Chapter Thirty-Seven Arion #3
“It’s obsession,” Zephyra finishes with a cool glance at the historian. “Merrow are told of the legend from birth. Mortem was obsessed. He wouldn’t leave Vila alone. Death chased life until life allowed him to claim her. And when she ended him—he ended her as well.”
“But if he loved her,” Gavriall says, his brow knotting tight, “isn’t that enough?” He looks to Zephyra, and hope burns bright in his gaze. “Love conquers all. My mother told me that, used to sing a lullaby at night about love fixing every wound, healing every hurt.”
“Your mother was wrong,” Zephyra says. “Love can’t heal on its own. Love is not enough. And it can’t exist without consent.”
Gavriall quiets as Amaya stalks forward to pry up the tiles. Her bag weighs low, dragging along the floor as she glances at the statues, deciding whether they’re worth carving too. When Zephyra and Vesper glare daggers at her, she turns back to the tiles with a sigh.
If she doesn’t do it now, I’m certain she will do so when her crew returns, after she sails out of here and comes back with more men.
With more ships. Soon the entire world will know the true story of Abysses.
Of Mortem’s deception, the Goddess of Life, and the utopia that was shared between humankind and merrow.
“It’s okay, Arion,” Zephyra says, wandering toward me.
Her fingers stroke the tables as she passes, though she stops before she reaches the skull.
She licks her thumb and index finger, then snuffs out the incense.
She blows out the flames too. And then she moves that same finger to the crease between my brows.
“None of this is your fault. You didn’t know.
Your whole kingdom—no one knew. Don’t beat yourself up about it now. ”
That’s unacceptable.
“Zephyra, I fucking—I hated you. I wanted to string you to a noose.” She doesn’t understand. The blood on my hands—I killed so many merrow. I killed so many for my kingdom. But it… it was all a lie. Everything I held dear, everything I thought was true about myself, it’s all a fucking lie.
With a soft, sympathetic smile, she takes my hand, leading me away from the mural.
“We’ll tell them,” I growl. “The second we find the heart and get out of here, we’ll tell the whole world.”
Her smile falters at that. “I don’t want to incite a war, Arion. Even with the evidence—they won’t want to believe us. I just want to escape. I want to go somewhere quiet.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” I kiss her hand, ignoring the ash and death thick on my tongue. My pulse slows by the second. “As soon as we find the heart.”
She nods once, spinning on her heel to examine the large space. “In the mural, Vila and Mortem were here”—she extends her arms wide—“which means his heart can’t be far.” Glancing back at me, she adds, “Check the floor. It looks like it disappeared down… somewhere.”
I crouch, my palms skimming over the cold marble, searching for any sort of fracture or seam or handle while Zephyra paces what remains of the mural, casting another glare at Amaya. “I can’t tell which way the room is oriented in this. Gavriall?” she asks. “A little help with directions?”
He appears as if she conjured him, using his fingers to measure the distance between various painted objects in the tile.
“The issue isn’t the orientation,” he says.
“It’s the scale of the artwork.” His brows pinch, and he begins murmuring to himself.
“The wedding. The ring. The knife. The betrayal. The murder.” He shakes his head.
“The mural shows the exact layout of the temple—tiles, altars, even smoldering incense—but… there aren’t any statues.
” He blinks down at her. “Where are the statues?”
Zephyra whirls. Without warning, she throws herself at Mortem’s likeness as if trying to tackle him to the floor. Her arms strain with the effort, and she digs her heels into the floor for leverage. “Move… you… fucking… bastard!” Then her gaze snaps up. “Vesper. Help.”
“What are you…?” Gavriall starts, but his eyes fly wide as the siren joins Zephyra in attempting to push the stone.
“It’s here,” Zephyra manages through gritted teeth. “There aren’t statues in the mural—it’s the only difference, right? It must be under him.”
“There is no way on this earth you are moving that.” Amaya leans against the wall now, arching her brow with palpable skepticism and turning a tile in her hand. Her bag, filled to the brim, rests on the floor by her feet.
My own feet move of their own volition, and I join Zephyra and Vesper at the statue, throwing my shoulder into the stone.
My breath wheezes. My body bows. It makes little difference.
I am too weak, I am dying, and Mortem’s statue is too heavy.
The little magic left to me ricochets through my veins, however, straining forward.
Down. And I know Zephyra is right. I know the heart is here, just below our feet, and I know the only way to reach it is with magic.
I exhale a harsh breath. “Everyone, step back—”
“No,” Zephyra snaps, snatching my face. Her eyes blaze. “You’re not using your magic. Not a fucking chance.” Over her shoulder, she snarls, “Gavriall, Amaya, get your asses over here and help.”
Unable to help it, I eye Gavriall skeptically. “Him?”
Any hesitation in his expression vanishes. “Move over, Stone.” And he plants his hands beside Vesper’s. Though Amaya mutters something about getting this over with, she too braces her shoulder against the left wing beside me.
“On three,” Vesper grunts.
“One,” Zephyra counts.
“Two,” Gavriall echoes.
“Three!”
We all throw our bodies against it, but it doesn’t budge. Humiliation sets in my chest. I am too weak. I am dying. Even Gavriall shakes his head, cheeks pink from exertion. “That was embarrassing,” he mutters. “Thank the gods no one else is here to see this.”
Grinding my teeth, I resist the urge to wrench his head from his shoulders, but my limbs tremble. Bile climbs up my throat. I’m not strong enough. I can practically feel the poison in my veins now, and I can’t hide the sweat on my brow when Zephyra glances at me, concerned.
“Now what?” Amaya demands, already pulling away.
Gavriall sneers at her. “Aren’t you a demigoddess? That was a rather poor showing from a daughter of Tempestas.”
Though thunder rumbles menacingly above us, Amaya places her hands back on the wing.
“Again,” Zephyra says, ignoring them. “Put your hands on the base this time.”
On her count, we all push again, and this time—miraculously—the statue moves.
Just an inch. Just enough for us to gain critical momentum.
My muscles burn. My lungs burn. We can’t stop, however, and when we push again, a jagged, earsplitting sound shudders through the temple. Mortem’s likeness shifts another inch.
A breathless beat.
Then another push.
With a final shove, the statue screeches across the stone and exposes the gap beneath. In the center lies a bronze chest. Dried blood crusts the lock. And something inside—beats.
We all stare down at it for a single, aching second.
“The heart,” Zephyra whispers.
And just like that, the adrenaline coursing through my system—the hunger, the anticipation—overpowers any sickness. My magic catches like wildfire, and the entire world narrows to that bronze chest. To what lies inside it. It’s here.
We found it.
Despite all odds, I am going to live. Zephyra and I—we are going to survive.
I kneel, my own heart thundering, my breath shallow. My wings twitch, jerking me forward as if they can’t remain still another second, while the thick scent of copper breezes out from the hidden passage.
I’m inches away from everything. Everything.
But a rasping hiss echoes through the room behind me—behind us all—as frost ices over the floor and the Death Lord says, “Not so fast, littlest warlock. I believe that belongs to us.”