A Realm of Grief and Sorrow (Aggonid’s Realm #3)

1. Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

MORTE

Romarie

I blink to reclaim my vision as flames lick my skin, dance in front of my eyes, and illuminate the darkness that had consumed me. The air reeks of charred silk and burned hair, sharp and acrid, clawing at my senses. Somewhere in the distance there’s shouting, the scrape of boots against stone, and the shattering of plates as tables overturn. Magic erupts all around me, its blasts crumbling walls, and rocking the foundation beneath me.

The throne room.

I can feel its vastness around me as the immense power ripples the very fabric of our reality. The polished marble beneath me is cool, even as the fire coils over my body, and the revelers’ screams pierce my ears.

Like an old friend, the heat is a twisted comfort, proof that I’m back from the dead, still fighting, even as my heart shatters.

Pain pulses through me, not from the fire, but from the betrayal that scorches my soul. I gasp, the breath searing my lungs, as memories flood back with the intensity of the flames surrounding me .

Azazel’s lips brushing my temple, the murmured promises of forever, the way his arms once felt like home. All of it a lie.

His father. Valtorious.

My heartbreak.

And then, my death.

Is this what happens when a mate betrays the one person they should always love and protect? It's a pain so potent, so rooted into the ethos of my being, that it kills me?

Grief sighs in the spaces between breaths, whispering memories I long to forget but can't bear to lose.

It wasn't real.

It wasn't real.

It wasn't real.

The thought fractures my heart. My mind. Claws its way through my veins until it is all I know, all I am.

I am not made for this.

I’ve come back from death too many times already, and I’m tired now. The blessing and the curse of the phoenix.

Every burn, scrape, lesion, puncture, and broken bone. Gone as soon as we come back to this plane.

Regenerated, just for another round of heartbreak. My entire life, my body has healed itself of all its physical ailments. But the damage to my soul? It’s a wound that never heals, a scar that never fades. Just as I rise from the ashes, so does my pain, resurrected anew with each breath I take.

I trusted Azazel.

Gave him all of me, my virginity, and my heart.

And now it lays in tatters at my feet, shredded beyond all repair. Here I lie, naked, the flames of my phoenix extinguished, breathing heavily through the agony searing my insides, as the world slowly comes back into focus. The only thing I wear are my suppression bracelets.

With these on, I have no power.

Not even a thread of it through my veins. I’m used to being naked. But without magic, I feel stripped bare, down to the bones .

A sharp pang shoots through me, cutting through my haze of agony. It’s not mine. The bond pulls at me, drawing my gaze toward the fight across the room. Through my pain, I watch the reaction of my mates. Wilder drowns men where they stand, water pulling them under as though the floor itself has opened up. Emeric, half-shifted, rakes his claws through a guard who was seconds from severing Caius’s tail. An arrow juts from Caius’s shoulder, but he plucks it out without so much as a flinch, then tosses it to the ground like it’s a mere nuisance.

Aggonid’s shadows surge in the air, slicing through perch archers stationed along the perimeter of the room, their bows raised to pick off my mates one by one. More arrows pepper their bodies—backs, shoulders—but they keep moving, unrelenting, as if the pain is nothing more than an inconvenience.

High Queen Lana Drake ushers servants out a back door while her soul-bonded mate, High King Finian Drake, conjures a barrier, his power surging between them and an oncoming wave of soldiers.

People cry out, their voices ricocheting off the gilded walls of King Valtorious’s throne room as they try to escape the absolute hellfire my mates have brought to Romarie’s doorstep. Power surges around the dais, crashing like tidal waves as my men tear through the crowd, doing their best to avoid innocent civilians as they mow down guards. Tables splinter and crash, and the heavy clatter of swords rings out as guards rush to intervene. Above us, the grand chandeliers sway precariously, their once-pristine crystals fractured and catching the light of stray sparks as ash drifts down in lazy spirals.

Piercing screams reach my ears. It takes me a moment to realize they’re mine. My sharp nails claw at the agony in my chest, as though I could dig it out of me if I only went deep enough. Rivulets of blood pour down my wrists, staining the stone beneath me in vivid splashes of crimson.

Aggonid lets out a roar, and a blast of magic rocks the dais, but all I can focus on is the pain as I rise to my knees, my shrieking sobs renting the air.

The tang of sanguimetal, sharp and biting, mingles with the acrid aroma of corrosion. It’s difficult to even smell my blood. There's a pervasive undertone of oil and grease, slick and industrial, that adds a layer of grit to the realm of Romarie, even with the giant bouquets of flowers strewn across the room, and ball-goers' perfume stinking up the place.

This is the end. There’s no way I can go on living with this feeling.

The betrayal by Azazel, the man who was once my light in the Underworld's darkness, shatters me more thoroughly than any physical blow.

Trust no one.

Least of all me.

I should’ve listened. Should’ve stayed away. But it’s too late now. The trap has been sprung, a baited hook that I’d swallowed whole. And now its barb is tearing me apart.

Strong hands grip my bloody, manacle-clad wrists, and the touch soothes something inside me. Sorrow, as deep and as vast as the Triune Sea itself, fills the eyes of the fae kneeling beside me.

Eyes so blue, so beautiful.

But they were never mine.

I shutter my stare, unable to look upon the fae who they belong to. Instead, I beat on Azazel’s chest, shrieking, "I trusted you!"

King Valtorious' triumphant chuckle next to us tells me he thinks he's won, that he's broken me.

And he has.

Every heartbeat that pumps blood through my veins does so at my own expense, because I gave him everything I was—everything I shouldn’t have—and now there’s nothing left of me to give.

This isn't something I’ll ever recover from. I loved Azazel with all I am, all that I have. And this is what my mate has done to me.

Ruined me.

Is that what his father wanted?

Is this why he wormed his way into my heart, into my bed, into my soul?

“Firefly, stop.” Azazel's grip tightens on my wrists, his voice desperate and broken. "Please, you're hurting yourself. "

That’s rich, coming from him.

Not while my soul bleeds at his feet, and he holds the dagger.

I wrench my hands free, my sticky blood staining his as he positions himself between me and the crowd of Romarie soldiers guarding the dais, trying to shield my naked body from the melee a few paces away. But no one is looking up here. Not when they’re trying to escape the war my mates have brought to their home. The civilians, courtiers, and servants scramble for exits, pushing past one another in desperation, while my mates tear through the guards on the other side of the ballroom, their fury carving a brutal path toward me.

"How could you?" I sob, my voice a raw wound. "How could you do this to me?"

His eyes, filled with misery, meet mine. "I never meant for this to happen. I never wanted to hurt you."

"Then why?" I scream, pounding his chest with all my remaining strength. "How could you do this to us?"

My hands falter for a breath, caught in the memory of what he used to be—what we used to be. Azazel, who once held me like I was his salvation. The mate who poured love through the bond so strongly I couldn’t deny it, even if I tried. For a single, fleeting moment, I want to believe that my Az is still here, that there’s more to this than what I see.

But the thought splinters as soon as it forms, crumbling under the crushing truth. He lied. Over and over. For as long as I knew him.

“Tell me why, Azazel,” I rasp, my voice cracking. “Why would you destroy us?”

We could’ve been perfect. After two hundred years, I’d finally got Wilder out of prison, so I know I would’ve found a way out of Bedlam Penitentiary, too, and we could have all been together. Someway, somehow. I would’ve reunited with all my mates, even if it meant committing unimaginable sins.

Even if it were only in our dreams.

Whatever it took.

Nothing could’ve kept me away .

Azazel's face crumples, and he pulls me into his arms, ignoring my weak struggles as magic explodes around the room, shaking the ground beneath us and nearly knocking us over. "Please." The words are so quiet, they barely reach my ears. "Trust me."

Trust. The word cuts deep. I trusted him more than once. My first night in the underworld, when I’d barely arrived and didn’t know the dangers surrounding me. He’d saved me then, without hesitation, when I was doubled over in agony from poisonous berries. He could have let me suffer, but he didn’t. He gave me medicine, stayed by my side, made me believe that maybe I wasn’t completely alone.

Now? Now I don’t know what to believe. I pull away from him, my breath hitching as my voice rasps. "How can I trust you now, when every word feels like another lie?"

Fear, thick and hot, pulses through our mating bond. I glance up, watching as Caius lops off the head of another guard with twin scimitars, dark blue hair braided away from his face, allowing me to see the runes dancing on his skin. His tail is now barbed, acting as its own weapon as it strikes out at a noble trying to sneak up on him, hitting true—right in his heart.

Wilder, eyes glowing blue and hands raised, drowns the guards beside me in their own fluids from a distance as he sprints towards me.

Emeric has shifted fully into his beast form, a giant, beautiful three-headed hellhound with fire dancing across his fur. His eyes are a blazing white glow as he plucks another archer from the window with a feral snarl, before swallowing him whole.

Aggonid levels an entire floor of guards with a single swing of his arm that cuts them clean in half before vaulting towards me.

Time slows to a crawl, as I see each of my mate’s wide eyes focused just over my shoulder, their faces painted in abject horror.

A subtle shift in the atmosphere sends a chill through my core. King Valtorious moves into my periphery from behind me, his polished sanguimetal armor untouched. The deep crimson inlays along his breastplate gleam like fresh blood, matching the flowing velvet cape draped over his shoulders. Every step is deliberate, each one a measure closer to where I kneel next to his son.

My breath catches in my throat when his cold, cruel stare locks onto mine. The sharp planes of his face are carved with something too controlled to be rage—a hint of victory in his vivid blue irises. The long, dark hair spilling down his back looks unmarred by the mayhem erupting around him, as if no one would dare approach the High King of Romarie.

Each millisecond stretches into eternity as my attention swings back to my mates. Their expressions twist with desperation, their hands reaching out, but they are too far, too late.

King Valtorious's fingers wrap around my shoulder, his touch like ice against my skin—just as I hear my mates roar, “No!”

It takes me a moment to register why, and the next few seconds all seem to happen in slow motion.

Just before Aggonid reaches the top stair, King Valtorious sifts us—himself, Azazel, and me—from the room, teleporting us away from my mates and the madness they’ve wrought on the ball.