Chapter 82
LUTHER
Ophiucae’s gaze settled on an opening in the soil, where a set of stairs led underground. “Is that what you brought me here to do?” he asked. “Chain me up and leave me to be forgotten like before?”
Diem watched him, saying nothing. The Flames of her newfound magic crackled around her.
“Some fates are worse than death,” he said.
“Much, much worse,” she answered coldly.
Ophiucae’s hand twitched at his side. “You can still join me. We can end this war. Rule Emarion together.”
“Join you?” I cut in. “What’s left of your army is too far away to save you. You’re no match for Diem’s power. You’ve lost, Ophiucae. It’s over.”
Neither of them seemed to hear me, and nothing about the way they stared each other down suggested that this was anywhere near over.
Reminders of the vision tugged at my memory.
So many of the details around me were exactly as they’d been .
. . but there were differences, too. In the vision, there had been no Temple in the distance, and Ophiucae’s body had been bright and glowing, filled with the evidence of his power.
Now, his skin was dull, no sign of his magic to be seen.
Was this a trick—Ophiucae holding back until he was ready to strike?
Or had something changed the threads of fate?
“I believed in you,” Diem said. “Everyone wanted you dead, but I believed you could be a better man. Even when you slaughtered my people, I never gave up on you . . . and I hated myself for it.” She began to walk toward him.
“I hated that I cared for you. I hated that I wanted you to love me back. I felt like such a weak fool.”
Ophiucae scoffed. “Everything I’ve done has been for us—for you—to secure this world for our reign. I made sure that all who defied you met their end at your sword. Would I do that if I did not care?”
“The worst part of all is that I believe you,” she said.
“I think you really do believe that love is the same as ruin and destruction. Maybe you’re right.
” She looked at me, and my heart roared at the sadness in her eyes.
“Maybe the people we love the most are the ones we’re doomed to hurt the worst.”
She brushed her fingers over her mating mark, and a flood of grateful love flowed through our bond.
“You’re right, too,” she told me. “Hope isn’t weakness.
There’s strength in trying to heal what everyone else wants to burn.
You never let me forget that.” Her stare returned to Ophiucae.
“And you never let me forget that the greatest strength of all is letting go.”
He eyed her warily. “That’s right. You must let go of the people of this world. Death may be a monstrous thing, but we cannot bring peace to this land without it.”
Her shoulders seemed to droop in defeat. “No,” she said, sighing. “We cannot.”
“You and I, we are gods. We have a destiny to fulfill.”
She nodded. “We do.” The Flames flickering over the island faded away. “I’m tired of fighting, Ophiucae. I’m tired of watching the people I care about suffer and die. I want it to end.”
“It will . . . if you join me.”
Diem looked up at the sky, where the clouds had parted just enough to reveal the moon, bright and full, bathing us in its light. “I’ve made my choice.”
Ophiucae smiled triumphantly as he walked toward her. “Lay down your sword, daughter. Our war is over.”
She tossed Sorrow’s Edge behind her.
“Diem,” I said, low and urgent.
Ophiucae extended his hand. “Come with me to the heartstone. We’ll join our magic and seize the power we are owed.”
“Diem,” I warned again.
She took Ophiucae’s hand and began to walk beside him toward the Temple. “Sheathe your sword, my King,” she called out to me, “and remember your promise.”
Begrudgingly, I slid the Sword of Corbois into its scabbard on my back.
Ophiucae arched a brow. “What promise was that?”
I wondered if he saw it—the sudden hitch in her step.
“Don’t you already know?” she asked lightly. “You’ve been reading my mind all day.”
“I had to be certain I could trust you,” he said. “Now that you’ve joined me, I’ll never do it again. You have my word. Will you return my trust, and tell me what it is you asked of your mate?”
“I told him I was ready to surrender. Luther promised me that he would submit to you, too.”
It was only the years I’d spent masking my emotions that kept my grin from unfurling. I’d promised her no such thing—I never would, and she damn well knew it.
But Ophiucae did not.
And when he gave a wide, satisfactory smile, I knew he hadn’t sensed her lie. He couldn’t—just like he couldn’t pluck the promise I’d made her from her thoughts.
The island didn’t just stifle Descended magic—it stole it even from the Kindred themselves.
Diem gave no sign of the critical revelation she’d just exposed. “What is it you plan to do with the heartstone?”
“Whatever we wish. Its power is incalculable.” He gave her a patronizing glance. “It will make that little fire of yours seem paltry in comparison.”
My legs warmed as heat pulsed from the soil.
“Heartstone magic requires a cost, doesn’t it?” Diem asked. “When you and the other Kindred cast the Forging Spell across Emarion, something must have been sacrificed to balance it out. Was it the Everflame?”
At the base of the Temple, Ophiucae motioned for her to precede him up the narrow stairs curving toward the circular platform. Diem held still, awaiting his answer.
He gave an irritated sigh. “Our mother crafted the spell. Only she knew the cost.” His expression darkened at the mention of his mother, and he left Diem behind, storming up the staircase.
“What you’re planning to do with the heartstone will require a great loss to balance it out,” she called out.
He flicked his hand without looking back. “The heartstone can take whatever it wishes. It matters not.”
“It matters to me.”
Silvery embers swirled at Diem’s feet.
“I think everything has a cost,” she said. “Not just magic. Every action. Every choice.” Her hair danced across her shoulders, the shimmer returning to her skin. “I swayed from what I swore to do, and someone I loved paid the price.”
Ophiucae’s gaze lowered to the godstone stairs, which had begun to sparkle, illuminated by Diem’s glow.
“Tell me, Ophiucae, what price should you pay . . .”
His head slowly turned back toward her.
Diem’s eyes narrowed. “ . . . for ending my brother’s life?”
Her hands shot forward, and a blast of her Fire slammed into him, sending him hurtling into a column. I snatched Sorrow’s Edge from the ground and sprinted toward her.
Ophiucae groaned, clutching the burned, blackened flesh on his chest. “I knew you’d betray me. Just like everyone else.”
A fiery corona flickered around Diem as she ascended the stairs. She paused, and for a moment, I feared her pity for him had blinded her to his manipulation, but her hand extended—toward me.
I gripped Sorrow’s Edge by the blade, ignoring the bite of pain as it sliced into my flesh, and stretched it toward her open palm. The second her fingers brushed its handle, she clutched it and swung. Ophiucae rolled away, and the blade clanged against the Temple stairs.
Ophiucae kicked a leg out, catching Diem in the shoulder and knocking her back. I managed to grab her before she tumbled over the Temple’s side. By the time I steadied her, he’d vanished.
We climbed to the Temple’s round central platform. The heartstone, cracked but glowing, thrummed on its pedestal as if it sensed the battle being fought for its control.
“He’s behind one of these columns,” I whispered, scanning the nine arches representing each of the realms. Diem nodded, then slipped through an archway to creep around the Temple’s outer edge. I fought the urge to follow, holding back to see if her approach might flush him out of hiding.
My eyes drifted to an opening pointing toward what had once been the realm of Omnos.
The Kindred had destroyed its arch long ago, polishing its remnants to a glossy shine to hide their secret.
The only relic that remained was the sigil carved into the floor at its base—a ten-pointed star, the same one that Ophiucae had once used to mark Diem for his protection.
My anger flared at how he’d toyed with her heart, doling out fondness in between causing her pain.
It reminded me far too much of Taran’s father and the way he’d treated his love as a reward for enduring his violence.
It had infuriated me to see Diem sink into the same poisoned cycle in the name of family, something she had always kept sacred.
I hoped that she remembered that family could be whoever we chose, and those who hurt us never had to be part of our family ever again.
The ten-pointed star gave a sudden glimmer. I frowned, watching as it faintly glowed, then went dark.
I glanced at Diem, who was circling around the opposite side of the Temple. As she walked, the realm sigils etched above each archway glowed brighter, flaring in recognition of their Queen.
I looked back at the Omnos sigil, now dark, and slowly walked toward it. “Diem,” I called out, “I think he’s somewhere near—”
The star abruptly blinked to life, beaming with light. Ophiucae appeared in the archway and barreled toward me. I crouched and rammed my shoulder into his chest, but he managed to get a hand around my sword and jostled it free. It rattled to the ground, and we both lunged to grab it.
“Luther!” Diem called out. The Temple flooded with light as her Fire shot toward us.
Ophiucae abandoned the sword and grabbed me instead, dragging me between him and her Flames. I braced for their burn, but the heat that consumed me was blissful, as tender as a stroke of her palm against my cheek.
Ophiucae did not fare so well. He screamed in pain as the Fire blistered his flesh. Blinded by its light, I felt along the ground for my sword, but just as my hand finally closed around it, an arm curled around my neck from behind and stiffened at my jaw, another hand gripping my temple.
“Stab me,” Ophiucae hissed in my ear. “I’ll heal from your wounds. Will you heal when I snap your neck?”