Chapter 33
GRAESON
The god roared, his fury so bright it shook Graeson to his core as his knees buckled and hit the ground with a loud crack.
Graeson was powerless to stop Domitius' command from ripping through him and shredding his control. The moment the order left the bull king’s lips, a numbness coated Graeson’s limbs, as if he had been pushed into a half-frozen lake and his limbs had turned to ice on contact.
Not a single part of Graeson had wanted to obey the order, nor had he intended to bend the knee. Yet there he was, looking up at the man he loathed with every morsel in his body.
Graeson had been trapped inside his own mind plenty of times.
He experienced it whenever the god took over.
But this—whatever this was—was entirely different.
Before, there was a sort of separation, a strange divide between what he could experience versus what was happening in front of him.
When the god was in control, it was almost as if Graeson was looking through a fog-covered window.
Some images were hard to decipher, some voices were difficult to parse, their words occasionally mumbled. This was not the god’s doing, though.
Unlike when the god took control, Graeson could see and hear everything clearly, yet he had no control over his limbs.
He knew he should do something—move away, fight, anything—but he couldn’t. It was as if a gate had been slammed shut, cutting off his connection to his muscles. He couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t stand. He was completely and totally under Domitius' control.
For the first time in his life, Graeson was powerless.
We are never powerless, the god hissed, seething from within. Do you really wish to let this speck of a man overcome us?
I have no control over my own limbs! What do you expect me to do? Graeson shot back.
"Chain him," Domitius demanded.
His mother’s face appeared in front of him, and the betrayal fractured his heart as metal clanged.
Yet, when his mother’s eyes met his, sorrow flooded her expression.
Graeson knew then that she too was under Domitius' influence.
Cold metal touched his skin as his mother placed the manacles around his wrists.
The heavy metal weight pulled his hands down.
Graeson’s attention flicked to Kalisandre. Fear spilled from her wide-eyed expression. Her body was tense, nearly shaking with rage and frustration. And as he stared at her, realization struck him in the chest like a lightning bolt searing through the sky and striking a tree.
Graeson had never imagined—he had never dared to think—that Domitius could replicate Kalisandre’s ability, but that was the only plausible explanation.
Anger vibrated throughout his entire body. Graeson saw Kalisandre’s lips move, yet he couldn’t process her words. They were too quiet compared to the roaring scream ripping through his mind.
With a slimy smirk, Domitius crouched behind Graeson.
The bull king hummed in satisfaction as Graeson knelt before him, unable to move.
The king was barely even a yard away, yet Graeson could do nothing but stare back.
Every nerve was on fire. His skin burned and thrummed.
A red hue haloed his vision. His hold on the god was slipping.
If you wish us to get out of this, take control, Graeson demanded.
Do you still not understand what you are? the god asked, his tone taking on a sharp edge.
"I gave you a chance, Kalisandre. Many chances, in fact. Instead, you planned to best me. Did I not teach you anything when you were under my roof?" Domitius said, moving to stand behind him.
Rage and terror ripped through Graeson’s body at Domitius’ words.
It was a fucking trap, and they had all fallen for it so easily.
"Did you truly think I would not see through that flimsy little proposal? You should have known better. I taught you better. Although you always were more arrogant than your ability and knowledge deserved. But you see, you have made a grave miscalculation. I no longer need you."
A sharp pain laced Graeson’s scalp as Domitius squatted behind him and tugged Graeson’s head back. Domitius tilted his head so far back that Graeson’s neck cracked, and a wave of pain spiraled down his spine.
In the corner of his eye, Graeson saw Ellie on her knees, the guard behind her pressing the tip of his blade to her back.
"Now, let us see the true power of a god."
The command that fell from Domitius' lips next sent an icy terror running through Graeson’s body.
"Kill her."
Graeson wanted to scream as his limbs straightened.
Unwillingly, he pushed himself off the floor, his legs and arms acting of their own accord as if they were not his to control.
His fingers folded around the hilt of an outstretched dagger, and Domitius withdrew several steps.
Fear ripped through him in an instant as he met Kalisandre’s sea-blue eyes.
His breath hitched, a panicked gasp catching in his throat.
A cold sweat slicked his palms, yet his grip around the dagger remained firm.
His heart threatened to shatter as the frantic drumbeat threatened to burst through his ribcage.
Kalisandre was his heart, his world, his every breath. He urged himself to turn the dagger, to press it against his own chest. He would rather rip out his own heart than take hers.
The taste of bile rose in his throat, a wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm him. But he couldn’t shake the command that soaked his limbs.
The god screamed in protest, a violent roar that shook his bones. Still, Graeson’s foot moved, his knee bending as he took a step forward.
Kalisandre deserved to live. She deserved to experience a family that loved her. She deserved the world. He couldn’t take that from her. He wouldn’t. There was no way—
His heartbeat faltered as his feet took a step in a different direction. But the relief was fleeting because gray eyes replaced blue.
His mother blinked at him, understanding flooding her countenance.
This wasn’t…this wasn’t what he wanted either. It was too soon. They hadn’t had enough time.
Tears stung his eyes. One after another, droplets fell.
The tears, cold on his skin as they rolled down his cheek and spilled onto the ground, were the only signal that some part of his mind was still connected to his body.
A cruel reminder that it was truly Graeson holding the dagger.
Yet, when he looked at his mother, not a single drop of fear shone in her eyes.
He briefly wondered if she believed this to be a mercy after everything she had been through while in captivity.
Graeson wanted to tell her so much at that moment.
He wished he could tell her that whatever she had done, however she had aided Domitius over the years, wasn’t her fault.
That he forgave her. That he wasn’t mad at her for not being there, for not being able to see him grow up.
He wished he could relay everything he had done in his life, how he had never stopped thinking about her, never stopped loving her.
But more than anything, Graeson wished he could drop the blade.
He attempted to loosen his grip; he tried to peel his fingers from the hilt. But no matter how much he strained or how much his blood vessels threatened to pop from the pressure, his fingers remained glued to the leather wrapping.
He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to be parted from his mother so quickly.
"Do not be afraid," Lysanthia whispered.
Afraid? He was absolutely fucking terrified.
Graeson had taken so many lives—too many to count at this point.
It never got easier. Even when the god was in control, Graeson felt the weight of every soul pressing down on his shoulders, weighing him down with every step he took.
He did not wish for her to be another name added to that long list.
This was not how it was supposed to be.
This was not how their plan was supposed to unfold.
Kalisandre was supposed to manipulate the king and his guards—and she had done so beautifully in the beginning. Yet Domitius had broken free of the command. And now she, too, would feel the weight of his mother’s death.
"My son, I never stopped loving you," his mother said, voice still impossibly steady as Graeson lifted his head. "Know that there was nothing you could have done differently. I sealed my fate a long time ago. This was the only way."
Tears blurred his vision, and for a second, he thought he felt his hand tremble, yet it only rose higher and higher.
"Set yourself free," she whispered.
The dagger hovered over her chest, where he could faintly hear her heartbeat, its rhythm calm. Steady.
"Now!" Domitius commanded.
The blade jolted forward. Graeson’s arm wrapped around his mother’s back. He dug his fingers into her blouse and hugged her tightly to his chest. Her weight shifted, and the wet gurgle of blood filled her lungs as she took a quivering breath.
When the god of the Beneath came to fetch her soul, Lysanthia did not scream.
She did not cry.
She did not fight.
His mother died in silence, one hand wrapped around Graeson’s and the other gripping his shoulder.
Somewhere a scream pierced the air, sending the birds in the field and in the trees scattering.
Graeson glanced at Kallie. Tears spilled down her face, but the scream had not come from her. No, the scream had come from him. It rushed from Graeson’s throat like a roar. Rough, raw, and guttural.
Ice-hot fury poured through his veins as his mother’s life bled into him.
Every muscle, every nerve, every ounce of blood inside Graeson screamed out in pain and sorrow and frustration.
His mother’s lifeless body slipped through his hands, but he couldn’t catch her as the rage overwhelmed him.
His entire body burned as the grief and guilt and fury strangled him.
He fell, his knees and palms crashing against the ground. His bones twisted and contorted, cracking and breaking. Pain and panic surged through him. Dirt piled underneath his nails as he tore into the ground.
Every bone hurt.
Every muscle screamed.
His throat tore open as a feral scream left his lungs, an endless outpouring of rage.
The sky melted into a violent ruby hue, his vision bleeding red.
Finally, the god whispered.
Then Graeson came alive.