Chapter 50 Doomsday
Doomsday
Lucian
M
ost of the snow melted quickly after reaching the ground. If it hadn’t, I don’t know how we would have slept.
Since waking, Desdemona hasn’t said much.
Together, we stand before the sanatorium—a tower on the outskirts of Folkara’s kingdom—and stare up at the fifth floor.
“Do you know what to do?” she asks.
“No idea.”
“Neither do I.” With a sigh, her shoulder brushes mine. I think she’s trying to steady me, until I realize she’s steadying herself.
This is the test, I suppose—the day I see what it truly means to be a son of the Arcanes, a being with the magic of the Soul Ruby.
Glancing at Desdemona, I know I’m not alone in this fate, yet I wish I was. I am a pawn; I’ve always understood my life was never mine.
She, too, understands that now.
It’s no wonder she’s growing despondent. How else is she meant to cope? We are players in a game we don’t understand, with only one promised ending: I have to kill her. Yet each time I look at her, my resolve thickens. I can’t do it. I won’t.
Fate can burn.
I refuse to kill the only person in the universe who makes me feel alive. The only one who understands me.
“You can wait here, if you’d like,” I say.
“It’s okay.” Desdemona sighs, staring up at the fifth floor—the maternity wing.
“I know you don’t like heights,” I whisper. “And I know Qualia.”
Desdemona gives me a long look, slow to nod. “Okay. Okay, sure.”
I reach for her, grasping her hand. “We’re going to be all right.”
With a deep, broken breath, Desdemona nods. “Mhm.” Then she looks into my eyes and whispers, “Be careful.”
I’m glad to know she means it.
“Always am, Althenia.”
She smirks, the lifting of her lips lighting her entire face. “Sure you are, Aibek.”
I smile and kiss her forehead. She leans into me.
Then I climb, scaling the building with ease, before pushing open a window on the fifth floor and sliding into the healers’ quadrant.
It’s full of Eunoia, the best healers chosen to work on Folkara rather than aid their own people in Eunaris.
The halls are made of dark stone and wood, with patients’ last names carved into plaques beside each door.
I look for Olwen’s family name. When I find it, Qualia is lying on a cot, her skin pale and her lips cracked.
“Prince Lucian,” she whispers, her voice frail. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
As I enter the room, she tries to sit up, failing.
“Please,” I say, raising a hand. She stops struggling to sit.
I glance at the shadows, wondering how to use them as they stir in place, waiting for my summons. Though, it may not be shadows that will save her.
What is the destiny of creation? What power pumps in my veins, gifted by the Soul Ruby?
Silently, I close the door behind me. “I am going to heal you,” I say, taking a hesitant step forward. “If that’s all right.”
Qualia smiles, laughing softly. She stops, wincing with a small cough. “Mighty fine with me.”
I nod, frowning as I look down. She might not know that Olwen—her husband and the baby’s father—is dead, drowned in his own blood.
Sitting beside Qualia, I rest a hand on her forehead, unsure what to do with it. Beneath my skin, power pulses, feeling oddly like the red knife—like bringing Azaire back from death.
He’s alive, and I’m going to see him the moment I get back to Ilyria. Knowing I have something to look forward to makes this moment easier.
The scars on my back burn beneath my clothes, and instead of shunning the sensation, I welcome it.
My wrist burns. The veins there bulge forth, growing red with power. It’s a horrifying sight, yet it feels right—like breath after drowning, the first sun after an endless night, or remembering a name I hadn’t realized I’d forgotten.
Like Desdemona.
The shape of her name in my mind steadies and unravels me at once. I hear her laugh, see that careless tilt of her head when she’s amused with me—the way she never looks afraid, even when she should.
This power—it’s a homecoming, a resurrection. I didn’t know I was starving, but now I see it’s been calling to me my whole life. This power has always been waiting—it wants to be used. It’s desperate for her.
All at once, I understand: this power was bestowed upon me for Desdemona.
Everyone was right.
I have a single purpose.
Yet here I am, doing good instead of evil, even as the power burns for the opposite.
Red light spills from my fingertips, weaving into Qualia’s chest, like the Soul Ruby did for Azaire. She takes a deep breath as color returns to her face. I’m using this power to heal. It’s saving Qualia, the way it will soon doom Des.
No.
Desires to doom Desdemona; I will never use it.
Qualia smiles, her eyes brighter than before. The red retreats from my veins, leaving me trembling, trying to regain control of my mind. I could kill Des; I was made to. It would be easy. But I’ve made my choice.
Again and again, I’ll make it.
She will not die—not by this power, nor by my hand.
She, more than anyone, deserves a long life filled with joy, unshadowed by prophecy or power. A life I’ll never touch if it means keeping her safe.
I tell myself this again and again, a mantra against the hunger thrumming in my bones, urging me to go outside and end this now.
Yet my fear does not subside.
Qualia reaches for her belly. “Oh,” she says with a smile. “He’s kicking.”
I nod, attempting a smile for her.
Qualia reaches for my hand. “Would you like to feel him?”
“I—”
She grabs my hand, guiding it to her midriff. Sure enough, I feel the pressure of tiny feet. All I can think about is the boy’s father.
“If you ever need anything, Qualia, you have the support of the crown,” I say.
“Thank you, Lucian.” She gives a solemn nod, and I offer one back before making my way out of the room. My movements are slow, lethargic, as I pass through the healers’ quadrant, pushing open the window I snuck in from.
As I swing my leg through, a voice bellows my name.
There’s no one in sight.
I step away from the window, striding down the hall in search. From the corner of my vision, black and red shadows stir. I turn before I feel it—a burning power, hot and fluid, though not entirely Arcane. It’s closer to Desdemona, to the Soul Ruby in my blood.
All at once, the shadows around me converge, rushing toward me and pushing past my skin, swirling in the space between blood and bone. They’re stronger than my muscles as they move my body of their own accord—controlling me.
Overwhelming darkness clouds my vision, pulling me into a mind not my own. The burning feeling—the Arcane—swells in my heart, aching.
In the corner of my mind, I hear, “She must know what you truly are to her.”