Chapter Thirty-Three
The sound of late morning songbirds and pigeons carried upon the breeze pull me from my sleep with a slow and gentle greeting. Curling deeper into the comforter with a small smile, my fingers reach out for Ryc, only to brush against pillows.
My eyes open and I find I’m alone in bed.
The only real evidence Ryc had slept beside me lies in the disheveled comforter and sheets that remain and his lingering scent. It clings to me, embedded in my skin, my hair, the bed.
It prompts me to breathe deeply. The smoky, saffron-tinged mixture reminds me of the feel of velvet against my skin. A sharp pang of loss strikes at my heart.
I’d hoped to spend the morning together, to take advantage of the hours turning into minutes I have left. Shoving the dampening feeling aside, I sit up and glance toward the balcony.
“Good morning, little death.”
The way my absurd little heart leaps at the sound of his voice prompts me to laugh with a genuine smile. The meaning behind Ryc’s new pet name isn’t lost on me and I shake my head.
“Good morning, my light,” I return.
The rippling feel of adoration and desire flows through our channel, causing my cheeks to heat.
No. Not channel.
Bond.
I bite my lower lip with the thought.
“I’m caught up in meetings with the other Sovereign Kings, otherwise I’d be with you.” He sounds mildly annoyed. “With the threat of Netharis, the other kings were summoned to Ollora.”
“Do I have to meet them?”
Spending my remaining hours alive navigating the political waters of Eldoterra does not sound appealing in the slightest.
“No, at least, not today.” I can feel his mild amusement.
The door swings open and Oraphia enters.
“Good morn, Lady Ves!” She greets me with an enthusiasm that takes me by surprise.
I nod my greeting as she closes the door behind her.
“Let’s get you ready for the day,” she chimes brightly.
“Wait,” I insist and she freezes, watching me carefully. “No dresses, no gowns, no fancy hair styling. I need to be ready to fight.”
Oraphia’s brows raise as she purses her lips. Is she giving me a look of approval?
“Well enough, Lady Ves. I think you’ll find today’s attire to your liking,” she chirps, moving farther into the room, walking around to the other side of the bed to snatch Ryc’s pants off the floor.
Any other day, I would have been embarrassed by the oversight.
Not today, it seems.
She bends again, picking up my destroyed camisole before meeting my gaze.
“What are you waiting for?” she asks with a knowing grin. “Get yourself into the bath, my lady.”
Throwing the covers back and leaping from the bed, I streak across the bedroom into the bathing room, laughing.
?????????????
Good gods, Oraphia wasn’t wrong about today’s attire.
She’d outfitted me with simple enough clothing, a black pair of leggings and black sleeveless shirt, reminiscent of the clothing Artemise had given me the day of my arrival.
But then she laid out black leather armor and my eyes widened. Lightweight, flexible, but protective all at the same time, the set hugged my figure like a glove.
The cloak I now don fastens to the armor, along my collarbone. Its hood features a cowl, which once worn, hides my face in shadow, leaving only the silver of my eyes exposed.
“The shadowwalker armor of Erus,” Oraphia says as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. “Many generations ago, Erus was known for its band of shadowwalkers. Sadly, not many are given the innate of shadow these days.”
A shadow or darkness innate may be rare in the living realm, but it couldn’t be more common in the hells.
Removing the cowl and lowering the hood, I smile at Oraphia. “Thank you.”
She tosses me a suspicious glance, but quickly bobs a curtsy.
“An honor, my lady,” she returns, straightening her apron. “If there is anything else you require, please send for me.”
“There is actually,” I say, turning from the mirror to her. “Can you please have Eve find me?”
“Absolutely, Lady Ves. Right away.”
I nod as she turns to leave the room.
The door closes after her, and I move quickly across the room to the small desk in the corner. Yanking out the chair, I throw myself into the seat and begin pulling the drawers open. From one drawer I snag a few sheets of parchment and shove it closed. In another, I find a pen.
My handwriting will not be nearly as beautiful as Ryc’s, but I need to get a message to Artemise. I doubt I’ll be able to leave the castle without raising suspicion. Eve will have to deliver the message for me.
Putting the pen to paper, I begin to write.
I have to not think about last night, about the promise of a happily ever after. They don’t exist for creatures like myself. If I fail in killing my father, I need Celesta to deliver on her promise of vengeance.
Otherwise, it won’t simply be Ollora that burns…
It will be the whole of Eldoterra.
?????????????
I won’t lie.
My curiosity got the better of me.
Silently stalking through the castle, I ventured.
With so little time left in the mortal realm, I found no reason to confine myself to my quarters. I wandered the castle aimlessly at first, ignoring the concerned stares of castle staff as I peeked into random rooms, walked through corridors…
But then I felt it.
The pull in my chest.
And I knew it would lead me right to Ryc.
I had no interest in interrupting his meeting, but that didn’t make me any less curious.
What could mortal kings possibly discuss when faced with the ire of the god of death? Surely not all of them believe they can stand against my father.
Rounding the corner into a hall that leads me farther into the east wing on the third floor, the sounds of male voices carry to me. Their words become clearer with each step, and judging by the tones, it’s a tense conversation.
“She is a danger, Alaryc. We have to consider what will happen if she isn’t returned to Netharis.” It’s a male voice I don’t recognize. “If we return her now, this can all be over before it even begins.”
My brows raise.
He’s not wrong.
But if I leave now, Celesta doesn’t have what she needs for her ritual. And at minimum, I need to provide her with that, because the likelihood of being able to kill Netharis myself is slim.
No.
I can’t return any earlier than the eclipse.
But I will return.
“Suggest killing my mate again, Oryn.” Ryc’s tone is pure ice, the groan of a chair moving across the floor shortly following.
I flatten myself against the wall, slowing my breath as I continue to listen.
“Wars have been started for less,” Fenryn’s deep voice muses. “But I’m not surprised you’d jump right to killing Ryc’s mate.”
“Mate or not, she is a demon,” the first male argues, sighing.
“Let’s see if you feel that way should you ever find your mate,” Fenryn laughs dryly. “Gods give her the strength to deal with your shit.”
A few chuckles rise among the Sovereign Kings.
“She’s half demon, half winged fae.” It’s Rowen who speaks. “Her lineage is plain upon her face. She is Celesta’s daughter.”
“And you’ve seen her true form?” another male voice asks.
Silence.
“Alaryc, all it would take for this to change in your favor is to present her to us in her true form.” Yet another voice I don’t recognize.
How many Sovereign Kings are there?
I recall Eve’s words the day I’d arrived. Eight. There are eight Sovereign Kings. Another reminder I should have read that gods damned book on the royal fae families of Eldoterra.
“She does not seek the throne and neither do I.” Ryc’s voice is firm. “There is nothing to prove.”
Footsteps approach the door and I hold my breath. A shadow cuts across the hall, framed by the door. The male rests his arms on his hips.
“The throne can be discussed at a later time,” Fenryn replies. “Right now, we need to determine whether you will support Erus tonight.” There’s a pause. “You have the support of Sol, Ryc.”
“It’s been a few too many centuries since my soldiers have seen real battle,” a dry voice muses. “Erus will receive those who wish to wet their blades from Corvallis.”
“Erus receives no aid from Gersand.”
“Battalia will not be sending support.”
“Nay from Aeros.”
“You have Vis’ armies, Alaryc.” At this, my brows shoot high, an unexpected ally.
“Renna cannot support this proposal.”
I swallow a scathing laugh.
These kings are foolish if they believe Netharis will stop his demons at the borders of Erus. Once Ollora has been decimated, they will spread in every direction, like disease.
As with all wars, Netharis is the only winner. He will take as many souls as he can claim back with him into the hells. His collection will grow. The Layer Lords will fight amongst themselves for the strongest of the souls.
Reaching out through our bond, I feel for any semblance of emotion from Ryc. I’m met with nothing. Silence and darkness.
His mental ward remains firmly in place.
Why?
“The sanctity of the mating bond is one we have honored for centuries, Ryc,” one of the kings says, his voice calm, collected. “But your mate’s lineage has been brought into question.”
“If she is not a winged fae, bring her before Eloric and have her attest to such,” another male says heatedly.
Who is this Eloric?
Rowen mentioned him last night as well.
I stare blankly at the wall across from me as I listen, taking slow, silent breaths in an attempt to steady the beating in my chest.
The kings revere the mating bond, but refuse to stand for the one Ryc and I share? I’m trying to make sense of the conversation, but I’m not sure I’m able to.
Why are they so bent on having a winged fae on the throne?
There are too many voices, too many Sovereign Kings for me to keep them straight. I don’t know who is saying what—
“If Netharis wants her returned to the hells, I say we give him what he wants. We would be fools to stand against the god of death.” Another voice.
Ryc snarls viciously, followed by the sound of glass shattering farther within the room.
“Alaryc!” Rowen shouts. “Reign yourself in. No one has made any attempt to harm Vestaris.”