Chapter 13
Crushed ghostflower lingered in my nose long after Sylaira left. I feared moving, should the slightest disturbance dissipate the remnants of my mate. Drowning in her scent would be a welcome death.
The bronze threaded over my heart throbbed. Fighting the bond’s pull was excruciating. I sensed Sylaira in the distance, yet the barrier between us was an icy mountain, and I had no magic left to summit it. I couldn’t call her back; I couldn’t go to her.
She didn’t want to listen to what I had to say.
She didn’t want to try to understand why I’d switched out her virelthorn and let her believe she was still consuming the herb to suppress her visions.
I was running out of ways to reach her that didn’t end with white magic shoving me out of the path of her hurricane.
I would do fucking anything for her, and she wouldn’t deign to look at me.
Rage roared inside me—the only emotion I allowed myself to feel. Because anything else toward her would only hurt worse. Sleep did not find me again, not when every time I closed my eyes, the image of her silent shatter around my cock haunted me.
So instead of forcing what would not come, I rose and went to my desk. Because the only thing Sylaira hated—feared—more than me was the crown.
And to win her back, I needed to take them down.
I’d compiled a list of those loyal to me and added names to it with each passing day. But the thousands in the battalion wouldn’t be enough. Somehow, when we reached the front, I had to garner more support, to peel loyalists away from the Zahal and secure them at my back.
But there was still the matter of my sister and her husband.
I tapped the charcoal on the parchment, mind running over every possible way to strip them bare of their gilding and finery so everyone could see the rot beneath.
If I could turn the populace against them, there would be no need to dirty my hands.
Angels would rise up and slaughter them for their crimes.
Yet that would leave the throne open, and Herr Elyriane would snatch the opportunity to claim it for himself if Ishim didn’t first. And I didn’t trust Zarethiel—he would rule as ostentatiously and selfishly as Iaoth and Stadiel had.
He also didn’t have a military mind. I wasn’t sure how we’d end the war with the Demons, but I knew that someone with an ego the size of Keleti wouldn’t usher in an era of peace.
With a sigh, I rose and poured myself a glass of water. I stood at the entrance to the tent, staring out into the night, as I sipped.
Regicide had been on my mind before the trial by light; it was the only weapon that would slice through centuries of fanaticism in the Angel Realm. But we needed a better monarch, one who saw through the birdshit the priestesses said about the Goddess and the Demons.
Me.
The thought struck me like a thunderclap, and the glass nearly slipped from between my fingers.
I spun on my heel and went to my trunk. Kneeling in front of it, I threw open the lid. From a hidden compartment, I retrieved the moonstone necklace that had belonged to my mother.
Let it break.
House R?viel’s motto stared back at me as I brought the silver into the light.
I’d always thought it referred to the type of magic our bloodline carried. Yet as I looked at the necklace, turning it over in my hands, a new possibility rose.
Surrender, but not of this war. Surrender, but not of my duty. Surrender, but not of my power.
Let my control break. Let my beliefs break. Let everything about who I once was shatter and be made anew.
Because the male who had been the realm’s most obedient hunter couldn’t be the ruler. I understood now, the cage I’d let myself be placed in. How without my Command, the trauma of my past had surged to the surface, nothing left to protect me from it.
The future was crystal clear, like I wielded my mate’s power.
Sylaira and I on the thrones, side by side.
My mate’s empathy a counterbalance to the ruthlessness I’d never shed.
She would see the people I’d been forged to overlook; I would handle the snakes who circled us.
The nobles would comply with our new mandates.
Terror had always been my language; now, I would shape the words in my mouth. Not Iaoth. Not Stadiel.
Me.
Sylaira made me a better male when we worked together. With her at the forefront of my mind, every decision was sharper, carefully calculated, and pointed toward peace.
If only we could find our way back to one another.
My fingers closed around the necklace as I looked to the sky. Through the canopy. Through the clouds. Through whatever veil our deity hid behind.
“You put me on this path. You better fucking help me see it through to the end.”
And with that message to Her, I returned the jewel to my trunk and secured it away. But not before I picked up House R?viel’s ring and weighed it in my palm.
I took a tentative step down our bond, seeking out my mate. To my shock, she slept.
Could I…
I shook my head. But the velvet box beckoned me to return it.
To her. With a sigh, I straightened and returned to the humid night air.
The camp was silent as I followed our connection through the rows of tents, toward where Sylaira and Lyriasthe had positioned themselves beside Maelsar and a handful of former palace sentinels.
My steps were wraith-silent, the grass beneath my boots soft and springy. I paused at the threshold, ears straining for the slightest sound. But only soft breathing reached them.
I tugged at the ties on the canvas. Slow. Deliberate. Waking either would not end well for me.
The bond purred as I slid inside, careful not to spill moonlight onto their faces. Neither stirred as I crept across the tent, finding Sylaira’s trunk.
Thank the Goddess it was already flung open. Clothes draped over the sides, some wrinkled and used, others crisp and fresh. The beast inside me whispered to steal one, if only so I could possess that ghostflower scent when she wouldn’t allow me close.
I battled with myself as I placed the ring box among the mess. I only wanted to remind her of how we had danced like partners who’d spent centuries together. To remind her of the steps we could take again.
Because she was going to be my Korona. I was going to make this continent safe for her.
Or die trying.
I eased away from the trunk, coming to stand beside her. Silvery hair spilled over her pillow. Her pink lips were parted ever so slightly. Her heart beat a slow, steady rhythm. Yet to me it was the rhythmic clap of thunder, drowning out all other sound.
A small sigh brushed over my leg, and she shifted.
I backed away, toward the entry, glancing at Lyriasthe to ensure she hadn’t woken. A sky-blue iris glared at me in the dark. Ice slithered through my veins. But she said nothing, merely turned her back to me and tugged the blanket higher on her shoulder.
Like she was giving me permission to stay. Like she knew I needed this moment.
I lingered in the entry, drinking in the sight of Sylaira. My mate’s long lashes brushed her cheekbones, her face serene instead of severe. Yet I knew it would storm the moment she woke and found me standing here.
So as the dawn broke, I trudged back to my tent, vowing to myself to find a way out of the fog and back to our dance.
Someday, she’d look at me again without drowning me in her tempest.
Someday, she’d fall into my arms seeking comfort because she wanted refuge.
Someday, Sylaira would wear my ring again.