Chapter 13
If I had the magic of fire, the earth would burn under my feet.
I march through the streets of Viele, fuming at how complacently the crowd received Zyrel’s proposed future and how dreadful that future will be if it’s allowed to happen.
And all the while, I would’ve been buried in stone if Kaelzar hadn’t saved me. The whole plaza saw how helpless I was unless I unleash my destructive magic.
Every so often, I catch a sideways glance from a passerby, their eyes sliding down my gloveless arms, then away the moment I meet them. They recognize me. They saw what happened.
I should have been the one controlling that moment. I should have silenced him with power, with confidence.
Instead, I was buried. Weak. That’s the worst part. The whole kingdom saw it.
And now, no matter how I fight, no matter what I do, the memory of that failure will cling to me. It doesn’t matter that I would have most likely died without him, only that now the whole kingdom knows it too.
It will shape how they see me. How they doubt me. How they assume I am not worth following.
I’m so infuriated with him, my Godbeast, yet at the same time, so painfully grateful that he appeared when he did. In public, he’s loyal and fiercely protective. But in private, he’s nothing but cold, distant, and hateful thorn lodged in my spine.
And now, of all times when I need him the least, when all I want is to be alone with my misery, he chooses to glue himself to me.
At the very least, he used his shadow magic to veil the guards trailing us from the plaza.
I hadn’t asked him to, but when his gaze flicked to my face and caught the irritation there, his brows furrowed.
His jaw tightened. Shadows bled from his fingers.
They pooled across the stone path, and the instant the guards stepped into them, the darkness surged upward and swallowed them whole, like a breath of black air condensed into a large ball.
As they stumbled blindly through the sudden veil of darkness, we kept walking, never breaking stride. I muttered a quiet thanks.
He pretended not to hear. And we haven’t spoken a word since.
I take a familiar turn, winding toward the inn Peonica brought me to a year ago.
It’s an unremarkable pub with crooked stools, watered-down spirits, and a barkeep who never asks questions. But somewhere along the way, it became a quiet refuge for those who don't speak the name Rust Hollow with hate.
Sympathizers, mostly people whose daughters, sisters or mothers bear the mark of the Crimson Tether, come here to drink, to grieve, and to find comfort in shared cups.
“We should go back to your rooms and discuss our next steps,” Kaelzar grumbles behind me. “The second Challenge can begin at any moment, and you choose to waste time. Again.”
A stubborn pulse of irritation flares in my chest.
He isn’t wrong. That’s what makes him unbearable. Because right now, I don’t want a lecture about what I should do. I want a drink and a moment of peace.
“You talked big,” he continues, “but you didn’t back it up with any show of strength. That can be fatal in this Trial.”
Like I don’t know that. Like I wasn’t the one floundering there, letting the Red Hunter make me squirm at his feet.
“He wouldn’t have killed you,” Kaelzar adds. “You know that Champions aren’t allowed to harm anyone outside the Trial, not even each other. But you looked terrified. Like you truly believed he’d end you right there.”
Maybe I would’ve known the Spectra Judicium wasn’t part of the Trial if he hadn’t disappeared every time I needed him. But of course I don’t say that.
“You panicked, Trouble,” he says. “And that is unacceptable.”
My gaze darts across the ground, hunting for anything to shut him up. They land on a half-eaten peach.
Kaelzar doesn’t stop. “You haven’t been making smart decisions—”
Without thinking, I bend over, grab it, and hurl it straight at him.
Splat.
The peach slaps against Kaelzar’s cheek with a dull, juicy thud.
For a moment, neither of us move, watching as the mushy fruit slowly peels away from his face, leaving a smear of pulp in its wake.
He blinks, the stunned silence hanging between us. “Really?” he grumbles as the peach lands on top of his leather boot.
“Next time you open your mouth with your unwanted suggestions—” I walk over to him, lifting my face to level with him. Though my eyes only reach his hard-cut jaw, I refuse to feel small.
Instead, I lift my blackened finger and point it at his face, so close to his eye I nearly touch his eyeball. “I will pull something rotten from the gutter and stuff you with it until your clothes split at the seams. Consider the peach a warning.”
He blinks again, his lashes brushing against the black tip of my finger.
“Once again proving how incompetent you still are,” he says evenly, his hot breath enveloping my hand still hovering an inch from his face.
Before I can react, he continues, his voice lower this time.
“You spoke about saving them all, about how it’s not just about you, and for a moment, I believed you. ”
For a breath, his stare wavers with an unfathomable gravity. Then it vanishes, slipping through my grasp like it was never there.
He exhales, quick and abrupt, dismissing whatever had surfaced.
His next words are clipped, sharp. “But instead, you’re here. Hiding.”
He narrows his eyes, slowly, like he’s turning my earlier threat over in his mind.
“If you actually knew what you were doing with that magic of yours, you wouldn’t need to dig through garbage to find something rotten to stuff me with until my clothes fall off.
” A beat. His deliberate gaze drags across me.
“You could be rotting them off with a thought.” Then comes a huff.
“Even in your fantasies, you hold yourself back.”
My pointed finger folds into a fist, and I drop my hand, both hands balling at my sides. I hate that he saw something in me, even for a moment. Hate that he took it back.
I hate that part of me fears he’s right.
“And your fantasies of me stripping you bare are such an improvement from mine,” I hiss and step away.
Kaelzar snorts. “They would be.”
I whirl on him. “What can you possibly impress me with standing naked in the middle of an alley?”
Kaelzar raises an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth twitches upward.
It takes me a moment too long to realize what he’s implying, and my cheeks burn. I grunt, twirling on my feet to avoid him noticing and stride for the doors of the inn.
Inside, the space is filled with so much life, I pause to absorb it. Every table is occupied, brimming with cups of ale and spirits, unfinished plates of food, and card games.
A pianist in the corner plays and sings an outrageously obscene bar song, with some of the patrons singing along in all the wrong notes but laughing at the most illicit words.
The Divinity Gaze above my head has dulled to a faintly glowing mirror. I stride toward the bar, where Micheline, the barmaid, is already shifting patrons aside to clear a seat for me.
But then I pause. Kaelzar's presence is so close behind me, he might as well be pressed against my back.
Or maybe it’s the weight of the stares. Heads turning, eyes flicking from me to him then away, quickly, as if just looking at him scorched their sight. I turn, finding myself chest-to-chest with him.
I look up.
His hood is pulled low, hiding his face again. But I know he’s watching me. I feel it like an invisible tether anchored to my spine.
“I need alone time with my friend,” I say.
“Then you shouldn’t have come here,” he replies.
“Fine,” I snap. “I need time with my friend without you hovering over us. If you’ve suddenly decided that you can’t leave my side ever again, you can find yourself a corner and wait there patiently like a good beastie.”
An annoyed grumble from beneath his hood is answer enough.
I turn away, drop into the empty seat at the bar, and reach for the waiting glass filled with cherry-red wine. I take three gulps before offering Micheline a nod of thanks.
Her white hair is cut to frame a sharp jaw, and her nearly black eyes are always watchful, always knowing.
She’s a few years older than me. Her sister, who died in Rust Hollow, once knew my mother.
That thread of connection, however thin, was enough to draw me to Micheline, even if she knows little about her.
She met Peonica through her sister, and it was Peonica who introduced us, back when I needed help getting food into Rust Hollow. Micheline became my partner in that quiet effort.
“You looked like you needed it,” Micheline says with a grin, sliding the glass closer. Then her gaze drops to my hands. “I saw through the Divinity Gazes that you don't need the gloves anymore. It’s been the juiciest gossip for the past hour.” She tilts her head toward the room behind me.
I glance back. At least five people instantly snap their heads away, pretending they weren’t staring.
The rest go on with their drinking and gambling, laughter rising over the clatter of dice and mugs. No flinches when I walked in. No wary glances. No subtle steps back.
As if my presence here doesn’t unsettle them. It’s strange. Strange enough to make me squirm. But also… kind of good.
I turn back and press my fingers against the bar, flexing them slightly, feeling the cool wood beneath my bare skin.
“I hope so,” I murmur. “I haven’t tested it on anyone but my Godbeast.”
Micheline studies my hands for a moment, then nods, accepting it without pressing further. “Wouldn’t you have rotted him if you couldn’t control it? He’s… kind of a human, isn’t he?”
“Who knows what he is,” I say, taking another long gulp. But the drink doesn’t smooth over the question. Who is my Godbeast?
“What should I send him?” She jerks her chin toward the hulking, hooded figure sitting in the darkest corner of the bar, which suddenly became vacant.