Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
Everything goes white, and then eerily silent.
Like a bell, a single word echoes in the back of Sindra’s ringing skull.
*Finally.*
“Okay,” Wesley says, closing the lid of his laptop as he stands. “Let’s pause for an hour or so, and then—”
“You sit your happy ass back down,” Shay says in a warning tone.
He blinks. “You don’t want to break for snacks?”
“I don’t want to break for shit,” Colin says. “What the fuck was that?”
“Who the fuck was that?” Mona corrects.
Even Arthur shifts impatiently in his chair. “You said all this happens when Antoni picks up the sword?”
Wesley protests with a little laugh. “But I’m hungry. Aren’t you all hungry?”
“No time for a short rest,” Shay singsongs. “Finish the scene.”
As the others continue to pester him, I stand and make my way to the kitchen.
After a few moments, I return to the table and perch at Wesley’s shoulder.
With a thud, I set a newly opened beer next to his pile of dice and a snack board in the center of the table behind the battle map, full of candy, cheese, chips, veggies, and little fruits.
Mona had really outdone herself prepping it this morning.
I place my hand gently on Wesley’s shoulder; he’s probably the only one who notices the way my nails teasingly press into his skin.
“Wes,” I say, digging deep for all of Sindra’s determination and strength. “Sit. Down.”
He meets my eyes then, the memory of when he used those words on me passing between us.
Mona, ever kind but ever demanding, pipes up with a quiet “Please?”
I think something about his players putting him under a pseudo-lockdown just to finish a scene has him feeling a little smug. I can see it in the way his growing grin presses his dimples back into his cheeks. I can’t blame him; I’d feel the same.
Wesley spreads his hands and leans forward.
“All right. As you all look to the light at the center of the room…”
The afterimage of that explosion of light is seared onto the backs of Sindra’s eyelids. Even when she blinks rapidly to try to regain her sight, all she can see is the brilliant spear of Brightmorn’s blade. Antoni’s form is silhouetted against it.
Though her vision is blurred, Sindra swears she sees rays of heat spiking off the captain’s head.
Eventually, the light dims, revealing Vadrien slumped against the stone wall, wisps of smoke trailing from where the sunlight touches him still. Moss holds a remnant of the spell she summoned in her hand, and she keeps it directed at him, as if to pin him in place.
But he’s not looking at her. Vadrien’s red eyes are slit with hatred as he stares up at Antoni.
“Father?” Vera takes a hesitant step forward. Antoni stands with Brightmorn’s point trained on Vadrien’s chest. Sindra is deeply satisfied to see their roles reversed.
And yet, she barely recognizes the man she sees.
Like her, Antoni arrived at the masquerade undercover, dressed in a muted dark emerald suit.
Now the fabric has been replaced with a brilliant golden suit of armor.
Emblems of the rising sun are etched into its every surface, bursting from his chest piece and rising over the pauldrons on his shoulders.
Moss’s mote of sunlight dances off Brightmorn’s blade like water, shimmering in the air.
Suddenly, the metal seems to spark with life, and a comet of gold light bounces off Brightmorn’s hilt, spirals up Antoni’s arm and neck, then circles several times around his head before settling into his salt-and-pepper hair.
A crown sits atop Antoni’s head, spikes fashioned like the rays of Garren’s rising sun.
*Finally,* repeats the voice Sindra recognizes as Brightmorn’s. *Home.*
From the way every head looks up at once, it’s clear that Brightmorn’s reach extends to each of them, its melodic voice singing in their ears.
Antoni’s shaking hands trace the patterns in his plate gauntlets, reach up to feel the weight of the metal resting on his temples. “What is this?” he asks roughly, his throat tight with emotion.
*Your blood sings, Captain—I knew it the moment you took me in hand. You are one of Abella’s. I would recognize you anywhere.*
“That’s impossible.” He clears his throat with difficulty. “I knew my parents. I know my bloodline. It’s not—”
*I care not for the lies humans tell, or for the false records you possess. You are one of Abella’s. If you do not trust me, trust your god.*
All eyes are set on Antoni, watching his haggard features twist as his expression wars between faith and uncertainty.
No one is looking at Vadrien but Sindra.
He is either too injured to stand and escape or too wary of what Brightmorn’s touch might do to him.
But his eyes—she’s never seen so much hostility, so much venom.
Some of the red has faded, and in its absence, his dark eyes look younger, despite the way they’re creased in pain.
Whatever this reveal means to Antoni, it’s cut Vadrien deeply.
Antoni sets his jaw. “I saw the false crown. They made a replica of you. Why?”