait from him. It was why Roremar had pushed her to stay in her position on the continent after their father died rather than snuffing out that vibrant spirit by locking her in this house.
But while Roremar was proud of his father’s work, he couldn’t deny the mess it left after he died.
The dozens of different projects he had a hand in meant, even now, there was constant paperwork. There always would be unless their family simply sold off all ownership. But how would that feel, to dismiss the work the man they lost spent so much time on and was so proud of?
It left Roremar with stacks of business, correspondence, and finances to review every week, but it also guaranteed at least small sums of money were being sent to them monthly from each project.
It wasn’t enough, but it was a huge reason he’d been able to keep them afloat all these years, combined with the meager income his mother made.
The other part…
His uncle.
But fuck, if that didn’t slice off a piece of his pride. His stomach soured at the thought.
“Leo would have a field day with it,” Nico commented of their fourteen-year-old brother.
Roremar laughed. “The day he gets his hands on this stuff, we’ll never hear from him again.”
And one day, Leo would. Roremar would happily bring his siblings into the fold if they wanted, but not now.
Not when Leo was still a kid. Their bookish, intuitive, clever younger brother deserved to read stories that nurtured his imagination and took his worries elsewhere, not reports that spun them.
No, this was Roremar’s responsibility.
He’d earned it.
Clearing his throat of that ever-present pain, he asked, “You’re packed?”
“Yes, and everything is arranged with mother to hold down the household for a few days. She was able to adjust her work schedule.”
“Good,” Roremar mused. They didn’t know how long they’d be on Alvan. He just had to hope his mother felt okay while they were gone. “It’s only a few hours journey by boat, so if we’re able to find information quickly, we could even be back day after tomorrow.”
“We could,” Nico said, hands tucked into his pockets. “It will be fine, Rore. The most important thing right now is solving this case.”
“You’re right,” Roremar muttered. “I’m heading to Fated Ink soon. Are you coming?”
Hesitation flashed through his brother’s ever-honest blue eyes. “Sure. Will Myrella be there?”
Roremar couldn’t help his laugh. “No, she’s meeting us at the docks tomorrow morning. Said she’d rather sleep in her own bed.” Nico nodded nonchalantly, and Roremar pursed his lips at his reluctance. “You want to talk about it?”
“No,” Nico said instantly.
But he didn’t leave the room as he had every other time Roremar asked, so he pushed. “You sure?”
“I…” He sighed. “I didn’t mean to lie to her, okay? I just knew when I met her that it was…bigger.”
“Bigger?”
Nico nodded, pressing a hand to his chest. “There was this pull when I saw her—I couldn’t look away.
Couldn’t stop fucking thinking about her from the moment she smiled at me.
It felt like fucking sunshine bleeding through my veins.
” He shook his head, running a hand through his hair.
For the first time, it struck Roremar just how much his sweet, charming younger brother had grown.
That Nico was a man, though his same soft heart beat within.
“But I’m not dumb, Rore. I see how much you sacrifice for this family. ”
Roremar stood, crossing his arms. “What do I have to do with this?”
“Why should you have to do it alone?” Nico asked. “When I was talking to Myrella, I saw this future unfolding. It felt unavoidable, the way I was drawn to her. And I knew if I didn’t leave right then, I would have been on my knees for that woman for the rest of my life.”
Hazel eyes pierced Roremar’s memory, his chest pounding, but he shoved it down. “I’m still not following.”
He let out a hard laugh. “Seriously? You think I’d just abandon you to deal with all this shit alone?
You’re finally letting me help. I won’t give that up for a woman, especially one I barely know.
So I told her I couldn’t see her again. And when my chest physically hurt at the prospect, like I was being torn apart, I sold the lie by saying I was leaving—to the army—so I wouldn’t be tempted to find her. ”
“Nico…” Roremar groaned, regret warping his heartbeat into a slow trudge. “I don’t want you to sacrifice happiness. That’s not why I do this.” He waved a hand over the desk. “It’s the opposite. I want you all to have everything father would have provided for us if he hadn’t died.”
That, and the guilt that plagued his nightmares with visions of his father’s death.
“But he did die, Rore. That’s our reality, and I don’t like that you make yourself face it all alone. You deserve to be happy, too,” Nico argued.
“No.” A cruel laugh. “I don’t.”
The viciousness in his voice stunned his brother into silence. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” Roremar patted Nico’s shoulder as he tried to walk past, but Nico stepped into his path.
“You think because you were both on that mission that you’re responsible for it, but you aren’t.”
Fucking Fates, his brother’s desperation was grueling. It tore his shredded soul into pieces bit by bit.
“Listen,” Roremar said, avoiding Nico’s claim, “you should be happy. You should pursue love and your dreams. You’ve already been saddled to an apprenticeship you aren’t thrilled with because of this family.
That’s more than fulfilling your duty.” A fact that kept Roremar up at night, trying to find a way around it.
“Don’t sacrifice the other things, too.” Pleading dripped through his words.
He squeezed his brother’s shoulder, willing him to hear it.
Nico must have felt the agony because he nodded. “It may be too late anyway. But we’ll see.”
“You never know. It’s not over until the Fates swear it is.” Maybe Emmeline could read a future in which Nico won Myrella back, just so his brother would know it was possible. For him, Roremar would ask her that favor.
With that sentiment sealed between them, Roremar’s mind tucked away the mess spread atop the desk, storing it in orderly files in the back of his brain. Then, he mentally pulled up the pressing issue, letting evidence spill out before him.