Chapter 23 The Rose Pendant
THE ROSE PENDANT
Acacius
Firelight reflected off the freshly forged metal as Acacius held up the necklace for inspection.
The metal rose twirled on its chain, layers of curled petals spread open in bloom. It had taken a few days to get the size right, another set of days to delicately shape each petal, and another to piece it all together.
The sides of the reflective flower were too smooth and flat. He needed to add more details, a slight split at the top of the petal and creases along the body, to make it seem more realistic.
It’s fucking abysmal.
He could do better.
Letting out a grumble, he stuffed the pendant away in his pocket.
Sweat dripped from his hairline, down his nape, and over his spine. Less than a few minutes under Moros at his workstation, and his shirt was already damp.
Acacius left through the underground tunnel, a maze of caves carved by the mountain itself. The set of pathways led into both the prison above in the Land of the Dead, and Tavora.
He crossed the threshold, greeted by the saffron sky of his realm, its surface cracking and bleeding cascades of black. Moss clung to the red clay terrain as he exited the mountain.
He stopped a few paces from the tree line of the densely packed forest, its crevices hazy with damp fog, and looked over his shoulder.
A collective of Heraldic Olethros congregated along the cavern entrance, their wreaths of birch and pallid faces staring back at him—like a mortal’s without eyes or nose, only hollow holes, and the maimed fissures of their mouths, lacerations from their cheeks to their chins.
These were the true faces of the Heralds.
Acacius was the only one who knew what lay under the dense drapery of their veils.
Acacius gave them a nod of acknowledgement before teleporting away.
On any other day, he would’ve engaged in conversation with them. They never spoke back, just low grumbles, but he liked to believe that they enjoyed his company.
However, today, he didn’t feel like talking.
He stepped out of the midnight-blue cloud and onto the polished stone pathway of his garden, surrounded by the ivy tresses that covered the weathered exterior of his fortress. Red velvety roses climbed every slab of rock like voracious lichens, their fragrance filling his nose.
He strolled toward the arched entrance.
An empty space amongst the floral and greenery caught his eye.
He stopped and looked down at the bare soil, where the bleeding heart blossoms had been.
They were gone. Since when?
Acacius rubbed at his chest. Perhaps after gaining closure at Ruelle’s statue?
Since then, the leaden weight trapped inside of him had vanished. The only thing that haunted him now was an insufferable gnaw that came from missing Marina.
It had been nearly a week since he’d seen her, since he’d pulled his Heralds from Hollow City. Did she notice they were gone? When she did, would she come find him? He wanted her to seek him out on her own, but at what cost? Waiting another week for her to appear seemed unendurable.
Since his epiphany at Ruelle’s statue, he’d slowly resumed his daily duties amongst his realm, paying regular visits within Moros to leave behind torturous ruin.
He’d even responded to Iliana’s message sent by her boyden, agreeing to attend the next Council meeting and officially ending his bereavement leave.
All that was left was to reach out to Cassius and make amends with him, something he would soon do once he decided on a proper approach. Just arriving, unannounced, to his new home in Augustus—it felt too invasive, and a guaranteed way to get hexed by Finnian.
He sighed just as a familiar energy nipped at his skin.
His body recognized her, and a jolt of euphoria blazed through his chest.
Ebony pinpricks expanded in blotches around him, like ink spilled across paper. Her nebulous tendrils took form and locked around his arms.
He grinned, making no move to escape the clutches of her Night.
The binds yanked him off his feet. His back hit the ground, and his arms were forced over his head, the shackles of darkness pinning him to the cracked stone.
“I must say,” he declared, looking around in amusement to find her, “I haven’t been this excited since you bathed my entire realm in your shadow.”
Marina fabricated above him, pinning him with her heels that planted beside his ribcage. The ends of her long, wavy hair brushed over her waist. The little skirt hugging her physique and the dangerously low-cut neckline of her lace blouse, all married with her silver jewelry, enraptured him.
The metal rose pendant in his pocket slipped to mind, and he imagined how it would look resting against her sternum. Perhaps he could forge a matching set of earrings, and a bracelet too?
Pride lined his insides at the thought of seeing something he’d crafted with his own hands against her skin.
Marina kneeled over him, bringing her face close enough that he could spot the fear swimming laps in her eyes.
His stomach twisted. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t play stupid.” Her expression was barely able to keep its blank composure, her tone unnatural and rigid.
“I’m not.” Acacius ripped his arms up, breaking through her divine power. The shackles of her Night shattered and dissolved into broken smoke.
He went to sit up, but Marina shoved him back by the shoulder with her boot. “I told you that if you came after Ash, you would have to go through me.”
He hit the ground with a dramatic thud, the breath evicted from his lungs.
What the fuck is going on?
Acacius remained down, surrendering. Apparently, there was a misunderstanding during their last exchange.
“And after you left, I commanded my Heralds to leave the city.”
She glowered down at him, searching his face, as if she were deciding on whether to trust his words.
After everything they’d been through thus far, she had every reason not to believe him.
However, with something stirring her suspicion, she’d come to him, and that was enough.
Even if just to lay his eyes on her again.
He stared back at her, solemn. “You said you made your father a vow, Marina.”
At the mention of her full name, the rigidity on her lips gave way into a soft frown.
A beat passed.
No longer able to take the corrosive silence, Acacius nudged against her boot. “For the love of all gods, Rina, will you tell me what is going on?”
She removed her foot from his chest, and he sat up. “I saw one of your Olethros for myself, moments before I came here.” She held onto his gaze, her expression too grave for comfort. “A Daemon.”
Acacius blinked at her, baffled at the wild confession. “Impossible.”
“You heard me.”
“I would know if a piece of myself was in Hollow City right now. They’re all gone, for you.”
She crushed the lids of her eyes together and sighed a heavy breath. “I want to believe you, but I know what I saw, Acacius.”
He climbed up, staggered by the information. “Whatever you saw was not a creation of mine.”
It was absurd. The Daemon resided in a secret pocket of his realm that no other deities could travel to, unless Acacius, himself, brought them to it.
Over the many centuries of his life, he’d called on his Daemon to depart Tavora only a handful of times.
Those who caught brief glimpses sold the information, causing their scarce appearance to be written about in tomes.
Mortals hunted them in an attempt at fame and riches.
Scholars longed to study them, just as they did with any other mythological beasts.
It became a thing of delight for Acacius to keep himself—his monsters, his home—an enigma, to drive others mad with curiosity.
“Show me then.” Marina jutted out her chin. “I need to see for myself.”
Whatever had happened was urgently unsettling her.
Compelled to eliminate her stress, he lifted his hand between them. “Okay.”
Marina’s gaze floated down to his open palm, hesitating to grab on. He could see the cynical thoughts swirling in her onyx gaze—questioning his motives, what would happen if she took his offer.
“Whatever will put your mind at ease, Rina, I will do for you.” He wiggled his fingers, nodding reassuringly. “Come on.”
He was determined to prove himself to her without the baggage of their past clinging to them like lampreys.
Marina lifted her hand, her fingers spreading over his palm—a slow, burning touch of blind faith.