Chapter 52
Chapter Fifty-Two
Violet
As I look at my sister, many things become apparent. That she is selfish. That she has no remorse for any of the things that she has done. That her own bitter purpose, her own needs and wants, have consumed her utterly, to the detriment of all others.
Maybe my memory of our younger years has been rose-tinted. Maybe I only imagined something different when we were children. Maybe the part of me that is forever hopeful layered something better over reality than what actually was.
It doesn’t matter now.
The past is the past.
There’s no going back. There is no undoing what has already been done.
The woman before me is monstrous.
But she carries a child.
An innocent.
Were she a man, she would surely be condemned to death.
The king—beyond the rumors that his wealth has diminished and he is much enamored with the endless lavish life of parties and indulgence—looks broken.
He looks like a man who sees defeat.
“They cannot be allowed to return. To regroup and wield this power against us again,” Atlas says coldly. “Yet I have no stomach to suffer their life imprisonment myself.”
A young man steps forward. Barefoot, wearing naught but simple pants that look hastily borrowed and donned for decency’s sake alone. Tall. Broad-shouldered. With red hair and green eyes.
My instincts say he is a shifter, and yet I have never seen a shifter with eyes that color.
I catch a quirk of Darrion’s brow.
Lark bows his head in a way that feels like deference to the young man—a young man whose face now colors as though deeply uncomfortable with Lark’s reaction. “Please, no need for formality,” he says gruffly.
Lark clears his throat, looking unusually lost for words, before turning to Atlas. “This is King Callum. The royal shifter who united all the wolf packs.”
A muscle tightens briefly at Callum’s jaw. Then he straightens, and whatever the title costs him, he wears it.
“My intelligence brought word of a young claimant attempting to reunite the wolves. A shifter with royal blood returned from exile,” Atlas says.
“Aye, that would be me,” Callum says with a lift of his chin.
“We owe you our gratitude. Your skills undoubtedly played a great part in the swift conclusion of this war.”
“I am tempted to say it was my pleasure,” Callum says. His voice is low and has a musical lilt to it, one that makes me think of distant lands. “But pleasure’s probably not the right word. More satisfying… But if I might offer you another solution to the placement of our nefarious King and Queen—”
“I would be delighted for any such suggestions,” Atlas says.
“I have some acquaintances,” Callum says, “in a distant port far from here that goes by the name of Bleakness.”
“I have heard of that place,” Darrion says. “It is under the rule of the Blighten orcs. It has a fearsome reputation for thuggery, thieving, and nefarious activity of all kinds.”
Callum’s lips curve up. “It is all that and worse. I would know. I used to live there. My father was part of the rebellion… and so was I.”
“That sounds like quite a story,” Atlas says before he turns his attention to my sister and the High King. “And one I should like to hear in detail. But I fail to see how it addresses the matter of our prisoners.”
“Well,” Callum says, “let’s just say I have connections that could ensure a certain outcome.
The orcish mines are not quite a death sentence.
But people do not escape. And they do not live long either.
A fitting end for our warmongering king.
And as for the Queen, the matter is more delicate, given the child she carries.
I know of a place—warded, remote, inescapable—where she can be held until the babe is born.
After that, the child need not share its mother’s fate.
And the Queen herself can be sent to Bleakness, where I assure you, she will find life considerably less comfortable than she is accustomed to. ”
Atlas turns to me. This is not courtesy. It is deference. He waits for my word as his Queen.
I look upon my sister, perhaps for the very last time.
“The child goes to my mother.” My voice is steady, though my hands are not. “She will raise it with love. Something you would never be capable of… I searched for you,” I say quietly. “For years. For the sister I remembered. Today, I realize she isn’t here, and perhaps she never was.”
She stares back, and for the first time, I see something crack behind her eyes. Not remorse. Fear. The fear of someone who has finally lost control over the tumultuous ruin she has wrought upon so many innocent lives.
“Do it,” I say.
Atlas nods once.
King Callum inclines his head.
A commotion among the captives draws my eye. Guards are moving men into a line, sorting those who surrendered from those who fought to the last. My gaze moves along the line without intention and then stops.
Maren is looking at the ground. The same deliberate stillness of a man who knows how to make himself invisible in a crowd.
I say nothing. I simply look at Rafe, catch his eye, and then turn my attention back to the man in question.
He follows my gaze. A beat of recognition, and then his jaw sets in the way it does when something has been decided. He steps forward without a word.
Atlas’s eyes find mine. One brow lifts. “Something I should know?”
“Unfinished business,” I say. “His name is Maren. He did wrong by my younger sister.”
Atlas watches Rafe’s retreating back for a moment. “I trust in Rafe’s capable hands.”
I look away.
Some things do not need to be witnessed.