Epilogue #3
I staggered, clutching the railing to keep myself upright. Wind exploded, the bridge creaking as it swayed beneath me. This continent was a den of heathen iniquity, and it ought to be burned to the ground.
The situation was far more dire than I’d ever contemplated. Even if she wasn’t my syxzal, someone had to step in and defend her honor.
Someone needed to do something to protect her from this tactless rube. Her tantalizing scent drifted on the wind, and I inhaled raggedly, half high on it. She was clearly superior, like myself, but was a provincial peasant who had not had the opportunity to learn proper etiquette.
I would save her.
From herself.
It was irrational, inexplicable, and borderline suicidal. I was supposed to stay focused. Solving the Iron Trap was my only purpose in life.
Until yesterday, it had been.
Now I had a second purpose. Rescuing this misguided girl from her stupidity.
She will thank me for educating her on decency.
I smiled, despite the burgeoning rage, and nodded.
She would bow low, exposing the pretty curve of her neck, in a show of submission.
She would offer me a gentle taste from her tender flesh, and I would know the truth about us.
Even if I was wrong about her being my syxzal, this would be the start of a beautiful acquaintanceship.
Perhaps when we were of a proper age, I’d take her back to Palladium and start a courtship, delicately wooing her with my riches, dragons, and castles.
We would hunt together, discussing politics and current events.
She would thank me for civilizing her, and I would be nothing but gracious to her, taking care of her for the rest of her pathetically short mortal life. She’d ride Plague, cheering from the safety of the sky as I sprang the Iron Trap.
A flush spread hot across my cheeks, and warmth smoldered deep in my heart. Pressing my fingers to my lips, I held back laughter. Down below, the object of my affections made a throaty sound, and then a loud kissing noise carried on the wind.
Heat blinked out inside my chest, leaving a frigid sickly rage. How dare she. “Only harlot girls kiss boys before marriage!” I called out with a sneer, unable to stop myself.
All noises stopped.
“Excuse me? What did you just call me?” Her voice reverberated, raspy and lower than I expected. Edged with danger, it did things to me.
“Call me,” the owl squawked ridiculously.
The bridge swayed beneath my feet, and a distant part of me, an amalgamation of thoughts that resembled a conscience, wondered if she could feel it approaching, the tangled web of my intentions.
Spiders were my favorite animals because thou could learn everything thou needed to know about a person by how they reacted to venom.
Wind howled louder.
“Thou heard me,” I snapped back, grimacing because I was supposed to be wooing and educating her, not fighting.
Despite my best intentions, I prickled at her responding scoff.
She was more . . . hostile than I’d anticipated, and I never stepped down from a fight.
It lived in the Emperor’s lineage, simmering within our blood, the urge to dominate—everything.
It was why we made the most exceptional leaders—we were born warriors.
Admittedly romance was not in our purview of talents.
’Tis her lead I shall follow.
Attempting to stay calm, I tried to appeal to her softer womanly sensibilities.
I quickly discovered she had none.
Apparently the object of my affections preferred violent fisticuffs and cutting verbal swordplay. Another thing we had in common. Our courtship would be more volatile, more perfect, than I’d originally anticipated.
My infatuation: immediate.
Obsession at first sight.
Finally I took Zora Ravenal by surprise and sank my teeth into her tender neck.
Oh.
Oh my blessed Mages.
The storm magic in her blood didn’t sing. It screamed that she was my syxzal.
My soulmate.
My soulmate.
My soulmate.
These sudden and new possessive inclinations were cripplingly intense. Nose pressed against her flesh, I was sure I had to be misreading her, because her scent was unmistakably . . . virtuous?
Notes of valor mixed with courageousness, dark heroism, extreme loyalty, and—No. It cannot be.
It was.
My soulmate reeked of saving the world.
She smelled like Knight armor, freshly spilled blood, storming a battlefield on behalf of those too weak to defend themselves, and screams of righteous anger.
I licked across her warm skin, eyes rolling back as I savored her probity, and a delirium-inducing hunger thundered as my ribs barely caged my racing heart. She didn’t taste like anything I’d ever had before.
She was pure, unadulterated goodness.
A new objective took shape. The nascent flutters of a scheme involving deception, aliases, and torture—mine—emerged in the blackest depths of my corrupt soul.
I needed her, spiritually, and no action would be too extreme.
She was my cult because I was born to worship Zora Ravenal, the girl with the silver scar.
I was going to ruin the world so I could watch her try to save it.
***
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