Chapter 72 #3
But I’d always had nothing. I’d lived through beatings and mockery since I was a toddler, and my title had put a target on my head since birth. My life had been at risk a thousand times, and no one had ever saved me. What threats I’d faced, I’d survived on my own.
I was Aemonn Corbois, Prince of Lumnos.
And I didn’t fucking beg.
The Arboros woman stood over me, fingers dancing as more roots roped around my neck. A gurgling sound rose from my throat, and my vision blurred.
When my father forbid me from learning to fight, I’d focused on the only other thing that would save me: illusions. I could only manage small, subtle things, like blending into walls and rugs. It wasn’t much, but it helped me hide when Father was at his worst.
Time to save ourselves again, I told my godhood.
Fight, it answered back.
I turned my head to see the blood-soaked flatlands, and I studied every crackle and rift. I thought of the artisans who’d made Lumnos a haven for beauty and art, and I prayed that some piece of their blood flowed through mine as I wove my meager magic into a tapestry of grey, empty rock.
The woman blinked. Her foggy eyes roamed, looking as if she was searching for something but couldn’t remember what she’d lost.
She blinked again. A wounded mortal staggered by, and her gaze jerked up. Her shoulders gave a stiff turn, and she lurched away to chase them.
I would have cheered for joy, if I could breathe. Her roots were receding back into the soil—and trying to take me with them, crushing my arms and neck against the stone.
The sounds of battle faded beneath a ripple of cracks that could have been either rocks or bones.
My eyes began to close. My thoughts turned fleeting and frail.
A distant, ancient voice seemed to whisper, calling me home.
The only sensation that remained was a heat in my chest, my lungs burning for air they couldn’t find.
Burning.
Burning.
“Burn,” I mouthed.
Burn, my godhood answered.
The darkness exploded with pale blue light as warmth flushed across my skin.
My wrists broke free, and I clutched at my throat as air flooded my lungs.
I rolled to my side and drank it in long, rasping gulps.
In my wobbling vision, I saw my wrists coated in ash and the glint of a sword laying several feet away.
Taran.
I dragged myself across the ground and closed my hand around it. Somehow, I made it to my feet, though I was struggling not to collapse. My last burst of magic had drained my godhood dry, so I had no shield to raise.
But Taran was out there.
My fucking brother was out there.
And if Jean got to Zalaric, Taran would either die trying to save him, or he’d die trying to avenge him.
So I staggered through the killing field, violence swarming in blurs, and I made a promise to the Blessed Mother that if she’d lead me to Jean, I’d forgive her for never answering my prayers all those years ago.
I stumbled into someone, and I froze, bracing for a blow. For a moment, I was back in Father’s office, cowering in wait for his fist to strike.
“You survived,” Jean said. “I’m impressed.”
He didn’t look impressed. He looked annoyed.
I tried to speak, but my throat was still too raw. A hoarse “Taran” was all I got out.
Jean rolled his eyes. “Your drunkard brother is your problem. I’m here to clean a half-breed stain off my House.” He turned and raised his arms, shadows at his palms. “Then I’ll find Luther and do the same for yours.”
“Taran,” I croaked again, louder. I forced my voice to a shout. “Taran!”
Finally, my brother looked my way. He took me in, then Jean, and I saw it in his face—the assumption he’d already made that whatever evil thing Jean was about to do, I’d played a part to make it happen.
And maybe, in a way, I had.
Jean’s aura trembled as his magic gathered in a single, lethal strike. Taran tore his hands away from Zalaric, rushing to strengthen his shield, but the terror on his face said what all three of us knew—he wasn’t strong enough to spare his mate.
“Jean?” I said. “You forgot something important.”
“What?” he snapped.
His eyes cut back to me, then grew wide as they dropped to the sword I buried in his side.
I leaned in close. “No one crosses my family and survives.”
I’d always known that if I ever had to fight for my life, I’d be lucky to land a single blow. So I’d used my weak, pathetic magic to hide against the walls while Taran trained, and I’d memorized all the places his tutor said you could kill a man with just one strike.
And one of them happened to be right between the plates of Jean Hanoverre’s armor.
He stumbled back, but not before unleashing his deadly whorl of magic. Not at Zalaric—at me.
Suddenly, it dawned on me that the Blessed Mother had answered me, after all.
Because of Taran, I’d learned that I could endure all manner of pain.
I’d learned that I could be cunning, and I’d learned to use it to protect the people I loved.
I’d learned that I could do the right thing, the good and honorable thing, even when everyone looked at me and expected the worst.
As Jean’s magic engulfed me and my brother’s screams faded with the light, I smiled at the irony. I’d been the one to save Taran, in the end.
I wished he knew he’d saved me, too.