Chapter 9
S in steps forward, and using the flat side of his sword, tips up the chin of one of the kneeling soldiers. Given his position in front of the others, this one is their platoon leader. His expression is all grit and teeth when he looks up to meet the eyes of his accoster.
I force my snarl down and dig my heels into the ground. This is not the time to go to him. Not yet.
“Rise,” Sin orders. His voice rasps in his throat, and the sound goes straight to my cunt.
I swallow tightly. The caster’s high is a devious, wicked little thing—provoking the filthiest of thoughts at the most inopportune times. Taunting me with thoughts of stripping Sin of his leathers and slickening his cock with the blood of his enemies still thick in my mouth. The thought entices me far more than it should.
“We kneel in surrender, Your Grace ,” the soldier replies, a shadow of a sneer on his face as if it pains him to address Sin by his station.
Sin adjusts his hold so that the blade bites into his neck, and the man lets out a low hiss as a single river of blood runs down his column. “You will find no quarter here. Rise and die fighting, or kneel and die a coward.”
“We wish to concede, Your Grace. We have laid down our weapons and are prepared to compromise our allegiance to King Torin. It is clear now his judgment to invade was misguided.”
Sin cants his head, first one way, then the other. A hunter assessing its quarry. “A coward and a traitor. I should have assumed as much. Death on your knees then.”
He plunges the sword through his neck, the sound a squelchy, delicious thing.
The others scurry to their feet, their communal plea for mercy now abandoned. Sin draws the second sword from his back, and several elves move in around him. They run through the rest of the platoon in less than a minute, leaving only the perfume of their suffering to separate us from Dusaro’s guards.
A fresh silence falls upon us as the last Baelliarah soldier collapses. Vox steps forward then, and Sin whirls around at the sound. The commander begins rattling off accounts of which parts of the city have been cleared, but Sin ignores him, his eyes searching for me immediately.
The sight of him head-on punches a stone into my chest. His eyes are yellow-green jewels, the pupils dilated into vertical slits. From this angle, I see the lacerations that mar his face, the blood smeared across his throat, and how his leathers are darkened around his chest. I only have a second to assess him before he’s standing right in front of me. If Sin’s shifter ancestry wasn’t already public knowledge, the speed in which he rushes me would be a dead giveaway he was something far more than man.
Sin strokes my cheek, uncaring that it is sullied with the juice of viscera, his stare everywhere at once. He surveys my blood-matted hair, the cherry finish of my face and lips, the swelling along my eye and cheekbone. And then his eyes flit downward, taking in my bruised and battered throat.
Sin’s lips part in a pernicious snarl. “Who did that to you?”
“He’s dead. They’re all dead. I made sure of it.” I flash him a smile that’s sweeter than molasses, unable to hide the corruptness of my heart.
Inverting his hand, he strokes my cheek with the backs of his fingers, his eyes still trained on my iron-burnt throat. “That’s my good little witch,” he praises darkly.
Movement stirs behind him, and his eyes snap to mine, holding my stare for an extended beat before he turns to face his father, who now slowly approaches.
Clad in burnished armor, Dusaro stalks toward us, his expression unreadable. I always noted the striking similarities between Sin and his father—their long, black hair, warm copper skin, sharp cheekbones, and jaws cut from stone. But today, it is their differences I notice more. Wrinkles crease Dusaro’s forehead and more shadow the corners of his dark brown eyes. His lips are thinner than Sin’s, now smashed into a single, hard line, and his gait is awkward, his right leg dragging slightly. I have no doubt he’s hiding an injury far worse than he’s willing to show. Not here, and certainly not in front of us.
He stops several yards away, neither man speaking. A storm brews between them, lightning trapped in both their hearts as they stare at one another. It is Dusaro that speaks first. “Why are you here, Singard?”
Sin is unnaturally still. Not a single muscle feathers as he holds his father’s stare, and then he answers in a voice molded from granite. “My throne is here.” As if that were answer enough.
“That throne is reserved for the Black Art.”
“Have you forgotten my station, Father? Perhaps I shall remind you of yours.” His right hand twitches, but he doesn’t call forth his magic, nor does he reach for one of the twin swords strapped on his back, despite how desperately I know he wants to plunge one into his father’s chest.
Dusaro shuffles, shifting his weight onto his good leg, but no magic flickers in his palms. Just as his weapon remains firmly secured on his hip, a detail I watch very, very closely. I lick my teeth.
“That station can only be bestowed by the goddess, and as it would seem, she has revoked her gift.” A knowing sneer screws his face, and venom seeps from my gums. “I thought you were dead when the torch extinguished weeks ago. You can imagine my surprise when your ghost showed up in my capital, but now I see Adelphia didn’t even find you worthy of being in her presence. She decided to strip you defenseless instead.”
Sin doesn’t react to the bite in his father’s words, and for a moment, my chest pangs with knowing how accustomed to his father’s hatred he has become. But the bloodwitch quickly swallows my tenderness, magic now spitting in my palms. I make a mental note to ask Sin about the torch Dusaro mentioned, and how that led him to the knowledge that Sin is without the goddess’s blessing—a vulnerability we hadn’t accounted on his father being privy to.
“Do I appear defenseless to you, Father?” Sin asks. A baited question.
“Do you deny you are without the blessing?”
“I do not. But perhaps age has altered your memory if you forget how I led this army to slaughter men by the thousands without so much as an utterance of any blessing from a deity. Not from your god… or mine .”
Dusaro startles. It’s there and gone in a second, and when he swallows thickly, it’s to school his features back into nothing but fine lines and disappointment. But it was there. No matter how fleeting, Sin’s dismissal of Adelphia pained his father.
Pride beams in my chest.
A part of me knows that Sin only repudiated the goddess of the arcane to make a point—to rub salt in the wound that his transcendence has always caused his father. But even so, warmth spears my heart at hearing Sin acknowledge the shifter god.
“So, tell me, Son of Slaine , do you truly expect my army to bow to you? You betrayed this isle and every one of your subjects.”
“That is my army you speak of, Lord Kilbreth.” I startle at the sound of Ileana’s voice. The Black Hand slips through the men that quickly separate to allow her passage, her attention wholly fixed on Sin, despite directing her words to his father.
Ileana remains untouched by the fighting. Her long, textured hair is clipped and pinned at her neck, a few curled pieces framing the sides of her face. A delicate gold crown sits on her head, deep blue sapphires set in a framework of thinly veined leaves.
A long, cream colored dress clings to her waist, a lightly draped cowl neckline exposing the smooth, brown skin of her chest. An interesting choice of attire for a queen whose castle is surrounded by war, not a single weapon brandished on her body.
Understanding sinks into me. Followed by dark pride and wicked amusement.
Her appearance was not an afterthought, but rather, a carefully selected weapon. A fuck you to Dusaro and the kingdom that denied her their loyalty in the end, heeding the orders of a magicked lord and not those from their mundane queen. She knew Sin was here, and she chose to stroll the corridors of the castle while she watched the only person she’s ever truly trusted rip apart the keep under her nose. And if things had gone awry, Ileana would rather be found dead on the front lawn of her stronghold than safe inside a triple-locked chamber.
A smile snags on my lips. Ileana is a true queen, in far more ways than station alone.
She skirts around Dusaro and walks to Sin, stopping several feet away from him. The two watch each other in silence for a long minute, Ileana’s expression unreadable as she assesses the isle’s rightful sovereign. Sin remains quiet, granting her time to collect her thoughts. A subtle gesture, one I know is deeply rooted in respect. Despite his father having been the one to push him to select Ileana as his Hand, I have sensed a deeper connection between Sin and his emissary. Ileana’s relationship with her own family is as mutilated as Sin’s; it makes sense they would have bonded over those shared experiences.
While Sin has been slowly opening up to me, it will take time until he is comfortable enough to share the full extent of the horrors of his past. I don’t blame him for it. How could I—when I still struggle to open up about my own traumas? It is difficult, laying yourself bare before the one you love, to present your deepest vulnerabilities to the one person you most wish to be strong for. I suspect his relationship with Ileana is an outlet for him, just as Eldridge is for me.
Finally, the queen speaks. “Have you come to reinstate your rule?”
“Aye,” he answers. “Have you come to stand against me?” Sin’s words are without infliction, but they stir a faint smile in Ileana. Perhaps she heard something in his voice that I hadn’t.
If Ileana refuses him and insists on keeping the crown, I don’t know what Sin will do. I can’t imagine him raising a hand to her—even the mental image feels grotesquely wrong—but I’ve also never seen Sin take no for an answer, not when it’s something he really wants. And this…
This is everything.
“And risk getting your blood all over my gorgeous dress? Absolutely not.” She purses her lips in feigned deliberation, then takes another couple steps forward so she stands just a few feet away from him. “Since I have no desire to wring your blood from my silk, I, Ileana Brockwell, as acting regnant, hereby reinstate your rule. I will make a public address at once. Welcome home, Singard. Your Grace ,” she adds with a deliberate smile, dipping into a deep curtsy.
“Heresy,” Dusaro spits from behind her. “Have him arrested at once. He has no authority. Not here, not anywhere.”
Vox steps forward, his rank bleeding into his tone. “I suggest you reconsider your threats, Lord Kilbreth. The channel has been blockaded by elven ships with a crew that is more than capable of turning the sea into a tsunami, which I’m certain they’ve already demonstrated to the Baelliarah ships they’re currently holding hostage.
“The Howling Sea holds no escape for your men. Furthermore, are you aware, Lord Kilbreth, that your castle is now swarmed with elves on all sides, and that your archers have been replaced with my own? Please, look for yourself. After all, I’d hardly expect you to take the word of an elf. ”
Dusaro whips around, and his face drains of color. As promised, the archers on the balconies have been replaced by those with pointed ears, their bows now aimed towards the mass of kingdom soldiers who stand awaiting orders.
“This is madness,” Dusaro breathes, fury muting his voice. “Elves in Blackreach. The gods must be outraged at this spectacle you’ve created for them.”
“The gods are the least of your worries now , Lord Kilbreth ,” comes Vox’s sharp tongue.
Sin straightens, drawing my attention back to him, and he shoots Ileana a black-hearted smirk. “Would you like the privilege, my Lady?”
A grin positively wicked stretches her lips. “Guards—arrest this man at once.”