Chapter Eleven
Valla
Flashback…
M y father had been . . . silent.
Which was odd because over the years, I’d seen him lash out more often than not. But this anger was different. It was cold, calculated, and focused.
A few days ago, Kade had left to go to the Western Wyverns, which was good for him.
I was sure being anywhere but here was better for him after the years of torment Father had put him through.
And it would have only gotten worse after the news Father had received yesterday.
Willow and Mother had escaped, and apparently the Peacebringer wasn’t Kade.
It was a Sky Elf based on what Marlena had told him.
A small part of me was happy about it. I'd seen the way my father treated my mother, and because of that, I strived to be everything he wanted. Strong, capable, loyal to a fault. Especially since being born thirty-two years prior to Kade meant for a long while, my father hadn’t known if he would have an heir to his throne.
So I worked twice as hard. I trained and trained and trained, learned to wield beyond my fire, and bent over backwards to be everything my father would have wanted in a son.
And I’d done it all just to see the slightest twinkle of recognition in his eyes when he approved, even if it broke me.
I would break, as long as it meant he was proud.
I moved through the palace. My nerves were raw today.
The courtiers and servants who once slithered in droves and busied themselves now remained scarce.
They understood, as I did, that today was not for eavesdropping, idle banter, or hope for favor.
Today, all energies funneled toward the throne room, where my father was waiting for me.
The high corridor outside stretched before me, empty but for two silent guards. Neither met my eye. Every stride felt heavier than the last, as if I dragged not just myself, but the entire future behind me.
When I reached the doors, the guards did not speak, did not even nod. They simply moved over as the double doors opened. I stepped through, and the cavernous hush swallowed me whole.
There he sat. The man himself was the only living thing worthy of such a throne.
My father. Hair as dark as the night sky, eyes the same amber all of his children shared, skin drawn taut over a face that always seemed to be thinking.
His hands rested on the armrests like he was completely at ease right now.
There were guards in the room, six in total, arrayed like chess pieces along my periphery.
I recognized none of them. Either his paranoia had multiplied overnight or he’d replaced the old detail with men even more loyal or more easily disposed of.
I didn’t let my gaze linger. A flicker of interest could be mistaken for weakness or worse, affection.
My father did not speak. He did not need to. He simply looked at me, drinking in every gesture, every twitch of muscle, every move I made just like he had my entire life.
I took three steps forward and stopped at the bottom of the dais.
My hands curled at my sides. He rose from his throne.
Even after all these years, the simple motion of his body set the room on edge.
His robes fell perfectly, untouched by dust or blood or remorse.
The crown on his head was subtle, only a gleam of obsidian above his brow.
He stood there, considering me. The guards tensed as one, as if bracing for a command. I kept my gaze locked on him, refusing to look away from the man everyone feared.
There was something different today, some subtle disturbance in the dark water of his soul. I had expected rage, the icy chill of it. Instead, I found him . . . serene.
I waited, just as I’d been taught: absolute stillness, absolute obedience, absolute readiness to be destroyed or spared as the moment required.
“Valla.” His voice was almost gentle.
I nearly shivered at the sound of it. Instead, I straightened my spine and braced for the storm I knew had to be coming.
“Yes, Father,” I replied.
He smiled, just a flash of one. The guards shifted. The world seemed to tilt, just a little. I kept my eyes locked on his and waited for him to speak again . . . or to strike me down where I stood.
He folded his hands before him, fingers laced. “You know what I value most, Valla. Above power, above knowledge, above victory itself. Loyalty. Tell me”—he leaned forward—“do you think you have been loyal to me?”
I answered before I could think better of it. “I put my life on the line every time we execute a plan, Daddy. I always have. Of course I’m loyal.”
He inclined his head, acknowledging the answer. “So you say. But why, Valla? Why do you have such unthinking devotion?”
I bit the inside of my cheek, hard. The question caught me off-guard.
Why? Because it was expected of me. Because to be anything less than perfect was to invite ruin.
Because love, in this house, was not a birthright, but a prize to be won through obedience and pain.
Because the alternative was to be like my mother—disregarded, discarded, despised.
I wanted his attention, and not the beatings, but those moments when he would tell me how proud he was of me. I craved it. I needed it to keep me going.
I gave him the answer he wanted. “Because you are my father and I am your firstborn, your legacy. I want to carry your will on with me.”
He began to pace, slow and deliberate, his robes scraping across the floor as he moved. “You have always been my favorite. You have always been willing to bleed for me. Die for me, if it comes to that.”
He stepped around to face me. This felt like the clash of predator and prey, though I could not have said which was which anymore.
“Would you, Valla?” he asked. “Would you die for my cause?”
The question was rhetorical. The answer was already written in every scar, every piece of me I’d surrendered over the years. If there was any doubt left in me, it was a tiny, stubborn ember, buried deep where he couldn’t see it.
“Yes,” I said. “I would die for your cause.”
“Good,” he said as he let out a sigh, soft as a lullaby.
Then he pulled the dagger from his sleeve.
I saw the flash of steel, the shimmer of a ruby. For one incredulous moment, I thought it ceremonial, a threat meant to scare me into submission. But my father was not a man for empty gestures.
He drove the dagger into my gut.
The pain was immediate, blinding, an agony so pure I nearly blacked out on my feet. I gasped, a pathetic, animalistic sound, and staggered backward. My hands flew to the wound, warm blood spurting between my fingers. I wanted to curse him, to scream, but I could only gape, uncomprehending.
He watched me, impassive, as I stumbled. My legs buckled and I went to my knees. The guards didn’t react. They stood still, as if this were all part of a script they’d rehearsed a thousand times.
Father crouched to my level, his face inches from mine.
“I’m sorry, princess,” he said, and for a moment I almost believed he meant it.
“But your sacrifice will keep my mind and body safe. I’ll be sure to keep you around to do all my bidding still—but now you’ll be tied to my will.
That blade was enchanted with a soul sacrifice.
A little trick I learned when I invaded the library of knowledge some years back. ”
He paused, savoring my shock. My vision tunneled, my fingers slick with my own blood, but I could not look away.
“It is a ritual most profane,” he went on, “linking another’s soul to an object of one’s own, thereby rendering the victim a husk, devoid of will, enslaved to the whims of their murderer.
But I think you will appreciate this, Valla.
You’ve always done what you’re told. Now, not only are you protecting me by giving your life, you’ll be a force to be reckoned with.
You won’t feel anything anymore. I’ve set you free. ”
He stood, and for a moment the world swam. I felt light-headed but also hollow, like something fundamental was being scooped out of me.
I tried to struggle, to grab him, but my limbs had gone numb, blood running in hot, sticky rivers down my thighs. My father watched, his face composed, kind even.
“You have always been the best of my children,” he said. “And now, you will be my shield.”
I wanted to cry. I wanted to beg, to demand answers, but all that came out was a strangled, wet noise. My hands scrabbled at the marble, at the air, at nothing. I was so tired, so cold.
Somewhere in the blur, I heard my father dismiss the guards, heard the click of the door closing behind them. The last thing I saw before darkness crashed over me was his empty smile.
My body was dying, but my mind would not follow it into the void. I hovered above myself, watching as the blood spilled, as my father stood over me, as the world blurred at the edges and began to fold inward like burned paper.
He spoke, and it sounded far away, muffled by the rush of my own fading heartbeat. I tried to scream, or cry, or even laugh. Nothing moved. The pain in my belly was fire and ice, but I sensed it already fading thanks to the magic coursing through my veins.
He placed a hand on my forehead. “Rest, daughter. Your service is just beginning.”
All these years, I’d fooled myself into thinking I was free in my own way.
That I was clever, that my loyalty was a weapon of my own, that I was different from the others because I chose to serve.
I thought that was power. I thought he loved me for it.
That maybe on some rare day, he would put his hand on my shoulder and say, “Well done, Valla,” and actually mean it.
But here, on the cold floor of his throne room, I finally understood. I had never been anything but a tool, a means to an end. Not the cherished daughter, not the clever tactician, not even a worthy heir because I was a woman. Just a pawn to be sacrificed and used. A sick fucking joke.
A sob caught in my throat and nearly choked me.
I remembered my mother’s voice—soft, tired, always gentle even when I disappointed her.
She had never believed in my father’s ways of cruelty, never understood how anyone could hurt their own child and call it love.
I’d hated her for her weakness, for the way she let Father break her down, day after day, until she’d been only a ghost drifting through the halls and trembling at the sound of his footsteps.
But now, as my body burned from the inside out, I wanted her more than anything.
I wanted her arms, her lullabies, the smell of her when she would sneak into my room and check on me at night before crawling into my bed.
I wanted her to say it would be all right.
I wanted to beg forgiveness for every time I’d chosen my father’s praise over her safety, every time I’d looked the other way or enforced his will or shut her out with a locked door and cruel words.
And my brothers . . . I wanted my Kade and Rhet.
But it was too late. The numbness spread, stealing my pain and regret and everything else. My pulse slowed, then skipped, then stilled altogether.
I was dead. I could see the blood, the slack jaw, my eyes still open but blank and empty. I wanted to weep, but I had nobody left to do it with. I was a soul, a thought, a prisoner.
I sensed my father standing over my corpse, wiping the dagger clean.
He did not look at me. He could not see me, not with his eyes, but I knew he felt my presence, that he reveled in the knowledge of my imprisonment.
To him, I was a thing, a possession. A legacy he could wield now without the inconvenience of my will.
Suddenly, my body jerked, and I gasped in a long breath as I sat up. I was looking through my eyes but had no control over my actions. I tried to scream again, but the darkness in my head only drank my terror, savoring every drop.
And in that endless void, with nothing left to lose and no hope of anyone rescuing the cruel daughter of Valos, I realized my father had lied. I would never be free.
I belonged to him. Forever.