Chapter 72
Chapter Seventy-Two
Emmeline
“You’re sure about this?” Myrella asked Emmeline as they stood in the corridor outside Rocarri’s private box in the arena.
The crowd was already roaring, those of them who weren’t entirely disturbed by Rocarri’s tournament having been celebrating the eve of the final trial when the call went out.
She had a sneaking suspicion that had been the Chancellor’s plan.
If his citizens were too intoxicated, they would forget any concerns with the morality of this facade.
She wouldn’t, though.
She wouldn’t forget the worried expressions of the families when their loved ones disappeared without a goodbye or how Roremar’s siblings and Chrysta had looked to her for help.
She wouldn’t forget what she stood for. And that was why she looked at Myrella and said, “Positive.”
And then, in her wine-red gown, tiny rubies glinting where they studded the bodice’s full skirt, Emmeline strode into Balmour Rocarri’s box.
Voices clucked as she entered, as one by one heads turned. Some muttered about her sanity and other’s questioned how she’d challenge the Chancellor now. But they all fell into a hush as they realized what she was wearing, the image she was painting.
Who this dress was representing.
She’d tried to get them to listen to her before, tried to prove to them that Roremar was innocent, tried to fight for him from beneath them.
No more.
Tonight, Emmeline would make them listen. She would announce her claim on the man they tried to rip her away from again and again. She’d do so proudly, before the entire city that wanted to devour her value.
And she’d do so without even uttering a word.
Emmeline kept her chin high as she walked to the edge of the platform. Silver pennants slapped in the breeze, and twelve constellations spun in a dark navy sky, shining down on her.
She scanned the crowd, finding the fanatics waving crimson flags. She no longer cared why they supported Roremar.
Only that they did.
And that they’d back him now.
Emmeline lifted a hand to them, and they roared, chanting the name of their competitor with a fervor that outshone the masses gathered in the ancient stone arena.
Then, Emmeline turned back to the box, to the esteemed individuals responsible for this entire tournament, and she waited for one of them to dare criticize her.
Cyren smiled subtly from the second row, a few other lips tipping up, but Rocarri—
From behind the podium, the Chancellor glowered.
“I don’t recall that dress being in your chamber,” he commented.
“I don’t suppose you would.” Most everything he’d gifted her in that dressing chamber was in the colors of this city.
The pale blues, silvers, and lilacs that made her look delicate and malleable, slotting right into their vision of who she should be.
That made it so much easier for them to see her not as a person, but as a prop.
But this…the wine red with deep purples tinting the very edges of the skirt, the glittering rubies that spoke of luxury, the sheer, strapless bodice and slits up the thigh that said untamed, and the dark liner around her eyes that said decadent…
Her appearance was entirely Chaos and Revelry.
This was a pledge of her loyalty, made before Rocarri, his advisors, and the Fates themselves.
This was Emmeline declaring the truths of her heart that Valyn had tried to convince her she didn’t belong to.
This was her choosing Roremar, her Fatesworn, no matter who stood between them, it was her telling the stars she claimed him across all the realms, and it was her vow to love him, broken, scarred, and all.
And with those promises ringing through her, Emmeline smiled at the Chancellor. “I thought it was time I showed everyone where my true allegiance lies.”
This time, instead of Lola, it was Myrella clutching Emmeline’s hand as the crowd cheered for Rocarri when he stepped to the horn to call the night to order. Beneath their breath, they tried to work out the pieces of this puzzle.
“Why did Dryvius say midnight?” Emmeline asked as Rocarri waved a hand and started his introduction.
Overhead, the twelve constellations spun, each shift pulling at her magic, setting her more on edge.
“A lot of the other disappearances happened overnight. It’s possible midnight was always the killing hour,” Myrella suggested.
Emmeline ticked back through each death on Lyra. “There’s at least one that we know occurred after midnight because she’d been on shift at the Mezzanine before she was killed.”
Myrella hummed as she thought.
“The first line of the note makes some sense,” Emmeline mused.
You tempted Fate, and realms do wrest. She didn’t entirely know what they’d done to tempt Fate or how realms could wrest, but it was a call back to the message on her wall in the Academy.
The knowledge of Dryvius having been so close, his shadowed hands on her, made her stomach lurch.
To tempt the Fates, and realms will wrest.
The note tonight was meant for her and Roremar explicitly, blaming them for Lola being taken. For tempting Fate, perhaps for choosing each other when she’d sworn she wouldn’t. Nausea swept through her.
The final lines even had some logic to them: Say goodbye, my Heir of Chaos. Her ruin is your greatest loss.
But it was the middle that had Emmeline pausing. At the slice of midnight, the bridges crest.
Why midnight? Why slice and not stroke when she’d never heard it phrased that way? And how could a bridge crest? What bridge? There weren’t any bodies of water in Valyn, and she doubted Dryvius had enough time or the desire to leave the city if he already had an audience here.
Rocarri began summarizing the tournament thus far and going through the standings of each competitor. Emmeline tuned him out, watching the stars move as she picked back through the readings she’d conducted recently, sure someone had spoken of bridges.
A foretold death of bridges, a Fate echoed in her mind, and she perked up.
“During the joint reading at the vineyard,” she told Myrella. “One of the Fates mentioned bridges. A foretold death of bridges.” She couldn’t remember which one it was, but the line stuck in her memory.
Relief unspooled within her. She’d been given the pieces—all of them in her readings. She only had to put them in the correct order.
“Are they referring to the women tied to Anphrosia as bridges?” Myrella asked.
“As if each death adds a step,” Emmeline guessed.
“What else did they say?”
Emmeline sighed pulling the voices of the Fates to the front of her memory. “Something about a golden forge and two lovers’ hearts united.” That last part could mean her and Roremar, their Fatesworn bond revealed.
“Valyrie mentioned bridges, too,” Myrella reminded her. “All forgotten bridges respun.”
Chills peppered Emmeline’s bare arms at Myrella’s words. “Respun.”
Her thoughts bounced around faster than the stars as Rocarri finished naming the competitors who were left in the Races. When none of them emerged from the tunnel to their adoring fans, a perplexed ripple stuttered through the arena.
“I’m sure you’re all wondering where our final contestants are,” Rocarri said placatingly. “Worry not, the remaining thirteen competitors have to face the heart of their own fears tonight.”
That aligned with what Valyrie said she made her original competitors go through to reach their eternal state. Fates, what was Roremar enduring right now?
Slice of midnight, her mind repeated, bouncing from one unsolvable problem to the next, constantly feeling like she was missing something.
Her attention flicked to the constellations overhead, all twelve of them bright.
Twelve. She counted quickly in her mind, gasping as she realized. “What if midnight isn’t literal?”
“You think it’s symbolic?”
“I think it means twelve. Each death is a step. Dryvius killed eight women on Lyra, and he killed two more since arriving in this city, a third tonight. That’s eleven total.
We assumed he kept killing because the ritual wasn’t working, but what if they haven’t been failed attempts.
Each was successful, but he needed twelve.
Lola isn’t just a sacrifice he’s warmed up for. ”
Myrella’s eyes widened. “She’s the final victim.”
“Midnight isn’t the literal part of the line.” Emmeline’s pulse pounded faster as her magic spun through her. “Maybe it’s slice. Saying when he kills her with the slice of a blade—when he kills his twelfth victim—that’s when it’s successful.”
Myrella blanched, cheeks hollowing. “Who’s to say when he’ll do it, then? Or that he hasn’t already?” Her panic was palpable, but Emmeline squeezed her arm.
“We’d know. Trust me,” Emmeline said, magic stirring. “I’d feel it.”
Her magic was so attuned to Fately power, especially these recent weeks, she was certain if Dryvius did something final to Anphrosia using her Fate ties, she’d feel it.
Lola was still alive.
For now.
She forced herself to split her focus, listening to Rocarri’s speech for further clues about what Roremar might be facing. Maybe she could help him through their Fatesworn bond.
“The competitors have been distributed to various points around the city, and each will have to conquer something personal. The first task was physical strength, the second mental and magical agility, the third will be a culmination that proves the heart of who they truly are and who their magic makes them.” The smile in his voice was sinister, but the crowd only cheered louder.
“If we are lucky, we will see something truly magnificent occur.”
Rocarri raised his hands to the skies as if he was responsible for the stars above, their silver glow cracking across the arena like lightning strikes.
But Emmeline’s mind was stuck on one thing the Chancellor had said: The competitors had been distributed to various points around the city.
Emmeline envisioned the map of Valyn in her mind, its circular walls and sprawling vineyards.
When she’d been in Valyrie’s seeing chamber, the reading had pulled her back, given her a bird’s-eye view of the capital.
It spotlighted where she’d stood, beneath the ground, both her and the Angel occupying that space thousands of years apart.
A handful of places scattered around the districts like its own constellation.
And—
A towering room, with monuments and silver etchings on the floor. Where a shadowed figure prepared an altar—
“Oh my Fates,” Emmeline gasped beneath her breath.
“What?” Myrella hissed. “Do you know where the competitors are?”
“No,” Emmeline whispered. “No, it’s not Roremar. But I think I know where Dryvius took Lola.”
Her gaze slashed to Rocarri, who was still talking boastfully into his horn, then to Graves who stood by the door.
“We need to get out of here. We might be able to find her before it’s too late.”
Myrella rolled her lips together, reminding her, “If we go, we won’t be able to get clues about the trial.”
Emmeline’s eyes slipped closed, her fingers curving around Roremar’s ring. She felt it deep inside her, where the Fatesworn bond had lived dormant for so long. Where she’d stuffed it as soon as she started to realize what it was, where she had to keep it now if she wanted to survive what came next.
Because she loved Roremar, he was the second half of her soul, and his greatest treasure in life was his siblings.
If she knew of a way to help Lola, she had to do it. For him.
Even if it risked his life in turn.
“I know,” Emmeline whispered, forcing the words past the thickness in her throat. “I know, but it’s what he would want. I need to believe that he’ll be okay.”
“Okay,” Myrella agreed, so trusting of her. “What’s the plan?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have time for much of one.” Emmeline’s gaze flicked across the group, landing first on Cyren, who was already watching her curiously. Emmeline looked from the General to the door.
Cyren tilted their head.
Emmeline nodded, a silent plea to help.
Slowly pulling a dagger through the slit in her skirt, Emmeline whispered, “Run.”
As soon as they broke for the door, all heads whipped their way. Rocarri paused, one of his personal guards surging after Emmeline and Myrella as they bound into the corridor. Turning as she ran, she launched her dagger at him.
It landed firmly in his shoulder, and she had to thank Rocarri’s vain decision that tonight’s ceremonial garb didn’t require bulky armor.
But she wasn’t relieved for long. Another guard lunged after them.
His fingers nearly closing on the hem of Emmeline’s gown, but she whisked it away, shoving Myrella ahead of her.
“Keep going!” Emmeline said as a commotion rose behind them. “We need horses. Get to the graveyard.”
More soldiers raced after them, but despite her own violence, they didn’t dare hurt her—didn’t send any weapons flying her way.
One looped an arm around her waist, but Emmeline kicked viciously at him, panting and clawing. Her heel drove in his knee, his shin. Finally, he cried out, his hold loosening as he collapsed behind her.
Heart pounding, Emmeline stumbled to the stone floor, flipping around to see Cyren standing over the man with their sword out. They spun, ready to face the next of Rocarri’s guards.
“GO!” the General barked without looking back at Emmeline.
She didn’t know why they were so insistent on helping her, but a kinship she didn’t understand burned in the words.
Emmeline cast one nervous glance around Cyren’s frame as they lunged. More guards were flooding down the hall. They wouldn’t be able to hold them all off.
But Cyren wasn’t alone. Graves, loyal to a fault despite how difficult she’d made his job by constantly sneaking away, had taken up a defensive position, broadsword raised in both hands and a string of triple blades across his chest.
He gave Emmeline a look that told her to hurry out of here.
And she wasn’t foolish enough to waste their efforts.
“Thank you,” she called and hurried after Myrella, praying to the Fates they were fast enough to save Lola.