Chapter 61
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
MARCELLA
Marcella glances through the sides of her eyes, her lips quirking up as she observes Gray attempting to catch the glittering comet’s dust falling from the sky.
He is leaning over the rail of the balcony encasing her room, the dimming sky giving its final bow for the spectacular show it just delivered.
Just before the comet shower started, Gray knocked on her door and asked if she’d like to attend the viewing party with him.
Marcella had declined—she was exhausted and mentally fatigued from that meeting.
She just wanted to watch the comets pass from the comforts of her own room, away from people and pandering.
She said as much to Gray, which resulted in him revealing the items he had been hiding behind his back.
“Figured as much,” he said to her, raising the double-flute in his left hand before showcasing the bottle of wine he snagged from gods-only-know-where in his right. “I thought I’d bring the music and wine to you, if you’ll have me.”
Though Marcella hates to admit it, she had smiled at him like a smitten schoolgirl, throwing the door open to let him enter her bedchamber. “Fine. Come on.”
Now, Marcella leans against the door’s threshold leading out to the balcony, that same smile she has been trying to keep contained creeping upward more and more as she watches him.
Eventually, after his tongue hooks up at the corner of his mouth and he seemingly has lost all sense of safety, a laugh bubbles free from her throat.
“You’re going to fall over the side if you keep that up.” They both have consumed more than one glass of wine, yet Marcella is still sober enough to realize heights and alcohol are never the best combination.
“If I get an entire handful of this comet dust, it will have been worth it.” He leans even farther over the ledge, and Marcella’s heart rate spikes.
“Seriously, Gray. Be careful.”
He pays her no mind, instead focusing only on the glitter as it continues raining down from the sky. He wobbles but steadies himself with his knee, tucking it into the balusters to support his tipping weight.
It makes Marcella’s palms clammy. “Alright.” She kicks off the threshold and struts for him, wrapping her arms around his waist and tugging him away from the railing. “No more. I don’t think watching you fall to your death is a great way to end the festival.”
He goes willingly, spinning around in her arms while keeping his cupped hands lifted over their heads. He laughs that perfectly boyish laugh of his. “If you wanted to wrap your arms around me, all you had to do was ask, you know.”
Marcella tsks at him and quickly drops her arms, her cheeks flushing. “Please, you wish.”
“Every day.” He says it like he means it.
She stares at him, confusion once again overtaking all her other emotions. She hates when he says things like that. Acts like his feelings extend as far as hers do for him. “Stop doing that.”
His expression pinches. “Doing what?”
“Acting like you care.”
He drops his cupped hands to his chest, revealing a pile of sparkling dust that glitters like diamond shavings. Yet he doesn’t even look down at all the beauty captured between his palms. His eyes remain only on Marcella. “I do care.”
She glides her hands through her hair, her frustration finally boiling over. “Yes, I know, Gray. I get it—you ‘care.’ But not like how I care. Not in the ways I wish you did.”
“You’re wrong,” he murmurs.
She wants to believe him. More than anything else, she wishes she was wrong.
But if she truly was, Gray would have kissed her that night at the inn.
Would have told her during the masquerade ball she was his or that he was hers or…
something. Instead, every time they broach the subject, all he does is attempt to begin his explanation for why he didn’t kiss her that night.
Tries to justify it when instead all Marcella wishes for at this point is for him to tell her how he feels now.
She doesn’t want to be reminded of his rejection; she wants a reason to look beyond it.
To receive any sort of validation or affirmation from him that she isn’t insane for believing he does feel the same way about her when she catches him watching her, something undeniable always seeming to glimmer within his gaze.
Marcella wants him to tell her his feelings. His true feelings, unfiltered and in all their pain or glory. She certainly has no intentions of saying anything to him first, considering the last time she put herself out there, the door was slammed shut in her face.
“If I’m wrong, then tell me why,” she begs, so much emotion laced within those seven words. “Why am I wrong? What makes the words I’m saying to you untrue?”
Gray glances away, shoulders hunching forward. “I was going to tell you at sunrise.”
“Tell me what at sunrise?” Marcella wrinkles her nose. “And why sunrise?”
“I thought it would be romantic,” he answers through a sigh.
Gray’s eyes fall to the ground, to the sparkling dust still sitting inside his hands, then to Marcella, where they remain.
He takes a step forward. And then another.
And another. Until there is so little space between them, Marcella feels her heartbeat changing rhythm.
And gods, he is looking at her in that way again. A look screaming of attraction and devotion. Of reverence and admiration. A look so riddled with longing, it makes Marcella’s chest clench.
Just say it, she thinks. Give me something to hold onto.
It’s his final chance. She will never leave this door open for him again if he doesn’t.
“Marcella,” Gray begins, voice unbearably soft.
“I’m sorry I haven’t done a better job of navigating all this.
That I caused you to doubt how perfect you are.
That I allowed you to think for even one second denying you was actually something I would want to do.
You…” he trails off. “Gods, Marcella, you are everything to me. Everything I could ever want, and more than anything I could ever dream of being worthy to receive.”
He moves forward like he wants to reach out for her, realizing he still has his hands pressed together as they contain the oh-so-rare comet dust. His brows pucker together, and he tsks at it.
It makes Marcella laugh, and she is surprised by the sheer volume of emotion the sound holds as it spills from her.
Gray’s eyes find her again. They are so gentle. “Marcella, I—”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence.
“Gray,” Marcella breathes, pointing out at the brightening horizon.
An army of fireballs arc through the sky in a similar way the comets had.
Only, these fires do not leave glittering dust in their wake.
They leave a trail of smoke and destruction as they clamor into parts of the palace and houses and buildings.
As they land in alleyways and tear up the stoned streets.
As they slam into the marble composing the fountain at the heart of the city, shattering it into pieces.
The entire city goes up in flames.
“By the gods,” Gray says, horror forcing his words to quiver.
The door leading into Marcella’s chamber suddenly slams open, and seven cloaked figures charge in.
Marcella whirls around, immediately ready to fight.
Yet before she even has time to uncurl her fingers from her palms, an aether-portal blinks open.
Three of them appear directly behind Gray within an instant, and one behind her.
The figure next to her yanks her arms behind her back at an awkward angle and shoves her down to her knees.
She jerks, attempting to position herself in a way that would allow her to use a defensive move to break the hold.
Yet the one keeping her in place tightens their grip and increases the angle of her elbows, making it impossible for her to move.
She growls with rage.
“Let her go,” Gray snarls.
The three cloaked figures pounce, attempting to get Gray in a similar position Marcella managed to get herself stuck in.
But he does not go down easily. He spins out, immediately taking one of the hooded attackers out by kicking in their knee.
The person snaps like a twig, dropping to the ground with a loud shout of pain.
The other two charge, reaching to grip his arms and contain him.
Gray grits his teeth and holds them off, finally revealing to Marcella the true depth of his strength.
They push against Gray, but he pushes back, skidding their heels backward.
Until he manages to throw one of the attackers on their back.
Marcella reaches for her magic, attempting to subtly weave her fingers to summon a vine of thorns to help him.
Yet nothing comes to her. Her magic feels covered by a blanket.
Contained somewhere far, far away. The person holding her wrists together huffs a laugh, as if sensing her trying and failing to use her lakt?.
That’s when she realizes.
“They have a Nullifier!” she shouts to Gray.
He turns, his gaze sharp as it flicks to her, then the person holding her in place.
With rage lining his eyes, he pivots, charging at the final person in front of him.
He dodges the punch at his jaw and blocks the accompanying jab to his ribcage before throwing his own sequence of attacks.
They land true, forcing the person to hunch forward over themselves.
That’s when they pull out the daggers.
Marcella’s eyes widen with horror. They have no weapons on them right now. Why would they? They thought they were celebrating a festival.
They were fools.
One of the remaining cloaked figures strides into view, his other companion trailing at his side. “Knock him unconscious, but be sure to keep him alive. You know our orders.” His voice is soothing and familiar. Authoritative yet soft.
Marcella realizes who he is the same moment Gray does.
“Josiah,” Gray breathes, eyes wide.
Josiah drops his hood, revealing his white hair, tanned skin, and blue eyes, narrowed and colder than they ever were at Bathara.
“No.” Gray shakes his head. “No, not you. My father trusted you.”
“That was his mistake to make.”
Gray stiffens. “What does that mean, Josiah?”
Josiah offers him no answer.
“Let me slice him,” the man circling Gray says. Gray pivots to watch the hooded figure, palms held carefully in front of him as he tracks his movements.
“No,” Josiah says. “We are not allowed to harm him.”
“The Commander won’t notice a slice.”
“I said no.”
“Then how do you propose I knock him unconscious?”
“Like this.”
The cloaked figure at Josiah’s side lifts his hand, and a portal again appears within an instant, this time directly behind Gray. The seventh cloaked figure leans out of it, slamming the hilt of their sword into the back of his head. Gray’s eyes roll backward as he drops to the ground.
“No!” Marcella screams, bucking against the hold on her.
“And that,” Josiah says, “is the power the art of distraction can hold.”
The two cloaked figures closest to Gray grip him beneath the shoulders and drag him up. Gray’s head rolls forward, his body completely slack. The aether-wielder opens another new portal, motioning for his companions to take Gray through.
Panic seizes Marcella with ruthless fury. “Where are you taking him?” she demands. Anger clouds her vision, hot and consuming. She glares at Josiah. “Why did you betray us? Why?”
He does not answer her, instead only sliding her a disapproving glance and folding his hands behind his back
“Where are you taking him? Answer me!”
They drag Gray through the portal, and Josiah stands at the foot of the swirling black and white magic. “You can release her now. We have what we came for.”
The figure holding Marcella lets her go, shoving her backward with disorienting force.
She scrambles to catch her feet and stands, eyes frantically darting forward to find them.
Despite the two remaining cloaked figures being nearly through the portal, she still runs her short sprint forward in an attempt to reach them.
To pass through and follow them to gods-only-know-where.
She does not reach the portal in time.
Instead, it blinks from existence right as her fingertips reach out, a quiet buzz pricking them as she grazes the edges of the aether-magic.
The magic, the hooded attackers, and Gray all disappear.
It leaves Marcella to stand alone on the balcony, nothing but her questions, a mess of scattered glittering comet dust, and a burning city to keep her company.