Shattered (The Solstice Cycle #3)

Prologue

The mountain breeze tugged a lock of silver hair free from Zadione’s braid. Her gossamer dress flowed around her ankles. Moonlight whispered around her wrists.

Below, the screams of the dying echoed.

They scratched and clawed at her, just like the beast raging for freedom beneath her skin. And she let them, because she deserved it.

The wind gusted again, the cloying scent of blood and death rising with it.

So much death; it sang to her—to the power and might gifted to her long ago. Death was her domain, her crown wrought from bone and sinew, her throne built on peaceful decay.

Death was hers, and yet she hated it.

Ever since the day she was reborn as this being of silver and death, she’d felt unbalanced. Off kilter. Like she was missing something vital, something crucial. It left her hollow and empty.

She felt better when her sister was near. She’d always felt better when she was near, even before her immortality began. Qhohena, though, was often pulled elsewhere, just as life was so often cleaved from death.

In the space left by her sister’s absence, Zadione was pulled to Kol.

His warmth and fire filled something cold and hollow in the pit of her soul. Her molten moonlight and his burning shadows went together as if forged in the same darkness. She craved him more than she thought possible.

She craved him so much, she hadn’t seen the cage come down around her until it was too late.

Kol hadn’t always been this way. But something had changed during the early millennia of their immortality.

Perhaps he had simply hidden his ambition well—his desire to rule over all the world and the gods, a supreme being of might.

Hidden it until he’d already laid the foundation and left Zadione too powerless to stop it.

Her cage wasn’t physical, but her love for him kept her trapped—kept her from leaving that mountaintop and joining the battle raging below, all silver teeth and molten breath and slashing claws.

It did not keep her from watching and forcing herself to experience the true depth of her failures, of her prison.

Kol fought beside his mudae, his creations of blood and malice. They’d been men once; they’d deserved an afterlife of peace but instead were met by only more death and decay.

The mudae curdled her stomach but not quite so bad as the reykr did.

They still appeared as men, but the shadows they wielded were more than just a gift from a god. And the bonds they shared with Kol, inciting obedience and perfection, spoke of something far fouler. Something that broke Zadione’s heart each time she saw coils of darkness arch across the battlefield.

She suspected some of the weaker reykr were a generation or two removed from the origins of their power. But the stronger ones, the commanders of the shadow legions—there were only two ways for that kind of magical strength to exist in a human.

She was sure Kol hadn’t permanently given away his grace to any of them.

His children. That’s what Kol called them. While he could bring new life into the world with his power alone, Zadione knew many had been fathered in the true meaning of the word.

We are gods, he’d said to her when she’d discovered his betrayal. We are beholden to no one, not even our Consorts.

Not even those we love.

Factions of humans also fought beside Kol and his army of demons and shadow-wielders. Weaker humans, desperate humans, easily corrupted humans who, with a smoothly whispered promise of power, abandoned everything they held dear. Just for a chance at controlling anyone who might be left.

As if Kol would ever truly share in his rule.

The wind whipped around her, as if in agony at the dying below. Zadione shifted her gaze to the other army battling on the plains.

The army that, despite the three great dragons fighting in its midst, was losing.

Rulene, Callamus, and Krilene battled fiercely beside the forces led by Xara, the young upstart human commander.

Flames and teeth and claws tore through the legions of mudae like they were made of ash.

But where one mudae fell, ten more took its place, as if their corrupted blood spawned more from the pit Kol had crafted.

The pit Kol had crafted with Zadione’s help. Fed by the souls of the dead she was meant to keep safe.

Priam should have stopped her. He was responsible for delivering the souls to her for safekeeping in the first place. To ensure the first part of their journey was as peaceful as their rest.

But Priam had always been a bit of a useless prick. Zadione would never understand what Qhohena saw in him or why the Crieré had drawn them together.

Then again, she understood little of the Crieré’s decisions. And she knew casting blame on Priam did little to excuse her own failure. Her own weakness. Her own role in the destruction playing out below.

Priam, of course, was not on the battlefield. He preferred to watch from afar, to ‘strategize’ rather than get his hands dirty.

Qhohena was there, though.

Not fighting; that was not her way. But there she still stood, a fourth proud golden dragon guarding the rear of the lines. She would not attack, but she would defend if she needed to.

Behind her were the healers, doing all they could to staunch the losses. Qhohena was always near the infirmary tents to hold those she could to life, to use her power to keep those who still wanted to fight here.

Weaving amongst the healers and the injured was another young woman, her black hair braided down her back, silver eyes hard and unyielding.

Zadione knew that woman. Her immortal heart pinched in her chest.

Marielyn Ginnelevé. Xara’s closest friend, head army healer, and the only human to bear a gift of magic from Zadione herself. With all the death she’d brought to the world, Zadione had wanted to ensure her gift of healing existed somewhere with humanity.

Marielyn’s olive skin was streaked with blood and ichor as she ran from body to body. Her hands flared with silver light again and again, sweat dampening her brow.

Her magic, unlike Zadione’s, was not infinite. It was powerful but had its limits, and it looked like she was nearing them now.

The battle on the plains was slowing, Xara’s forces faltering under heavy losses. A glance between the young commander and Rulene led to a sound for retreat, to pull back into the woods where they’d made their camp.

To Zadione’s surprise, Kol did not give chase. The great black and gold dragon landed on the blood-stained field, maw dripping with victory, but he let them escape.

Zadione knew it wasn’t mercy glinting in his red-gold eyes.

He swung his gaze skyward to where she stood upon the mountaintop, and a surge of heavy, soul-shattering resolve washed through her.

She could stop this war. She’d known how for a while but hadn’t found the strength to do it. But after watching that battle, seeing all that mawkish, sickening death…

She would do it. Even if it cleaved her in two.

Kol slept soundly beside her, bare chest bathed in moonlight. Zadione wrapped her arms around her legs, watching him.

It was an odd thing, to watch a god sleep. Their bodies were so different from those of mortals. Capable of more power, incapable of aging. Able to occupy and exist in multiple dimensions, to see more of what happens than what is visible to only their eyes.

Yet the gods’ greatest secret was that they were far from omniscient. They saw more than mortals saw and lived longer than mortals lived, but they were not invulnerable. A god must sleep, a god must eat, and a god can die.

They were just very hard to kill.

Zadione loosed a heavy exhale, her breath stirring the chiffon curtains around their bed. He’d been so eager for her that night, so filled with the lust of his victory. It had hardly taken more than a soft smile from her to lure him into bed.

He shifted, rolling slightly. His hand reached out, brushing her bare thigh as if seeking her skin. She wrapped it in her own before she could stop herself.

She struggled in moments like this. When she could see beneath the shadowed and hungry exterior, see the being he used to be.

Long before ambition had crept into him, like some gangrenous root taking hold, he’d been good.

Kind, warm, compassionate—a true embodiment of his sun.

Someone who both challenged and worshiped her, a partner—an equal—in every way.

Zadione didn’t know why he’d changed or what had caused the shift. And she hated what he’d become, the way he kept her locked away.

But her heart would always love him. Would always remember him as he was, not who he was forcing himself to become.

She toyed with the ring on her finger. The band wrought of black and white gold, twined and twisted together like a perfect vine. The large sunburst-yellow diamond in the center, the silver crescent diamond beside it.

A gift from when his ambitions had started to grow but he’d still craved her affection. A half-hearted apology he hadn’t believed in after the birth of the first of his shadow-wielding bastards.

As if pretty stones could quash a broken heart.

Still, she’d worn it. Couldn’t bring herself to take it off.

Zadione was glad of that now. Nothing held power quite like a diamond.

She brushed a stray lock of black hair from his forehead. Her gaze passed over him one last time: his handsome, youthful face; his full lips; the strong column of his throat.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the cool night air, the silver light of her moon enveloping her in a sweet embrace.

Her chest cracked, hollowness pouring in, as she pressed the ring to Kol’s heart.

The seven gods circled the glowing forge, staring at the object still cooling in its center.

“How certain are we that it worked?” Krilene shifted, blonde hair swaying across her back.

“As certain as we can be, my love.” Krilene’s Consort, Ydros, brushed a lock of her hair back with a sweep of his hand.

It took everything in Zadione to stifle her eye roll.

Ydros was too passive. Maybe even fearful. He knew Kol’s actions were wrong, yet he refused to take a stand. Even when his precious Krilene fought tooth and nail to keep this world from oppression, Ydros couldn’t find it in himself to do the same.

“I think the only way any of us will know is if we try to use it.” Rulene cocked her head. “And I do not think that is wise.”

“Why not? Why not be absolutely sure that it works?” Priam leaned forward, the glint in his eye a little too eager.

“If you are trying to get rid of me again, Priam, it will not work,” Zadione whispered softly, voice like murmured death. “We would not even be here without my help, remember?”

Priam’s lip lifted in a sneer. “We would not be here at all if it were not for you—”

“Enough.”

Qhohena lifted a golden hand, exhaustion heavy in her shimmering eyes. Zadione wondered when her sister had last slept, when she’d found time to recuperate.

If she had at all.

“We will not be trying it. We will simply have to hold faith that the ritual was successful. And besides”—she paused, glancing around, meeting each of their stares— “no one can remember what we have done here. Not even ourselves.”

The silence hammered like thunder amongst the gathered gods.

“Golden,” Priam said slowly, his nickname for Qhohena prickling at Zadione’s skin. “What do you mean, not even ourselves?”

“I mean,” she said, meeting her Consort’s gaze, “that we must cast one final spell.” Qhohena and the rest of them stared at the object lying in the forge.

A cold chill swept over Zadione, a deadly whisper of fate. She shrugged it off.

She had made an unforgivable sacrifice tonight. More would be required in the future—not only from her, but from those who would one day see this plan to fruition. It would all be worth it to bring an end to this darkness and a hope for light in the future.

So together, the seven gods joined hands and wove their magic one last time.