Chapter Twenty-Eight
If he were anyone other than the Sovereign King, none of this would be an issue. But the fact of the matter remains, he is the Sovereign King. And becoming involved with him carries a whole world of implications and risks. Things I’m not sure I want to learn to navigate or deal with.
A demon-bound Sovereign King no less.
I’ve tried over the last couple weeks to simply live.
To find my place in this realm while learning and admiring all the differences from the realm I spent centuries trapped in.
If all of this is part of Nektos’ great plan, give me the abridged version because I can’t keep tearing at myself like this.
I don’t want to be caught between Netharis and Celesta.
I don’t want to return to the hells.
I don’t want to be used by any Sovereign King to claim a throne.
There are a lot of don’t wants in my life right now, and I’ve given very little consideration to what it is I do want.
I want to live, unhindered.
I want to explore Eldoterra.
And I would be lying to myself if I didn’t say I want Ryc.
I want the laughter, and the ease, and the comfort he brings.
And I want Eve and Cora with me too.
I want to surround myself with people whose company I genuinely enjoy.
In a perfect world, Ylara and perhaps even Vaelyn would be here.
But this world is far from perfect, and I know better than to hang myself on the dreams of a bleeding heart.
I’m a piece in a game where no one has explained the rules or expectations.
I’m stumbling, trying to figure them out each time I’m forced to make a move, and more often than not, I make the wrong choice.
What is the right choice?
Heaving a sigh, I let my head fall back against the cool marble wall and fold my legs beneath me. Eve lies beside me, curled up around a book, and settles her head into my lap. She notes my sigh and cranes her head, peeking up at me.
“It’s not like we can venture through the city today. Not with Sir Stalwart over there,” she mutters, shooting a pointed stare over the top of her book at Cyran standing in the corner by the door.
I follow her stare, he remains stoic, unmoved by her comment. There’s no way he didn’t hear her.
Eve sits up, closing her book and setting it aside. “You’re the one who managed to chase Tiarsus out of Ollora a decade ago, right?”
His lavender eyes dart to hers. “Yes.”
Cyran is a fae of many words it seems.
“It’s too bad he escaped during that whole ordeal.” Eve scoffs a bitter laugh. “Would have loved to see a dagger in his throat.”
Cyran’s brows raise slightly, as if he hadn’t expected such venom in her words. “Should he or his guild return to Erus, he will be caught.”
“Good luck with that,” Eve says flatly, moving back on the bed to sit beside me. She leans back against the wall and folds her arms across her chest. “The fae is slicker than oil and has a ridiculous network across the continent.”
Clearly, Eve has some kind of connected history with Cyran and this Tiarsus. The name isn’t a familiar one.
“Tiarsus?” I ask, unable to mask my curiosity.
“The guildmaster of the Guild of Night,” Eve answers, swinging her head to me.
“Of which you were a Black Nightling,” Cyran adds, and Eve nods slowly.
Eve laughs dryly. “You remember then.”
“Eve Willowgrace, Ara Redstorm, Jonik Brightclove, Dyffros Oakhorn,” Cyran says. “Erus’ Black Nightlings.”
“I’m pretty sure everyone else is dead. If they live, I’m dead to them.” Eve releases another long sigh, pulling her knees to her chest. She drapes her arms over her legs, letting them hang.
“You’re better off,” Cyran says, turning his face forward, a silent signal he’s finished with the conversation.
My curiosity and intrigue eat at me. The burning need to know more about Eve’s history consumes me like flame set to parchment.
I have so many questions.
“How long were you a part of this—this guild?” I ask, genuinely interested in learning more about the fae female beside me.
“Longer than I should have been.” Eve stares across the room at the fireplace.
A non-answer if I’ve ever heard one.
“Nine decades,” Cyran answers and my eyes race to him.
“How do you…?” Eve trails off before pursing her lips and nodding slowly. “You investigated me.”
Cyran nods once.
“Oh, this is going to be absolutely delightful, Ves.” Eve gives me a less than enthused glance. “Your royal guard knows everything about my history.”
He’s not my royal guard.
“Not everything,” Cyran corrects. “But enough to deem you capable of protecting Lady Vestaris.”
Eve arches a brow. “The Sovereign King has to protect his interests,” She drawls dryly.
Turning, Cyran reaches for the door. “Should you require me, Lady Vestaris,” I grimace with the use of such a title, “I’ll be in the hall.” The door closes behind him.
Eve bristles. “That fae is a ray of sunshine,” She mutters under her breath. “Did you notice how he never smiles?”
Dragging myself across the bed, I pile onto the floor and reach under my bed.
“Honestly, no. But,” The shoulder strap of my leather messenger bag lies just out of reach, “now that you’ve mentioned it…”
Pressing myself as far under the bed as space will allow, I manage to wrap my fingers around the strap and pull. It slides across the marble floor, stopping as it hits my knees.
“What are you doing?” Eve peers down at me, but doesn’t move from her spot against the wall.
“Well, since we’re not able to really wander outside of the temple, and I’d rather not cross paths with Artemise after her council meeting, I figured I’d read through one of the books I have.
” Pulling the bag into my lap, I throw open the flap and begin to open the clasps.
I’ve been so distracted lately as things continue to spin out of control—I just haven’t had the time. Or the mental wherewithal to spare.
Eve stretches across the bed, peeking down at the bag. “You mean one of the books you brought with you from the hells?”
Reaching in, I withdraw the larger obsidian box and set it beside me. Her eyes follow it, round with interest. As I pull the two books up, a creeping sensation tendrils its way down my thumb and through my wrist. Flattening the leather bag, I set them on top.
“Yes, The Elder Mythos and Fated Celestials are the two texts I’ve brought with me.” I glance up at Eve as she lowers herself onto her stomach and props her chin up on her hands, her legs kicked up behind her.
I almost laugh at how child-like she appears at the moment.
She scoots herself closer to the edge of the bed and before I can stop her, she snatches Fated Celestials from the floor.
It almost makes it to the bed before she gasps and drops it.
It falls the short distance, landing on its spine before falling open to a random, blank page.
The expression on her face is one of pure shock.
“What in the nine hells—”
I laugh. “A defense mechanism. Though I’m not sure why it needs one.”
“You mean that book is cursed,” Eve retorts, emphasizing the syllables of the last word. She shoots me an incredulous stare while wiping her hand on the seat of her robes rather aggressively. “And I just fucking touched it. What kind of cursed book has blank pages? Wait, no. Don’t answer that.”
Unable to keep the smile from my face, I reach for the book.
“I’ve touched it several times. Other than discomfort while holding it, nothing has come of it.” I say as the book’s magic winds itself around my fingers and hand with the strange tingling. “And not all the pages are blank. There are a few chapters on Celesta somewhere in here.”
Taking a hefty number of pages from the first half of the book between my fingers, pages fly past. The last page flicks over—blank. All of them.
What?
My brows furrow.
“Maybe the knowledge is bound to the hells?” I shake my head, trying to make sense of the situation.
Granted, I don’t know what was detailed in the later of the chapters I’d seen in the library, but it is possible it’s knowledge mortals shouldn’t learn.
Scoffing a small laugh, I shake my head again.
I suppose I can’t expect everything I’ve brought with me from the hells to be helpful.
At least the curse this one carries isn’t damning.
“Put the creepy book away. I’m more interested in your box there.” She juts her chin toward the obsidian box beside me. “What’s in it?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly with a small shrug as I close Fated Celestials and set it aside. “I’ve never opened it.”
“Well, let’s open it up!” She smiles excitedly. “It can’t make a shit day much worse, can it?”
“Well, yes.” Her ice blue eyes race to mine. “It can. Depending on what’s contained inside. It’s an obsidian box.”
In a strange flurry of limbs and legs, Eve contorts herself upright. “You mean to tell me that’s an obsidian box?” She points a slender finger at the black hewn stone creation. “The thing within that is cursed?”
“Yes. Well, very likely yes. I doubt I managed to take two benign objects from the hells.” I run my fingers over the surface, the faint unweaving magic pulls like a siphon through my skin. “I’ve never seen an obsidian box like this one, not with etching like this.”
“Maybe Cyran has the right idea. I’ll go stand in the hall while you open it and figure out if it’s cursed.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“Listen, when Druka offered the contract, I figured I’d have to keep you from murdering others in your sleep, talk you down off a ledge when your demonic urges took hold—not watch you unleash cursed objects on the living realm.”
This is the first time Eve has mentioned specific details about her contract with Druka. Taken by surprise, I gape at her for a moment, trying to find my voice.
“Why would Druka care about something like that?” I ask, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.
“She knew Netharis would send demons after you,” Eve answers simply. “Her exact words were ‘protect her at all costs, even if it means protecting her from herself.’”
It doesn’t make sense. And the longer I linger on it, the tighter my chest grows. Clearing my throat, I shove the thoughts away and force a small smile onto my face.
“I have to admit, Druka is not what I’d expected a succubus to be.” Eve laughs to herself.
“Have you met many demons in your time, Eve?” I ask with a small laugh.
“A few, actually,” she admits, nodding slowly. “But you’re the only one from the hells.”
A couple things dawn upon me at once. First, the realization she’s referring to mortals who behave like demons leaves me concerned. Last, that I am the only demon from the hells she’s met.
“Did you not meet Druka?” I ask, confused.
“Yes and no?” she says, her head tilting with her answer. “She came to me in a dream, made the offer and when I woke, the contract was on my desk.”
“I’d almost forgotten Druka is a dreamwalker,” I say quietly.
“How do you know her?” Eve asks, her voice quiet. “What kind of demon is she? She has been nothing but kind any time we speak, so it makes me wonder…” she trails off.
It’s a fair question.
Demons treat mortals like pawns. A mark on a scoreboard or a tool to further their own interests. They’re to be controlled, subjugated, and dominated. A demon would never allow for a mortal to get to know them. At least, not to the same degree Eve and I have gotten to know one another.
I pause, searching for an answer. “Do not be misled, Eve. Druka is a demon capable of many horrors. The Druka I know is not the Druka everyone else knows.”
Silence as Eve pieces things together.
“We were lovers,” I say quietly. “And you can skip the lecture regarding the shortsightedness of falling in love with a succubus—we were doomed from the start. Netharis had already promised me to Kassil.”
“The Lord of Wrath?” She gives me a concerned stare.
Meeting her wide-eyed stare, I nod. “Druka helped me escape him, showed me love isn’t what Kassil and I had. It will be him Netharis sends to the realm to find me. When I left the hells, Netharis transferred ownership to him.”
Eve’s expression darkens, anger shadowing her striking features. “Are you telling me you didn’t have ownership of your own body?”
I give her a weak smile. “Not body, but essence. And yes. I used to belong to the hells. Everything I did was in the name of Netharis’ House. And when I return, it will be in the name of Kassil’s House.”
She releases a sharp, scrutinizing scoff. “What do you mean, when? You’re not going back.”
“I’m not immortal, Eve. I will eventually have to return,” I reply quietly. “I still hold a contract and when I die, my essence will be returned to Netharis.”
“Then you need to break that shit,” Eve says, her jaw setting tightly.
“I’m still working on figuring that out.” I rub my brow. “If it’s possible to break Celesta’s contract, I may be able to do the same.”
“Could whatever is in that box help you?”
I shrug. “It’s possible. But it’s more likely to make things worse.”
Scoffing a laugh, Eve says, “Worse than returning to the hells?”
No.
Not worse than that.
Not waiting for further prompting, I throw open the leg of my robs and grab the hilt of my dagger. In a deft motion, I unsheathe it and bring the point to my forefinger on my left hand. With a quick prick and a flash of pain, silver blood wells on the pad and I press it against the obsidian box.
Silver fills the swirling engraving, creating a stunning contrast between the pattern and the black of the stone. The stone absorbs the silver, leaving no trace of my blood upon its surface.
Withdrawing my finger, a thin line of red light begins to draw down the center of the box where it splits. The two halves of the box pull back, exposing what lay locked away within.
I release a small gasp, and Eve a low whistle.
A soul crystal.
A bright gold light from the crystal’s center pulses like a heartbeat.
All the soul crystals in the hells were red—those who had signed a contract with Netharis or were otherwise damned to the hells. I’ve seen blue souls in the veil. Those souls were claimed by Gaia, hunted by Life Bringers. Silver is the standard color for the majority of souls.
But gold?
Who’s soul is gold? And why is it gold?
Does Netharis know it’s missing from the hells?
“What is this?” Eve asks as our eyes lock onto the crystal. The gold light of the soul illuminates her face in an otherworldly way.
I purse my lips.
As much as I want to tell Eve the truth, I can’t.
Telling her could alter her understanding of the realms. It could upend everything she knows about death and what she can expect upon leaving this realm. For the first time since my arrival, I have to lie for her benefit and not my own.
“I’m not sure,” I finally answer. “But I don’t think it’s going to help me break my contract.”
Not entirely a lie, but a lie all the same.
A lie to protect is still a lie.
With a long sigh, I push the sides of the box closed and it seals itself shut. Yet another mystery to figure out.