Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Roremar
Once they set foot on Alvan, Roremar forced himself not to think of how Emmeline felt pressed against him.
Instead, he thought of Leo every step he took through the winding cobbled streets.
When he saw the towering statues of Arenothos and Aevollon marking the entrance to the city through Forge’s Cove, when they passed murals splashed with bloody histories of hard-fought wars, and when they reached the sun dial in the center of town, a marker of a myth about the Fate of Artistry and Trickery, he thought of his brother.
He thought of his youngest sister, Siena, when they passed an artist’s boutique—paint splattered on floors, countertops, and canvases. Though Roremar had always suspected it was more due to her infatuation with Desmond than anything, she adored her art classes.
But she also itched for the day steel was placed in her hand. Of all his siblings, she bore the truest warrior heart. So Siena would have loved it here, in the unique crossroads of art and warfare.
That’s what Roremar thought of. Not Emmeline’s ass grinding against him or the way her heart audibly pounded when she looked at him. He soaked in everything he’d tell his siblings about Alvan as their group found the place they’d reserved rooms, the Hound’s Inn.
Tucked away from the main thoroughfare near Forge’s Cove, it was built into the steep incline.
Red flowers rolled over one side of the yellow building, moss coating the facade between the fiery hues.
The shutters were thrown wide, a sign above declaring to the empty side alley that they had vacancies for the evening.
Roremar held the door for Emmeline and Myrella, and Fates be damned, he couldn’t stop his eyes from catching on the former’s swaying hips and the curve of her waist as she walked past him into the dim interior.
And then, again, like the pathetic man he was, Roremar couldn’t stop thinking about how her eyes had been drawn to his mouth and how some asinine part of his memory was constantly tracing the way her tongue flicked across her lips as she fought to collect herself.
His siblings and his responsibility to them were what he needed to focus on.
This case they were here to solve and the future his uncle would guarantee them all if this was solved. And the stability they risked losing if it wasn’t.
A low laugh sounded behind him, and Roremar met Desmond’s gleaming eyes. “What?”
“You’ve been holding that door for a full thirty seconds since they walked inside.” Desmond clapped him on the shoulder and strode by. “You’re fucked, brother.”
“I’m not,” Roremar grumbled.
You will be her ruin, a cold voice purred into his mind.
Roremar froze, blood icing over.
His eyes locked on Emmeline as she spoke with the innkeeper, her smile warm and welcoming. Her eyes bright—not fiery, like they were when she looked at him, but alive.
Her ruin, the words echoed over her voice, and Roremar saw a flash of Emmeline, bloodied at his feet.
A chilling laugh he knew too well echoed in his head, and guilt shredded his lungs. His fingers tightened on the doorknob.
He could not—would not—allow that to pass. And it wouldn’t if he didn’t give in to the pull toward her. His family—that’s what he was here for.
That’s all it would be.
Roremar had utterly composed himself by the time they left the Hound’s Inn for the Alvan Accords.
He was completely and totally relaxed when Emmeline stepped onto the main Promenade, the warm midday sun highlighting her tanned skin.
When she tipped her face to the sky to indulge the rays, he swore every eye was on her. And it tied his chest in damn knots.
You will be her ruin.
Maybe Desmond was right. In a slight way, he might be fucked.
Why in a Fate’s fuck had Desmond told Emmeline he was from Alvan, anyway? He never told anyone that. Des always made up excuses for the tattoos that referenced his home, etched in another lifetime. He preferred not to associate with the memories of that past anymore.
Unless, apparently, he was talking to Emmeline DeLeoste, who had a way to make him cave.
“It doesn’t matter,” Roremar grumbled under his breath as he followed the rest of them down the winding street and resolved to focus solely on the task at hand.
The air on Alvan felt different than Lyra. It both buzzed with harsh ambition and hummed with an indulgent lackadaisicalness. Starsearchers poured up and down the winding streets, towering palm trees lining the sides of stores and homes, flowers in blazing shades adorning them.
They climbed up a sloped, cobbled street flooded with murals that Des called Artist Alley.
Starsearchers sipped drinks and painted everything from canvases to stones in the very ground, and incense wafted heavily on the air.
As they ventured into Warmonger’s Quarter, a collage of pale stone buildings stared down at them.
One, the grandest, gleamed brighter than the rest, a worn statue guarding the gates.
“Arenothos,” Desmond explained as they took in the helmeted figure, his face obscured—as was often the case with the Fates—and a hound at his feet. Blades spiked over his back in an arch, a constellation carved into his chest.
Roremar crossed his arms, looking up at the faceless statue. “He looks brutal.”
“He’s the Fate of Wrath and Redemption.” Desmond chuckled. “What do you expect?”
“Not all who worship warfare are coldhearted,” Myrella interjected.
Desmond nodded. “I’d argue he isn’t entirely either. Legend says he had a few great loves, but each chipped away further at his humanity, creating the reputation we now know. The first was when he walked this realm, and it was downhill from there.”
“I’ve read about that,” Emmeline mentioned, and Roremar’s attention swung to her.
“The first love was said to be innocent, true passion, and his last was nothing but pure carnal need.” Dammit, Roremar’s blood heated with those words on her lips, his cock straining against his leathers.
“It was forbidden and ended in devastation.”
You will be her ruin. He cleared his throat, shifting on his feet to discreetly adjust. “Like many of the Fates’ myths, then.”
Emmeline flicked him a curious glance at the gruff sound of his voice, her rosy cheeks sending satisfaction bleeding through him. Roremar held her stare for a moment but when he smirked, she shook her head and turned back to the others.
“Don’t they say that worshiping Arenothos will incite warfare?” Nico checked, eyeing the statue warily.
Desmond shrugged. “It can. But typically, only specific rituals, and warfare in that sense can mean anything from a household dispute to a stampeding army.” His expression tightened, and Roremar elbowed him, changing the conversation.
“Let’s go inside.”
“I’ve told you, I don’t think they’re going to be the ones to help us,” Desmond said as the gates flanking Arenothos creaked open and they ascended the short path to the glimmering building, cypher trees willowing in the breeze on either side.
“It’s worth a shot.” Emmeline’s lips twisted as she considered the grand steps before them, her eyes swimming with intimidation that knotted Roremar’s chest. “Besides, it’s the best place to start with permission from Falliare.”
“Got the letter?” Roremar asked.
The smile she flashed him in answer was lethal. “Of course, Reckless.”
He’d given her the sealed envelope as a show of good faith after their disagreement at the Lyra docks.
He may still believe they were keeping secrets from one another, but he was trying.
After all these years shouldering the burdens of his family alone, it was like pulling messy stitches from a wound within him. His chest was gaping and bleeding out.
The towering doors were carved with the sigil of the isle, a starfire phoenix with a helm upon its feathered head, flames devouring a branch of wisteria. It was a nod to both of the Fates the isle thrived beneath, the artistry and the brutal conquering of warfare. Two opposites, a perfect harmony.
As they climbed the stairs, Roremar wondered which came first: the isles or their Fate ties.
The foyer was similar to the Lyra Accords, banners strung with the Alvan insignia instead of the serpent and twelve-pointed star.
It was one of those buildings that seemed frozen in time with its grand pillars and archaic interior.
Odes to the Angel and Fates were sculpted into the walls and threaded on the massive tapestry behind the desk.
Roremar’s chest tightened at how surrounded they were.
Approaching the desk and the aged Starsearcher behind it, he shoved aside his discomfort. “We’d like access to your public records,” he began boldly.
“Who’s asking?” She tilted her head, silver hair glinting in the low mystlight lamp on the counter before her.
Emmeline pulled the letter from her satchel. “The Master of the Lyra Temple Academy.”
It caught the woman’s attention, grey brows scrunching dubiously as she took the envelope and critically examined the seal. She could take all the time she wanted. It wasn’t like they were here to solve a string of brutal murders or anything.
Roremar leaned an elbow against the counter, stifling his impatience.
He scanned the high ceilings and corridors stretching into the distance.
Surely he could slip away from this woman and get lost in the stacks within the hall.
From the cautious look Emmeline cast him, he was doing a piss-poor job of hiding his thoughts.
What? he asked internally, raising his brows at her. Myrella and Desmond conversed in hushed voices behind them, Nico trying his best to interject.
Emmeline pressed her lips into a line, narrowing her eyes, and that look may as well have said, Don’t do anything stupid, Reckless.
He chuckled at the imagination of her voice in his mind, shaking his head in innocence as if to say, I’m just standing here.
Emmeline’s gaze dropped over him, then around the room. I can see you fidgeting and your mind cataloguing everything.
She didn’t know the half of it.
“We cannot give you access to all records,” the woman said, interrupting them as she refolded the letter.
Roremar’s evaluating gaze swung to her. “Why not?”
“Despite what your Temple Master may think—or wish—he is not the main authority on Alvan.” Bitterness pinched her lips.
Roremar had never considered how the other isles felt about his uncle.
“We answer to Aldryn Falliare only to an extent, and there are certain levels of our Accords that can only be opened at word from an Alvan official.”
“Whose word do we need to acquire, then?” Roremar asked.
“That of the War Master.”
Emmeline interjected, “And where can we find them?”
“She resides at the top of the highest hill in Warmonger’s Quarter, just before Fatetouched land. Her offices and personal residence are both there, though I advise you not to venture near the latter unless you want your head bit off by her hounds.”
“I’d love to avoid that.” Roremar flashed his most charming smirk, and the woman softened. “Is there any help you can offer us?”
She considered him, her silver earrings swaying as she shook her head.
“Truth be told, I don’t envision her granting access to private files of her citizens without a visit from the Temple Master himself.
I’ll write to her with the request and see if she deigns to give you an audience, but she’s a very busy woman.
It may suit your needs to pursue other avenues.
” Her eyes turned sad as she handed the note across the counter.
“I truly do hope you find what you’re looking for. ”
Roremar stifled a groan as Emmeline tucked the letter away. He asked, “What other avenues?”
“Written records are not the only means of information in this realm.”
“I told you,” came Desmond’s bragging whisper behind him. He added louder to the woman behind the desk, “I told him.”
Myrella promptly shushed him, but Desmond was already on his way out the door, hollering for the rest of them to follow.
“All right, Alvi,” Roremar teased when they hit the street, curiosity ignited. His blood thrummed at the prospect of a challenge. “If you know so well, where should we seek out information while we wait for the War Master?” He’d be damned if he was stagnant in the meantime.
“She said written records weren’t our only means,” Desmond said, trying to lead him there. Roremar hated when he did this, but he knew Des loved offering him a puzzle he would be desperate to solve.
“If not history, then…” What was precious to Starsearchers beyond that? He answered at the exact same time as Emmeline, “Magic.”
Desmond’s smile was antagonistic. “Or a bit of both.”