Chapter Forty-Six
When mercy dies beneath command
The righteous drown in bloodied hands
Marin does not slow as the doors to Azhareth Castle open for her. They never make her wait. Not anymore. People learn quickly that making Marin wait usually ends badly for them. After all, she has to keep up appearances.
The guards step aside before she reaches them, heads dipping just enough to signal respect without presuming familiarity. They know who she is. What she is. What she represents. Not a daughter. Not here. Here, she is Caeloria. The heir to this kingdom. The one who will continue the empire.
She walks the length of the corridor without looking at them, her attention fixed ahead as the fortress hums around her, alive with something far more dangerous than politics. Innovation. Progress. Weapons.
The air smells faintly metallic, sharp at the back of her throat, and beneath it—sulfur. A scent she has learned to associate with the testing fields beyond the eastern wall.
Skyfire.
It has been burning for three days straight.
Perfecting, her mother calls it. Marin calls it something else.
An abomination. Destruction. A monopoly on power.
Control. But she keeps those thoughts to herself.
Here, in these walls, Marin must be perfect.
Perfect enough that no one ever questions what she is thinking.
The perfect daughter.
The perfect heir.
The perfect warrior.
There is no room for emotion. Feeling. Care. Marin has a role to play. And if she wants to sway this war in her favor, she’ll play it—even if it makes her fucking sick.
Guards swing the throne room doors inwards without acknowledgement, and Marin steps through. Her mother sits in her throne, back impossibly straight, face a mask of superiority and neutrality all at once.
“Mother,” Marin greets her, sweeping into a low curtsy, knee scraping the floor.
“How is the Skyfire coming along, Marin?” Maireth croons, not even bothering with greetings. Her expression remains unchanged, tone bored.
Marin does not recoil despite the sickening dread rising in her gut. She does not hesitate. That would be noticed.
“The blast radius has expanded. The damage to the dunes indicates the primary blast radius spans roughly forty feet. Nothing within that range will survive. Complete obliteration. Secondary blast radius indicates significant damage up to one hundred feet. Severe burns. Structures collapsing. Chaos.”
This is what her mother has tasked her with: the development of weapons of mass destruction. Using prisoners from the Outside as test subjects to perfect the damage. Her mother offers it like it is an honor. Like Skyfire is not the end of humanity.
Maireth nods. “Good.”
She clicks her fingers, gesturing to the servants to fan her.
“We await Ilyra’s call to arms. Once Elyssara has allied herself with Thalmyr, we attack.
Wipe out the Lightbornes and the Starborn army in one fell swoop.
Remove Ilyra’s weakness.” Her words are simple.
Matter-of-fact. Spoken like a woman who can see her plan falling into place exactly as she planned.
“Yes mother. Remove all threats to power,” Marin agrees, repeating the words that have been forced into her skull repeatedly for years.
“‘Comply or die’ extends beyond our borders, Marin. You are heir—it is your responsibility to enforce it here and wherever I choose to send you,” Maireth says, her words loaded. Forged with steel. A reminder that Marin is submissive—completely at the behest of her mother.
As if Marin doesn’t know. As if she hasn’t been the one forced to execute the disobedient. As if she hasn’t learned exactly how long it takes for someone to die when they beg. As if she doesn’t have their blood on her hands. Doesn’t wake up drenched in sweat and memories of their last moments.
Thoughts of Saana’s family flood her mind. The ones she could not execute. The only ones she chose not to kill. The ones her mother will never forgive. The reason she is forced to lead weapons advancement.
Exposure to death and destruction is the only way to overcome an aversion to it. That’s what her mother said. So that’s what she is forced to endure: exposure to the dark and damned.
Mercy is a habit, Marin. And habits can be broken. Her mother’s ethos rings through her mind. Because that’s exactly what happened: Maireth bled the compassion from Marin’s bones by forcing her to kill and conquer wherever she pointed.
The ring dangling between her breasts heats her skin, pulling her attention from the dread in her stomach to the only thing that matters.
Saana. Her wife. Her greatest rebellion. Her deepest secret. A woman of the Outside that will never know peace. Unless Marin does something about it. So boldness claims her.
“A suggestion if I may, mother?” Marin adds, breaking from her usual submission.
Maireth quirks an eyebrow—the only movement in her unflinching posture. Forever poised.
She offers a small gesture with her hand. “Do not waste my time.”
Marin nods, clearing her throat. Then she recites the words she’s rehearsed over and over in her mind. “I believe the Lightborne is already in Virellin, and I believe the time to strike is now.”
Maireth’s face twists in disapproval. “You believe?”
Fuck.
Marin stands taller. “I know.”
Maireth hums something indiscernible.
“Why is the time to strike now, Marin? And please, prove to be more useful than your brother,” Maireth complains, bored.
Her brother. Vaelor. She may have hated the bastard for his sickening obsession with approval but he didn’t deserve to be sent to his death. But that’s Maireth—if it bothers her, she kills it.
So Marin does the only thing she can: she exposes the factions against the north, and hopes to the fucking Stars that it doesn’t work against them.
“They have been unsuccessful in their attempts to ally with the witches. The Melders remain in mortal skin. And the Lightborne is a woman of justice as we saw here. She will not want us moving on Virellin. So she will be planning to bring the war here. We should strike before she rallies loyalty and obedience from the Starborn army,” Marin says, forcing certainty into her voice, and hoping to the gods that she hasn’t just doomed the uprising before it even begins.
Because if this fails, she will have delivered the uprising to her mother with her own hands.
Maireth does not move. Her face remains an unreadable expression. She lifts her gaze, settling her hazelnut stare on Marin, urging her to look away. But Marin holds. She will not flinch. Cannot. Lives depend on it.
“How do you know this, Marin?” Maireth finally asks.
Fuck.
Marin swallows thickly.
“You told me to become invaluable to the empire, mother. I am simply doing as you wish,” she bluffs, training her voice into neutrality.
Maireth does not look impressed. Doesn’t look anything at all. Just sits there with the same bored expression of poised neutrality as she always does.
Marin forces steel into her voice, swallowing down every instinct to keep her godsdamned mouth shut. “And I assumed you would like intelligence that allows you to step out from behind Ilyra’s shadow.”
The words land, blunt and undeniable. Maireth’s eyes widen slightly in response. A rare slip. But enough to notice.
And neither of them miss the insult.
Like a blade threaded through ribs, Marin’s words find their mark.
“I’m in her shadow, am I?” Maireth hisses.
So Marin plays a dangerous game—she stokes the fire of her mother’s rage. Her mother’s inability to be second.
“That is what the Lightborne believes, yes. She treats Caeloria like little more than a nuisance. A puppet dangling from Ilyra’s strings. Certainly not a threat.”
Her mother purses her lips. Clasps her hands a little tighter in her lap. The servants hold their breaths. They know a challenge when they see one. Because to her mother, there is only one thing worse than being second: not being feared.
And she’s depending on it.
Marin forces her muscles to relax, though they fight to grip around her bones.
“Puppets,” she hisses to no one in particular.
Then her eyes snap up, boring into Marin with the promise of violence.
“Prepare the ships to sail on tides of Aether, and shut down all testing grounds. We are beyond testing now—we must put them into practice.” Maireth stands from her throne, her slender eyes narrowing further.
“Get her precious Starbound and ensure he is broken enough to kill on demand. We will not wait for Ilyra. Caeloria waits for no one. Answers to no one.”
Marin drops into a curtsy again, low and humble.
“Yes, mother,” she defers, like she didn’t orchestrate the entire thing. Maireth brushes past like a woman who will not be tested. Like a woman certain the outcome is already hers.
A small smirk lifts Marin’s mouth. Because right now, her mother is not in control and she doesn’t even know it.
The temperature drops as Marin descends through Azhareth Castle’s corridors. Not drastically. Not enough for most to notice. But she does. Because nothing in Azhareth is accidental—not even discomfort.
Everything is engineered, curated, designed to be felt at the extreme.
The guards do not stand as she approaches. They watch the door, listening for sounds of movement. They’re not guarding him—they’re guarding from him.
This should be fun.
“Open the door, Vynton,” Marin drawls, her unfazed tone a trained act.
The guards exchange a look. “You’d be crazy to enter, Princess. He’s… gone mad. He doesn’t speak words anymore. Just sounds. An animal,” Vynton explains, worry creasing his brows.
Marin exhales an exasperated sigh, and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Queen’s orders, ladies. Now get out of my way before I make you.”
“Who you callin’ ladies? We’ve been watchin’ him this whole time. Went in to feed him, too,” Vynton counters, hands on hips like he’s proving a point. Like he’s speaking about an animal gone savage.