Chapter 52
ZHAIRE
“You cannot mean to follow King Andreh’s orders,” said Ivara.
Ivara stood by the wood-fired oven, flour dusting one round cheek and the front of an apron they all shared. One long-fingered, elegant hand clenched tightly around a letter from the king—orders commanding that she aid Zhaire in ending the Heiress’s life—or risk losing her own.
Knowing that Zhaire was weak, that he might falter, the king had sent a letter to each of his Horde.
Ivara and Rook, it seemed, had been waiting for him to wake. They hadn’t had to wait in ambush long; Zhaire had not managed to remain in bed long, not after the night he’d had.
He’d gone to the temple one last time—before he killed her.
He’d not allowed himself to hope that she would show, and yet, when she had, wearing nothing but a lace nightdress …
he’d lost all reason entirely. He’d been unable to control himself, to keep himself from reaching for her.
It hadn’t been hard to convince himself that he could do one thing for her.
Make her feel good, free, before the morning came and he had to end her life.
It was the best and worst thing he could have done—taste her, feel her.
Hear the delicious sounds she made as he pleasured her.
Her emotions … arousal, need, lust, they were like an intoxicant—he ached knowing that if he went through with his father’s orders, he would never taste them again—nor would he know what her other emotions would taste like …
he could only imagine what a gift like trust or love would be like from her.
The moment he’d awoken—like a male addicted, he’d returned to her.
Following their connection to her room. Allowed himself a moment to gaze upon her, free from her sassy lip and judgment, her constant mistrust clouding the room.
He gazed upon her form, her soft lips, that he now knew the feel, the taste of, her lashes, so long they cast shadows on her cheeks.
Agonized over how he would take her life when it burned so godsdamned bright.
When she burned so bright—she was a beacon lit high on a mountaintop, he a piteous moth drawn to her light, willing to burn himself in her flames rather than go without.
Finally, when she began to stir, her eyelids fluttering, her mouth pulling into a frown—was he the cause of the frown—he worried she would see him, so he hauled himself back to his cold, dark chambers. Alone.
So, alone.
He’d never felt this before, this aching loneliness so tangible it carved into him, shred him to ribbons. When he was not with her … he felt as though he were living a half-life, compared to the luster when they were together.
He’d crawled out from his covers like an undead revenant, pulled on his armor, the matte black metal so familiar to him, his hands clasping the pieces together by memory, for he was not truly present, would never be truly present, for his thoughts were constantly, always, with her.
He bypassed his sword, reaching instead for Kiel’s, the Blade of Shades.
The weapon was honed for the demon heir from the darkest obsidian by the God of Night himself.
Passed down from royal heir to royal heir so that it might help the Cycle Heir when they took their victory.
The blade drank in the light itself, even as it shimmered, iridescent with a dark, internal power.
When Kiel was alive, Zhaire had not been permitted to even touch the weapon.
And now, it drooped in his grip like a lead weight, all the heavier for what he was destined to use it for. Not wielded in victory as it should have been by his brother, but to slice in the ultimate betrayal.
Betrayal of himself, his people, and her.
He sheathed the blade and strode out the door.
He hadn’t counted on Ivara and Rook waiting for him in the kitchen.
And now he stood, wasting daylight, arguing with them.
“It’s too late, Rook,” Zhaire said, his voice a guttural rasp. “I have my orders.”
“Fuck King Andreh’s orders,” said Rook. “The prophecy should come first. She should come first.”
“The prophecy died with Kiel,” Zhaire growled, running his thumb across his lip. “We kill her, the Cycle breaks, the fae starve. This is the contingency. It denies the fae their ultimate weapon.”
“And what of your duty, Prince?” Ivara asked, her voice soft but firm. “The King’s order is one thing, but your heart screams against it. You cannot mask your desire from me, who has known you longest—nor from our God of Night, who would surely be against this.”
Zhaire turned away from their prying gazes, fury flickering in his eyes.
“Do not speak of gods or hearts. My duty is to my people. And my duty is to end her life in the morning,” he whispered, barely able to meet their eyes once more, or speak for the shame that choked him. “This was my idea, remember?”
“That was when Kiel’s death had been fresh,” hissed Ivara. “When you were drowning in grief and hopelessness. That was before you met her. Before she was real.” Her eyes burned bright with righteous ire. “Do this, and you will never come back from it.”
“Who says I am ‘here’ to begin with?” said Zhaire, through clenched teeth.
“Kiel’s death hit us all hard. He was like a brother to us.
” Ivara held up her hand, the dark skin glowing golden in the lamplight.
“Let me speak. I know he was your brother, but we cared for him too. You lost yourself at first, but these last few weeks … you have not seemed a male lost. And it is she who has helped you find your way back. See reason.”
Zhaire’s eyes stung, and he hated himself for it. Weak. He was too weak to keep his brother alive, too weak to bear the weight of the prophecy, too weak to withstand the human’s charms. Now, he faltered, too weak to enact his own plan.
“The king will sentence you all to death if I do not follow his orders,” Zhaire said, his voice a plea for them to stand with him in this, and to force him not to go through it.
Rook spoke up, “We know.”
“And you would be fine with that?”
“It’s not up to you to decide,” said Azmera in the doorway. She had just returned from outside where she’d been invigorating the protective incras around the perimeter. Flecks of snow melted on her ink-black hair. “Our lives are inconsequential in the face of the prophecy.”
“We need not die when you successfully bring her to our side, Zhai,” remarked Ivara. She placed a hand on his where it gripped the hilt of Kiel’s—no, his sword.
“I have tried, Ivara!” Zhaire couldn’t help but shout, ripping free from her grip.
“I have tried to reason with her, to convince her to join us. She has refused every time.” He dragged a hand across his face, the stubble that had sprung up overnight.
“I can’t lose any of you too.” He shuddered, his voice cracking.
“And yet, I don’t see how I can take her life. Tell me what to do, tell me—”
His words cut short as a sharp, anguished, cry rang through his mind—terror, absolute terror.
But it wasn’t his.
He honed his senses, reaching for the raw, emotional thread that linked him to the human girl—the same thread that had led him to her dream-state hours ago, where he had foolishly, dangerously, forgotten his purpose. He found the thread instantly, and it was screaming.
It wasn’t just terror; it was a devastating cocktail of guilt, failure, and overwhelming horror amplified by the sudden, massive output of chaotic magic. The surge was an explosion that slammed into Zhaire, staggering him.
“God below,” Rook gasped, clutching his head. “That was her. That was a call, Zhaire.”
“They’ve found her,” Zhaire hissed.
“She calls for you, Zhaire. This is how you convince her,” said Ivara, her voice earnest. She stepped toward him. “Heed her call.”
The thread, which was usually a low, complicated thrum of attraction and confusion, was now a blinding, agonizing siren call.
Through their connection, he could feel the panic of her friends, the triumph of her enemies, and the crushing despair of Audra herself, all centered in the heart of the wretched academy’s courtyard.
“They’ve activated her power, Rook. She’s exposed!” Zhaire’s voice roiled with raw terror. He was no longer her potential executioner; he was now the one who had failed to protect her. “They’re going to sacrifice her soon.”
The worry for the Hordes’ lives, the debate over the king’s order, all vanished from his mind, replaced by the crushing weight of this failure—a twin to the grief he felt for Kiel. He had wasted time grieving for his brother, he’d not been good enough, fast enough, and now he would lose her too.
He snapped his focus to the academy, his expression hardening into a predatory mask. “The king’s orders are cancelled. Azmera, Rook. We will not assassinate her. We will extract her. We hit the main courtyard, take the Heiress, and open a Veilway before the Chorus of Echoes can even sing her name.”
Azmera nodded. “We will save her.”
Rook didn’t argue. He only gave a grim nod and reached for his sword, where it lay on the kitchen table. Then he began to draw the shimmering incra that would open a Veilway. “Every moment she’s with them, now that they know … They will move forward with the ritual fast.”
“Then let us move faster,” Zhaire said, his voice carrying a lethal thread. “Ivara, armor up, meet us there.”
“Of course.” Ivara, who had already doused the flames beneath the stove, removed her apron and made her way toward her chambers, called out behind her.
Zhaire clenched his jaw and stepped toward the portal … but then he felt a severing that took his breath away, clamping on his lungs, his heart, as it sawed right through him.
“What is it?” asked Rook, his voice sharp with fear.
“They’ve taken her into the temple.”
“So, we extract her from there,” said Azmera.
“She’s shielded by …” Zhaire felt as though he might be sick. “This is no weak Zenaidan incra, their gods themselves are concealing her from me.”
“What does that mean? What will we do?” said Rook.
Zhaire reeled. What were they to do?
God of Night, he’d just seen her—he’d just been in the room with her.
And now she might as well be wherever it was those bastard fae gods dwelled.
They had had a chance if she had remained in the courtyard. They could have portaled straight to her and fought through the crowd. Zhaire was a creature of war, his Horde honed alongside him. The scholars and ancient Chorus were no match for them in a Desolate Winter weakened state.
It would have been nothing to extract her, take her to safety.
He wouldn’t have been able to bring her here, not without her permission, but he could have opened a portal somewhere else, remote, away from there.
Then again, how hard would it have been to convince her to come here now that the Chorus had discovered her?
She would have agreed to come as long as he brought her to safety.
He cursed at himself.
If he had reached out for her sooner and recognized that she needed him. Instead, he’d been discussing her assassination by his hand in his kitchen with Ivara and Rook as though he would have ever been able to go through with it.
He’d wasted so much time … he was a waste of time.
And now he couldn’t feel her at all.