Chapter 2 #2
“You wrote: I bled and died because I aided Perran Feroy? Are you out of your fucking mind, Dion?”
Diverting my attention to Fig, I faced him with an unbothered expression. He bore some resemblance to a fish out of water gasping for air, and I shrugged. “I’m done playing nice.”
“You were never nice. Besides, you can’t go on a murder spree. We talked about this more than once or twice.”
“You and Antas informed me about your demands for me to stand back and not take things into my own hands. But I never agreed. Also, one unimportant human hardly classifies as a spree.” I inspected my fingernails, bored with this conversation already, while trying my best to mask the deep fatigue that had settled in my bones.
My subjects had an inkling I wasn’t fine, but there was no need to allow them to comprehend the full extent of my overall piss-poor health.
The weakness was a nuisance and had no right to exist, and as long as I didn’t acknowledge my state as a real problem, no one—especially not myself—would see issues where none existed.
“You’ve been outvoted. Honestly, your approach fucking sucks, Dionadair Dorchadas Coroin De’An Scriosta, ruler of fucking everyone.
If this had been your first slip-up, alright.
But you’re leaving a trail as wide as the Royal Road.
How long do you think it’ll take before the authorities attempt to hunt us down? ”
“Oh, I love when you curse, Fiolar.”
“That’s what you’re taking from what I’ve said? Really? You know what, Dion—no one can have a proper conversation with you without starting to curse, Your Fucking Royal Highness.”
“Be it as it may, I got the information. They brought her to Ivreiana, into Feroy’s headquarters. As I suspected the whole time, while no one listened to me.”
Ivreiana wasn’t only the capital of this world.
No, the city was also home to the Ivreian royals.
So, it was safe to assume that the place was crawling with all kinds of guards, and to complicate the situation even further, the metropolis was the base of the Ivreian Royal Army.
Not the most fortunate location for Naya to be held captive, but here we were.
Circumstances forced us to deal with the hand we’d been dealt and not wallow in what-ifs.
“Dion. Don’t distract from the fact that you’ve slaughtered an eighty-two-winters-old human and painted a message on the wall in his own blood.”
“See, he was so old, he would have died any moment without my interference.”
“Dion, gods. I’m starting to believe Antas has been wrong in taking you out of your environment. You have no restraints.”
I pulled my shoulders up in a disinterested shrug. “Good. Those, like morals, only hold you back.”
“That’s Galrach speaking right there.”
Balling my fists, I snarled at Fig. No matter how angry he was with me—unjustifiably, I might want to add—this blow was too low. If looks could kill, he’d be a very dead fae this very instant, and honestly, he deserved a gruesome death, regardless. “Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you, Dion. You’d better get a handle on yourself.
I understand your position, and you’re out of your mind because of what happened, but we’re all fucking worried too.
That’s not a Dion-exclusive privilege, godsdammit.
And when we’re in fucking Ivreiana, you can’t pull stunts like the ones of the last weeks.
Your antics aren’t only endangering yourself and us, but also Nayana, for fuck’s sake.
We can’t afford to be visible, especially not with your magic depleted or your strength diminished.
None of us is keen on babysitting an entitled prince dead set on getting himself and everyone else into trouble. ”
“I’m going to get my bags. Make sure the others are ready to leave this shithole in half an hour.
” I simply chose to ignore Fig’s last comments before I’d explode on him.
Fury was rushing through my veins, burning hot and bright with the force of a thousand suns.
If he weren’t my ally and needed for the upcoming rescue mission, I’d have ended his existence for speaking to me like he had, without a question.
Everyone had a breaking point, and mine had been reached ages ago.
Yes, maybe I was weakened to the stage of constant exhaustion, and the threat of a magical burnout loomed over me like a dark cloud—most likely due to the fact that the binding to my Amplifier hadn’t been able to settle properly after the rite had bound us together.
Antas had babbled something about residual divine magic wreaking havoc on my powers and that the mystical signature had nowhere to go.
What exactly he’d meant was inconsequential to me, but the aftereffects were getting harder to bear with each passing day.
My chest burned like fire, and the wrist bearing my ceremonial marks throbbed when I thought about the rite—which had been the moment everything had started to go downhill.
Antas had warned me—several times, if I were honest—that not telling Nayana of my heritage before binding us together forever would lead to nothing good, and on a rational level, I’d full-heartedly agreed. Still, I hadn’t anticipated such a catastrophic fallout.
I’d expected her to loathe me a little and make every day for the foreseeable future miserable, but her bolting—and actually succeeding—had never crossed my mind.
Funny how the eternal pessimist that I was had been slightly optimistic for once—and then, just as if the Triad had wanted to have a laugh at me, optimism had kicked me right in the ass with full force.
Why had I thought for just one second that something good could ever happen to me, especially an occurrence as great as the tiny woman who’d wormed her way not only under my skin and into my heart but had also branded my black soul with her essence and had made me believe for one kiss I could have more?
That she’d honor me with her acceptance of who I was.
Thanks to her, I’d been convinced for a glorious moment that my life could change for the better. All in vain.
Growling, I shook my head and forbade my watering eyes to leak. Crying wouldn’t help, nor would falling apart. There would still be plenty of time for unraveling, should the gods be so cruel and take Nayana away from me permanently.
And should they dare so, they had better be ready to say goodbye to their worlds—I’d make sure nothing remained but the same wasteland I would become without my Nayana.
Maybe I hadn’t been wrong in calling her Jama; only as it turned out, she wasn’t poison to me, but could very well emerge as a universal toxin by destroying everything through me as her proxy.
I stalked upstairs, leaving Fig behind without waiting for his confirmation—in the end, I still was his superior, no matter how much he rebelled—and entered the small bedroom I’d slept in last night.
Not very well, though—my constant worry, together with the underlying smell of mold emanating from the walls and carpet, had been enough to battle my fatigue successfully.
My bags were already packed, but I pulled out a change of clothes. I had the old man’s blood all over me, and even though the red stains couldn’t be seen on the dark fabric—one of the reasons I liked black best—I’d prefer not carrying the senior’s stank with me the whole day.
After walking over to the dingy washroom, I quickly stripped down, grabbed a washcloth, and cleaned myself. My tired and weary eyes connected with my gaze in the mirror before I concentrated on the task at hand.
I frowned when some blue and purple spots—as if I’d spilled ink on my chest—didn’t come off, and I scrubbed over them, but to no avail. I’d gotten halfway used to the red lines, but these were new.
The washcloth fell to the floor as I froze with realization. No, this wasn’t possible—nothing had changed, so why now?
Fucking shit. I couldn’t deal with such complications now. And above all, I wasn’t going to unpack the purring satisfaction lingering deep inside my consciousness. Possibly, I would never be able to do so.