Chapter 71
Chapter Seventy-One
Emmeline
Roremar’s hand slipped from Emmeline’s grasp when the lights went out, and with it, the bond in her chest stretched.
“Rore?” Emmeline asked into the darkness.
Voices rose around the room, frightened children calling for their parents, parents for their children, but not Roremar. He didn’t answer her.
“What in the Fates’ fucks?” Desmond’s grumbling tone came from nearby.
Emmeline swung a hand toward it, fingers latching on a soft sleeve. “Desmond?”
“Got me, darling. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Emmeline said, palms tingling with nerves. “Mystlights don’t just go out like that. Roremar?” she tried again, louder this time.
Still no answer.
Her heart sped, every click of heels on tile and brush of bodies loud in the dark.
Slowly, beginning with the ones lining the highest chandeliers, the lights flickered back on. As they sleepily resumed their glow, the room was cast in a ghostly ambiance. Guests squinted as they looked around, seeking an explanation.
The tether behind her ribs stretched until her lungs were tight. Fates whispered through her mind, but she forced her attention on this realm. This room.
“Where’s Roremar?” she muttered.
Perry, Rian, and Khasson were all gone, too, the dance partners they’d whisked away as a distraction standing alone in the center of the floor, blinking and disoriented in the light.
Goosebumps rose along Emmeline’s arms.
Her attention swung to the Silventas, Siena and Vivienne clinging to Chrysta and Leo. Roremar’s younger brother gave her a wide and questioning stare, but she shook her head and stuffed down any visible concern. Leo straightened, rolling back his shoulders as if forcing himself to be brave.
Chrysta bent to whisper something to the girls, but her eyes locked on Emmeline with an unspoken plea: Help him.
The clink of metal against glass punctured the silence.
A hesitant hush fell over the crowd as they turned toward Rocarri at the head of the room. His cloak hung regally from his shoulders, winged masked framing a crinkle-eyed smile that sank a rock in Emmeline’s gut.
Beyond him, twelve constellations flickered over the city in their celestial light show. But the Chancellor’s gaze only rested on Emmeline as he lifted his glass and announced, “A surprise is in order. The final trial in the Tournament of the Angel begins now.”
One hour. That’s all Rocarri gave the guests to get to the arena.
His men rang bells throughout the city to announce the twist. They clanged through Emmeline’s mind as she raced back to the manor with Graves and Eston, the latter utterly silent since she’d told them about Lola.
Desmond had hurried off to meet Myrella at the apartment, everyone agreeing that while she wasn’t tied to Anphrosia, it was safer.
How had everything gone so wrong?
Only hours ago, she’d been declaring her love to Roremar and swearing they’d fight for one another when this event began tomorrow.
They were supposed to have a few more hours.
Emmeline burst into her suite, scouring everything for a sign that Dryvius had been here, too. That he’d searched her things, her notes. Nothing was disturbed—not even the Endasi scroll or the theories pinned up in her dressing chamber.
No, the Fate of Chaos and Revelry only wanted Lola.
Her bed chamber was in utter disarray when Desmond and Myrella crashed inside. Desmond had Roremar’s sword on his back and a heavy bag in his arms that Emmeline had forgotten she’d asked Myrella to track down before the masquerade. It felt like a lifetime ago.
“I found one,” her friend said, as Desmond handed Emmeline the bag. Worry widened her eyes. “Desmond said Lola and Roremar are both missing.”
“The third trial—it’s starting now.” Emmeline ducked into her dressing chamber, calling through the cracked door, “All of the competitors vanished. We have to get to the arena.”
“What about Lola?” Desmond argued. “That note said we only have until midnight.”
Emmeline froze, hands fisting on the gown she was pulling from the bag.
Midnight.
And then Dryvius would…
“Why midnight?” Myrella asked.
Desmond snapped, “No idea, but how the fuck are we supposed to find her and help Roremar in his third task all at once?”
Emmeline forced herself to keep moving, slipping into the gown. “We split up. Desmond, you go after Lola. Take Eston with you.” It said enough about Desmond’s worry that he didn’t complain about being paired with the guard. “Myrella, you come with me. We’ll go to the arena with Graves.”
“That’s a waste of time,” Desmond ordered.
Dress in place, Emmeline poked her head around the door and waved Myrella over to tie the corset.
“We don’t know what this trial entails, but Rocarri will have to make some kind of speech to the public given the surprise.
Every bit of information helps. Plus, if I’m not there, that will only cause us more problems.”
“What if we can’t save them both?” Myrella’s lips twisted with concern as she laced Emmeline in tight enough that the strapless dress wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t made to her specifications, but it fit well enough, and she couldn’t care less tonight.
“That’s not an option.”
Emmeline strode to the mirror and assessed her reflection, the message she would send. She pulled Roremar’s ring from beneath the neck of her dress and set it against the crimson fabric, feeling for the Fatesworn tether within her.
A dull, sleepily beating heart answered, but any words she tried to send were stalled, as if moving through tar.
“We won’t be losing either of them tonight,” Emmeline swore, fingers locking around that ring. She spun to face Myrella. “Agree?”
Myrella nodded, determination in her stern expression.
Desmond strode into the dressing chamber and looked Emmeline up and down approvingly. “Agreed. And excellent choice.”