Chapter Thirty-Six
The barren expanse of the hells spreads as far as I can see.
The all too familiar ominous red skies, jagged cliffs, dark stone, and lack of life stretches for an eternity. I’ve returned to the uppermost layer of the hells. My hands rise to the center of my chest and my stomach drops as reality makes itself known.
My heart no longer beats.
No more flutter, no more metered ticking.
Stillness meets my fingertips as taloned fingers tear through my shirt, piercing my skin. I wince despite the lack of pain and draw my hands away to stare at them.
Centuries of owning these hands and after just a few weeks they feel foreign, not mine. They’re too demonic, putting on display parts of me I no longer recognize.
Pulling at my innate, I’m met with silence.
My brows furrow.
The shadows within me no longer exist.
I cannot sense them, they do not respond to my call.
Fighting back tears, I take a deep, ragged breath. I’ve never been without my shadows—not since they first manifested at roughly a century old. I’ve been left without the only means I have to truly defend myself while stepping into a realm filled with creatures who won’t think twice about using me.
More than that…
How can I stand against the god of death innateless?
I’ve failed before being given the chance to try.
The moonstone in the pommel of the dagger gleams as it rests against my thigh, strangely bright for the low red light of the hells. I clamp down on what little resolve I have left. I have to try anyway. Even if failure is essentially guaranteed.
An unfamiliar yearning fills me.
Beckons me, wanting me to move deeper into the hells.
My feet begin to move of their own accord.
This must be what its like for mortals. Those whose souls are destined for the hells upon death. Entry through purgatory, drawn by an invisible tether to the tortures that await.
“Ves…” Vaelyn’s saddened voice reaches me.
Lifting my gaze from the dagger, I meet his blue eyes as I walk past.
It’s too late to hide the dagger and honestly, it would have been easier to hide it in my robes. Unfortunately, I’m not wearing them. Here’s to hoping I can distract Vaelyn from looking too closely at what I carry with me. Here’s to hoping I can use what little empathy he may still harbor.
He stares at me with concern plain upon his face. Nothing about him has changed. I don’t know why I thought he would change. He’ll forever be content to be the obedient demon Netharis created to do the same damned things in the name of his House for eternity.
He’ll never change.
I stare until I can’t anymore, having moved too far beyond him.
Even if I wanted to stop moving, I can’t.
I can’t overcome the compulsion of my feet.
He falls into step on my right beside me, and I bury my face into my hands with shame.
Sobs rack through me.
What have I done?
I don’t want him to see me.
Not like this.
Vaelyn wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him as we continue to move.
“What did you think was going to happen?” he asks, his voice breaking.
“I don’t know, Vae.” I lower my hands, lifting my face to the empty red sky. “Not this.” My voice trembles as I shake my head. “Not this,” I repeat.
I know exactly what this is.
This is Vaelyn’s way of saying goodbye for a while.
Netharis will trap me for centuries in obsidian.
I’ll be unwoven and reconstructed.
Again.
The creature that will emerge will not be me.
She will look like me, sound like me, but she will be shattered.
Forced to find the pieces.
Made to believe everything Netharis tells her.
And it will take centuries before anything starts to make sense.
If they ever make sense.
“Come on. I’m not going to make you walk to the tower.” He sounds resigned, defeated. “Netharis is waiting.”
Vaelyn swings himself in front of me, grasping both of my hands with surprising care. Before I can argue, shadows swirl up around and sweep us deeper into the hells.
As the shadows vanish, I’d expected to see my father’s study.
I did not expect the throne room.
Beyond that, I did not expect his throne room to be filled with spectators. Greater demons, lords and ladies, archdemons—all stare at me with eager eyes. I feel a century old again and shrink under the weight of their anticipation.
I’m going to be made an example. Proof Netharis tolerates disobedience from no one—no one is safe from his wrath. Not even his daughter.
Vaelyn steps back, releasing my hands as he turns. He approaches the empty throne, taking his place to stand beside it. It’s a towering, jagged seat constructed of polished obsidian and adorned with blood-red rubies.
While the room is a wide expanse, the black draped obsidian walls feel more oppressive than I remember.
Hellfire blinds me, and I squint against it.
As the flair fades, Netharis sits perched on his throne, revealing his true form. A creature with eyes as red as freshly spilled blood, massive horned wings, taloned hands, and rows of sharpened teeth.
The king of demons.
My father.
He crosses a leg over the other, letting his hands fall upon the armrests as he sits back in his seat. His talons curl around the end of the arm rest, my eyes catching on the centuries-worn marks from his claws. The look upon his face is one I’ve seen countless times.
Disdain.
Disappointment.
Rage.
Yet, despite my innate’s silence, I’m unmoved by his facade.
The rage I harbor toward this god transformed at some point, I don’t know when. It’s become deep and unmoving, capable of things I never thought possible.
“Welcome home, Vestaris,” he drawls with a wicked grin.
I remain silent.
“You’ve cost me more than you realize,” he says with a sigh, his head tilting as he looks over me.
Curling his lip in disgust he continues, “And for what? Him? Those mortals?” he scoffs.
“Mortals are not worthy of you. He is not worthy of you. I knew you’d allow yourself to be used by Celesta.
” He shakes his head, rising from his seat.
“What you’ve given her was not meant for her!
You’ve ruined her! You selfish, petulant child! ”
Ruined?
The shock of surprise keeps me silent.
Since when does Netharis care about Celesta? He forced the goddess to bear his children. For centuries, he’s kept her locked away and isolated as if she’s some sort of trophy. A thing to be displayed.
But the rage in his voice just now…
Is it possible for the god of death to love a creature other than himself?
No.
He’s proven time after time it’s not.
My father descends the few steps in his approach, his tail flicking behind him as his eyes burn. I remain perfectly still, aside from wiggling my toes in my boots. I smile. I still have agency over my body. He’s not used compulsion.
Yet.
An oversight he will regret.
It’s an opportunity I can’t afford to let slip by.
Unfurling my fists, my fingers brush against the hilt of the bloodstone dagger. Knowing I carry one of the only weapons capable of killing a god provides a strange sense of comfort. It also leaves me laden with pressure and expectation—if I don’t succeed, lives will be lost.
And I don’t want that—that stain on my essence.
Should I miss his heart with the blade…
I won’t miss my own.
“You will pay for what you have done,” he snarls and to my surprise, I don’t flinch. “And in time, you will make up for it.”
In a flash, he closes the distance between us, his hand wrapping around my throat.
I’m lifted off the floor and pulled close.
Staring into his eyes, I smile weakly and wait.
Knowing damn well this could be the last moment of my existence, I strike—as fast as Ryc’s light—shoving the bloodstone blade between us.
Deep into his chest.
The rage on his face contorts as he realizes what’s happening.
He drops me, and my fingers still wrapped around the dagger’s grip, force the blade downward through his flesh.
I release the hilt before the blade is yanked any farther away from his heart.
Landing roughly on my backside sends jolts of pain through my hip and spine.
Grimacing, I scramble to stand and back away, desperately seeking momentary safety outside of his reach.
The moonstone of the pommel glimmers with iridescent blue and green hues, bright against the outpouring of black blood staining Netharis’ crimson shirt. I didn’t miss his heart.
As the stain grows, I lift my eyes to his, meeting his stare. In all the times Netharis has looked at me, I was nothing to him. Nothing more than a burden, a problem to be controlled, a tool to be used. But this time, there’s fear in his blood-red eyes.
And I smile.
I’ve never seen the god of death scared.
Netharis stumbles forward, roaring as he reaches for me once again.
The Tower quakes violently, throwing me from my feet, and I land hard on the obsidian floor.
Ripping the blade from his chest, he throws it to the ground.
It skitters across the floor, leaving a trail of sulfuric blood that bores like acid into the obsidian.
It stops far beyond my reach and I swing my eyes to Netharis. All the panic I hadn’t felt leading up to this comes rushing into me all at once.
I’ve pierced his heart.
Why hasn’t the void taken him?
Turning, I scamper on my hands and knees—trying to reach the dagger again. It didn’t kill him.
I’ve failed.
From behind me, he grabs a fist full of my hair and I scream.
He releases me with a scream of his own—a chilling sound of a thousand tormented voices. It’s a scream borne of the entire hells, the countless souls he’s damned, causing the court of the hells to cower.
A pulse of magic explodes from Netharis and slams into my back, knocking everyone to the ground with cries and screams of their own. Daring to peer over my shoulder as I lay sprawled on my stomach, I’m forced to shield my eyes from the hellfire that rips from his wound.
In seconds it consumes him, turning his body to ash.
Charred petals drift slowly to the floor as I stare at the pile, trembling.