Chapter 55 #3
“Diem!” Luther called out. One of the mortals had slipped past him to lunge at me with a dagger.
Instinct took over, honed by years of my father’s instruction, as Sorrow’s Edge swung and skewered the man through his gut.
His bright ruby blood sizzled against the heartstone.
Its glow flared, then dimmed, as if it knew this was not the life it was destined to take.
Luther grabbed the man and yanked him off my blade. The other mortals lay slain around him. In less than a minute, the Meros Descended would reach us both.
Ophiucae rolled to his hands and knees, trying to crawl away, and Luther caught him by the collar and forced him to his knees. “My Queen,” he growled, holding him in offering.
With trembling hands, I lifted Sorrow’s Edge, letting its tip rest on Ophiucae’s chest. My eyes squeezed shut. I couldn’t bear to look at either man, unsure which of them I was about to hurt more.
Even if I was ready to do this—and gods, I was not ready—what if there was a part of the spell I’d missed? I had to kill Ophiucae, and I had to give my life as payment. That was as much as I’d managed to figure out. If I missed something crucial, I might never get to try again.
Luther pushed Ophiucae closer to the blade.
Its point punctured Ophiucae’s skin, sending his blood trickling down the blade.
It hit the heartstone, and a surge of energy exploded through my body.
The world painted over with fiery gold, shimmering silver, and depthless black.
The vague, indecipherable whispers sharpened to wails from two women in the distance haloed in gilded light.
One was on her knees, shoulders jerking with sobs.
The other’s head hung low, though I knew she was watching every sad, horrific moment.
Swirls of energy streamed like starlight ink in blackened water from the place where Sorrow’s Edge had pierced his skin. Luther’s silhouette hovered behind him, appearing as a cloud of twinkling mist, steadfast despite the turbulent winds.
Drawn by instinct, I sliced my thumb on the blade and smeared my blood across the heartstone.
His mother’s sobs grew louder and strangled into pleas as glowing energy twined around the blade, stretching toward me.
I could feel Ophiucae through it. His face was obscured, but his heart was clear, along with everything in it: his panic, his anger, his dread.
His hurt.
I wondered if he felt mine in return—the rending of my soul, the way every last part of me warred against the decision fate was demanding that I make.
“Diem,” Luther’s voice rang out. “Quickly!”
The second female figure lifted her arm. Warmth spread across one side of my body, and the air filled with clanking metal and groans.
The heartstone’s magic writhed over my arm and Ophiucae’s chest, binding us together. It did not urge me to fight and destroy, the way my godhood did, but its long-dormant power was wide awake, eager to see what I might do.
I opened my eyes. The Meros Descended had strangely staggered backward, rubbing their eyes as if dazed. Luther grabbed Ophiucae’s head and yanked it back, forcing Ophiucae to hold my stare. Every year of his immortal age was evident on his face. He looked so tired, and so very afraid.
Through the roaring wind and violent rain came a whisper:
“My daughter.”
I would like to say that I saw him for everything he was: A murderer. A tyrant. Entirely untrustworthy, and the greatest threat to Emarion’s future.
How differently things might have gone if I had.
But in the moment, I only saw the man who gave me life, and the same lonely, fractured person that the island made me become.
My arm went limp, and Sorrow’s Edge slapped against my thigh. Droplets trickled down my cheeks. Rain, tears, or maybe both.
“I can’t,” I said, voice breaking.
Luther looked between us, then at the Meros Descended. He sheathed his sword, then snatched Sorrow’s Edge from my hand.
“Forgive me, my heart.”
With one powerful swing, he carved its blade through Ophiucae’s neck.
Black blood splattered over my face. A shocked sound choked out of me as Ophiucae’s head hit the soil. His body held its macabre stance for a moment, arms half-raised in a final, futile defense, then crumpled at my feet.
Luther threw an arm around my waist and ran.
He shouted something, but I didn’t hear it.
I didn’t notice the storm around us worsen or feel my lungs breathe in as much water as air.
I didn’t see the others when we reached them, nor hear their cries of relief at seeing us alive.
I didn’t flinch at the tall grass whipping my cheeks as we sprinted miles for our escape.
When Luther carried me into the waiting boat, even his touch couldn’t win my focus.
The rocking of the tides, the hushed arguing of the men around me, the piercing shriek of my gryvern when she finally arrived—all went ignored.
For the entire trip home, I didn’t see, hear, or feel much of anything, except for the coppery taste of my birth father’s blood on my lips and a throbbing pain around my wrist, squeezing like a shackle.
The sign of a bonded bargain.
Broken.