Chapter 4
Zadriel
Smoke found Zadriel’s nose, the thick, bitter scent clawing its way to his lungs and tugging on memories he wished he could bury.
Ignoring the tightness in his chest, he continued down the hall, following the pull of his curse.
The last dregs of the night felt like eons—Zadriel had spent them hiding in one of Castle Berwick’s cobweb-riddled secret passages.
Finding the queen and her child was one thing, convincing her to come with him was another. He’d needed time to plan.
The Mother, it seemed, had plans of Her own. When morning claimed Berwick, he emerged from hiding, and found chaos—the people had breached the castle, their fury already painting its walls.
Were they responsible for his brother’s death?
They want my head, Zade. They’ve discovered what I am.
The enchanted pendant around his neck grew heavy, stagnant, coagulated blood staining the bottom of the glass vial.
His and Cillian’s. Zadriel’s hands shook, the thickness in his throat making it difficult to swallow.
Yet he felt hollow. Numb. Overcome with the need to act and unable to access the deeper parts of himself.
Someday he would find answers. At least, he hoped. Though, perhaps hope was better left to rot in the earth like Cillian soon would.
A twinge of grief rose within him. He pushed it down, focusing on his path.
This floor was quieter than the others, but the taste of embers on his tongue didn’t bode well.
With each step he took on the royal blue runner, he felt a tug on the tether connecting him to Cillian’s son.
Drawing taut. The child moving further away.
Zadriel was ready to follow, chasing that pull, until he felt something else.
A warm, soothing feeling caressed his soul, demanding he listen. Insisting he find his way home.
To her.
Zadriel paused, leaning against the wall and pressing a hand to his chest. The Little Witch called to him, and...
His breath caught in his throat.
Something like urgency swam in his blood, the throb so minute he may not have noticed if he weren’t so close to her. If he weren’t fixating on the thread weaving their souls together until it became all he knew.
She was... Zadriel sighed, fingers sprawling over his sternum while he tried to understand.
What feeling was Mora sending through their bond?
It burrowed within him, nipping at the shroud of apathy he’d cloaked himself in; her emotions had to be strong to reach out to him this way, considering how delicate their connection was.
Mother help me.
Biting his lip, he glanced in the direction leading to Cillian’s son. Two opposing forces gripped him; his curse promising to save him from pain, while his mate promised to...
He swallowed.
Mora’s call was a siren’s song, beckoning. Promising to save him.
He knew better than to believe it.
Turning away from her, he followed his curse until he came face to face with a large painting.
It must have hidden a passage, the queen already rushing toward the exit.
Fluttering shadows cocooned him, the world hazy within the sprite’s veil, but it didn’t stop him from staring at the family portrait.
His starlit gaze traced Mora’s round cheeks before settling on her full lips.
They perked up in a joyous grin. A glimmer in her amber eyes.
A hand rested on her shoulder, the proud man clearly her father—they shared the same dark ringlets, their warm brown skin illuminated by a golden glow.
Beside him was Mora’s mother. The queen.
A splash of pink colored her fair cheeks, but she didn’t smile.
Not like the rest of her family. There was the hint of a smirk, her expression far more regal.
He looked back at his mate, dark brows furrowing.
Happiness looked good on her. Part of him longed to have Mora look at him that way.
Tracing the soft fabric of his black cloak, he grimaced as the skin beneath tingled.
It wasn’t hard to summon the memory of her fire gnawing his flesh—Zadriel was sensible enough to know, should they meet again, Mora would look at him with nothing but disdain.
That didn’t stop him from wanting.
Pushing away from the wall, he ignored the pull of Cillian’s child and made his way to the Little Witch.
He told himself it was to make sure she was safe, but in truth he simply needed to see her.
If only for a moment. He could almost hear whispers, like a beautiful song dancing in the air.
Luring him closer. Twisting its ethereal fingers around the bond and tugging incessantly.
Then, he rounded the corner.
Ash drifted around him, embers fluttering in a cloud of thick, gray smoke—there were so many fires, though they didn’t spread, uninterested in the walls or the plush carpet lining the hallway. Instead, dozens of bodies boiled under their heat. Seared flesh melting off bone as flames consumed them.
When he blinked, Zadriel was back in Arcadia, watching as the Mother burned.
A canopy of golden leaves shuddered, the inferno clawing through bark and climbing ever higher.
Warm, gilded sap dripped from Zadriel’s fingers and ran down his arms, coating his scars until the heat was almost too much.
Though he felt none of it. Not as he stared at the Mother’s Heart fluttering in his grasp.
He flinched when the phantom weight of Cillian’s hand clapped on his shoulder.
Give it here, brother.
The muscles in Zadriel’s jaw tensed. He took a breath and closed his eyes, willing the vision away. Arcadia’s screams still rang in his mind, but those golden leaves were gone, replaced by an amber glow.
Mora looked past him, her chest heaving as she watched the curve in the hall. Darkness coiled around him, the shadow sprite tickling his warm, olive skin as it moved, hiding him from sight. Still, Mora’s anguished stare beckoned.
Three bodies lay at her feet, flames swaying as she rose.
They rose with her, reaching for the gleam of raw power emanating from her eyes—how different they’d become since he’d last stared into their depths.
The fire didn’t touch her. Wings fluttered in that orange glow, embers sparking from tiny bodies as they dove in and out of the blaze.
Zadriel realized they were sprites. Dozens of them, consuming the dead.
Their tiny hands stretched toward Mora as she stared at the bend in the hall, her face tired.
Haunted. A harshness to her features that hadn’t been there when they’d met in the alley all those months before.
Zadriel’s feet moved on their own, each step pulling him closer to the woman whose soul called out to him.
Until he was jerked to a stop by his curse.
Pain bloomed in his center, that gods damned tether contorting around his organs until it cut through flesh—the distance between him and Cillian’s son had grown too far.
Air wheezed from his lungs. He doubled over, hissing out a pained breath while something warm dripped from his nostrils and coated his upper lip.
He didn’t need to look to know it was blood.
Tilting his head up, he watched Mora bellow, her agony splashing over the castle walls until it descended upon him.
Thrumming in his veins. Rippling through him along with the violent tug of Brennan’s cruel enchantment.
When Mora curled her bloody fingers, shards of broken glass pressing deeper into her skin, Zadriel winced.
Then, she slammed her fist against the wall, her wails growing louder.
Was it Cillian’s death that destroyed her?
For the first time, it wasn’t envy making his stomach sink.
Stepping closer, he reached out as if he could break the distance between them. The shadow sprite coiled around his fingers, ready to pull her into the darkness if that was his desire. Instead, he froze.
Zadriel clamped his teeth together, the metallic taste of blood coating his tongue. The curse snaked around his lungs, constricting until he could barely manage a breath—he needed to leave. Now.
Mora’s tormented screams grew louder, the sound destroying what remained of the thin wall he’d built around his heart.
It tore through his ribs and crashed into his center, the feeling so intense his knees shook.
She slammed her fist into the wall over and over again, shrieking until her voice was raw.
Mora sank to the floor and wept.
She tipped her head back, tears mixing with the blood coating her face before slipping over her cheeks and dripping to the ground.
Dark smoke peppered with bits of gleaming gold—the same smoke he’d witnessed the day Brennan forced him to betray his people—leaked from her skin, enveloping her in an obsidian embrace.
What had Cillian done?
“Be strong, Little Witch,” he whispered, unable to take his eyes off her as he backed away toward the call of Cillian’s son.
As the smoke claimed her, he swore her head snapped in his direction.