Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter
Thirty-Three
We don’t play Blood of the Tyrant again until the end of January.
Arthur plans a long anniversary trip with Hana on a whim, and when Shay’s invited to visit her new campus for the first time, Mona insists on going, too. For the hell of it, Colin takes an extended vacation to visit his girlfriend, leaving Wesley and me to focus on finalizing our games before NEWT.
In those fragile first few weeks of the year, we take things slow.
Wesley and I tentatively dance around each other, exploring just what this new phase means for us.
When I work on the game at his apartment, I make sure to at least stay for coffee the next morning.
When we go out for a drink after work, instead of folding my hands between my thighs, I trace his knuckles where his hand lies flat on the table before lacing my fingers with his.
I bring him to restaurants we’ve never been to before, introduce him to my old friends from home, and lean into his side when he winds his arm around my waist.
As for our NEWT games, we haven’t shared them with each other again, not yet.
There’s an unspoken understanding between us.
We know we need this last month to ourselves to determine what exactly we want our games to be.
What are our individual visions for them—and where do we want to take them next?
On the day of our last D he’s no threat to us now. And the people deserve to see justice served when this is all over.”
Sindra is reminded of a memory that feels like her own: standing before a crowd with wrists bound, waiting for death. Her tail lashes irritably behind her, but she says nothing.
“As you say, Your Highness,” Moss says cheerfully.
“None of that.” Antoni looks shaken by the address. “We worry about that when our work here is done.”
As the others make their way out of the room, Vadrien calls out quietly, “Sindra.”
She pauses and looks over her shoulder.
Vadrien doesn’t move, doesn’t try to fight against his bonds as he had when they first defeated him. He looks resigned, and somehow older.
“Whatever you do, don’t let Nosferoth speak.” Vadrien’s voice is gravelly and parched, nothing like his silken tones from the night before. “And if he does, don’t listen.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“I’m not. I only wish someone had told me the same.”
She holds his blood-red gaze for a moment longer before turning on her booted heel and following the others.
Sindra suggested they stage this in the ballroom; she knows a thing or two about picking her battlefield, and all of its columns and space will leave their spellcasters and ranger plenty of hiding spots while Sindra and the captain get up close to do the dirty work.
“Are we ready?” Mortimer asks quietly.
“As we’ll ever be,” Sindra says, her tone all determination and grit. Her hands flex on the swords at her side, taken from the armory after their last fight.
Moss closes her eyes, clasps her hands to her chest, and summons the sun once more. Brightmorn is bathed in light, and again, Antoni’s armor glows as if lit from within.
He raises the sword and brings it crashing down directly onto the ruby in the silver crown’s center.
It shatters—and then the castle begins to shake.
There’s a great crack as the earth opens and a rift splits the marble floor of the ballroom in half.
Fire bursts forth from the gash, and a clawed hand pierces through the broken stone as a creature drags itself up from the bowels of the Hells themselves.
Sindra sees a vision of what Vadrien could become: a gaping mouth full of pointed teeth, red eyes slitted with unending hunger, skin pale and cracked from centuries hiding away from the sun.
The devil rears up before her—the first true one she’s ever seen.
“You’ve taken this kingdom from me once,” Nosferoth hisses. “I will not let it go again.”
With a yell, Sindra thrusts her blades into the air and surges forward.
To a group of gods viewing from above, moving her and her friends through each wave of fighting like chess pieces on a board, the fight that determines her fate—and that of all Moros—might last only a matter of hours.
But as with every battle, Sindra cannot tell if it lasts for a few heartbeats or a matter of years.
What she does know is that she fights with every ounce of her training, and more than that, too: with a fury buried in her chest that has never shown its face until now.
She fights for Moss, for the druids, and for a home that she refuses to see tainted by this devil’s hunger for power. She hates Nosferoth for his corruption of this kingdom and of Vadrien—just as she hates the devils who corrupted her parents, too.
She fights so that others will be free to make their own choices, to plot the course of their lives free from the influence of corruption and tyranny.