Chapter Twenty-Eight #3
*It is true that every member of Abella’s line is blessed—but not all are worthy.
Goodness is not always something passed down from parent to child; it must be stoked within our own hearts.
Do you think each and every cousin could wield me?
Do you think they were all capable of handling the burden of the crown?
* Brightmorn makes a noise that Sindra recognizes as a scoff.
*They tried, and when they couldn’t, they disposed of me in a deep cave.
For centuries I’ve only had that blasted dragon for company. *
Vera’s face goes white as a sheet. “Centuries?” Her tone is caught somewhere between awestruck and confused. “But I thought…Garren gifted Abella with a crown, not a weapon. Have you always been able to change shape?”
*Yes, that is true. But remember, he gifted her armor, too. Garren grants us what is needed,* Brightmorn insists. *Sometimes, hope is a symbol—but when necessary, hope is a sword.*
At the words, Antoni swallows thickly, and Vera’s eyes go dewy. But Sindra has to ask—she can’t wait any longer.
“Why the fuck have you waited this long to say something? This whole ordeal, this whole adventure…well, it could have been a lot shorter.”
The Wards—no, the Callasters—stare daggers at Sindra, but Mortimer hides a delicate laugh behind his hand.
Brightmorn releases a tinkling chuckle. But then the sword’s tone grows somber. *Whatever curse of darkness grips Moros, even Garren’s sunlight cannot pierce its veil. Without my connection to him, I am nothing but steel. You have your druid to thank for summoning the sun, for a time.*
Moss nods, looking to the fading mote of sunlight in her palm. She fists her free hand. “Well. I won’t be able to hold this spell forever. While we’ve still got you, let’s get this over with.”
She turns to Vadrien.
He grimaces and holds up a shaking hand. “Please, wait.”
“Give us one good reason,” Moss growls.
Antoni is already advancing. “I don’t need one. I don’t want to hear any of his poison.”
Vadrien squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face away, and in that moment, Sindra watches the vampire’s shadow stretch out long in the wake of Antoni’s light. From his shadow sprout horns, torn wings, a pointed tail…
Sindra’s stomach twists. Fuck.
She steps in front of Vadrien. “No. There’s more we need to know.”
Antoni’s eyes flare golden as his brow draws low. “If his connection to you has grown so strong, Sindra, I won’t hesitate to cut you down. In the end, you’ll thank me for it.”
But it’s Mortimer who steps into the space next to her and holds out his hand frantically, even as Antoni holds Brightmorn poised to stake through Vadrien’s heart.
The halfling squints against Antoni’s armor, which continues to shine like the sun. “We still don’t know about the curse on Moros,” Mortimer protests. “We don’t know if killing the prince will end it.”
Antoni’s expression darkens as the mote in Moss’s hand continues to dim. “Why wouldn’t it? Where else could it originate from, if not him?”
Sindra frowns at Vadrien. She plucks a sword from the wall and weighs it in her fist before pointing it down at the vampire. She sets the blade’s point underneath his chin and tips his head upward until his hateful gaze finds hers. “Tell them,” she says. “It may be the last chance you ever get.”
The vampire stays stubbornly silent until Antoni rests the tip of Brightmorn’s blade on the tattoo lining his temple. It sizzles against his pale skin, and Vadrien gasps out his answer.
“Just like your sword,” Vadrien spits, “I serve a higher master. There is one devil left in Moros that Abella forgot—Nosferoth. It is his power that chokes this kingdom—not mine. I am but a herald for his arrival.”
Vadrien’s words are spoken monotonously, but Sindra feels an undercurrent of emotion, a thrum along their bond aching in her neck. Resentment.
“When?” Moss asks. “How do we stop him?”
Vadrien looks up at her wryly. “It is a long story. And you are running out of time.”
Even now darkness creeps into the room, settling back into its corners, reaching shadowy fingers toward them.
Moss’s mote of sunlight is but a prick of a star floating in her palm.
“I can’t cast this spell again without time to rest,” she says in a worried tone.
“It was difficult enough the first time.”
Antoni’s fingers flex on Brightmorn’s hilt. “It’s now or never, then. We’ll have to figure it out on our own.”
“No.” Mortimer’s hands shimmer as he casts his arms in an arc around the room.
Suddenly, every magical item in the vicinity—Moss’s staff, a ring on Mortimer’s finger, Brightmorn, and more—begins to glow with different auras of color.
Mortimer points to the silver crown still waiting on the central column, which now shines with a hazy red light.
“Take the crown, Sindra. It’s the other half of his pact; I can tell from its arcane signature. ”
Sindra blinks. “I don’t know what the hell that means.”
Mortimer rolls his eyes. “We can use the crown to control him; he doesn’t have to die yet.”
Vadrien strains beneath where Brightmorn still presses into his skin. When Sindra touches the crown, her fingers go numb with cold, as if she’s submerged her hand in glacial water. In the darkness, the ruby winks at her.
“We’ve a long night seeking answers ahead of us,” Mortimer says. “We should take time to heal before we get them.”
When the sunlight winks out, Vadrien still doesn’t move. His eyes are locked onto where Sindra grasps the silver crown.
She scowls. “I’ll take first watch.”