Chapter 31
LYRAE
Itold myself this was nothing.
So what if Rooke looked like some ancient Fae god of old? So what if his abs had been carved from a slab of granite? I’d seen plenty of handsome males before, and I could take them or leave them.
Still, I could barely breathe when Rooke swept down the staircase, impeccably dressed, not a single inky hair out of place, those blue eyes flat and unreadable.
Except for his unnatural paleness and glimpses of still-healing wounds, he looked exactly like the asshole who’d threatened to drown me when we’d first arrived. Good. I didn’t want to think of him upstairs in that bed, vulnerable and smelling of petrichor, mouth soft enough to taste.
Ryland pushed the Mirror into the center of the table, beside the Thorn, careful that neither of them touched. Something told me if they did, things would go very badly. As it was, that insistent pressure thumped against my eardrums, my chest tightening in time to the rhythmic beating of raw magic.
Above our heads, the pair of crows perched on the chandelier flapped their wings, before one of them circled down and landed on Rooke’s shoulder.
“Two out of three isn’t bad, right?”
In truth, Ry’s attempt at humor was probably too soon, but I gave him points for trying to lighten the mood. He kept trailing his hand over mine, a reminder of last night, of all the promises we’d once made to each other.
I was trying very hard not to let myself remember those promises. To focus on the task at hand, and getting us all out of this fucking realm alive, as unlikely as that possibility was looking right now.
“And the Crown? Tell me what happened.”
Rooke paused at the bottom of the stairs, focused on the artifacts, but not coming any closer.
“Last night is…”
His eyes caught on mine.
“A bit fuzzy. And while I hate to point out the obvious, there are only two of them. You seem to have misplaced something, Storme. A very important something.”
“We lost the Crown at Gravespire,” Ryland admitted, “Gravelock’s soldiers ambushed us outside the room where they were stored. We were almost free when one of them snatched the Crown and vanished.”
Kaden’s body shuddered, the words hitting him like a physical blow. Obviously, the Crown was crucial; maybe its power tied the Triune together. Not that any of us knew how these things actually worked.
Well, not that I knew how these things worked.
“We still have two,” Varian said quietly, his eyes on Rooke. “Which means Gravelock can’t unite the Triune into a weapon. Which buys us some time.”
“Time that won’t matter, in the end. The Crown gives that bastard dominion over everyone,” Rooke murmured, his face growing paler by the minute. “You. Me. Even your precious queen. With the Crown on his head, Gravelock could have Anaria kneeling before him with a flick of his finger.”
Rooke was staring out the windows as wind and snow lashed the glass.
“The Crown is the most critical piece of the Trinity, and losing it…we need that piece.”
“What about these two?” I cast my hand over the objects on the table. “What do they do?”
“Legend says the Mirror is made from a shard of moonlight, spelled to show the bearer that which they most desire. But the relic can also be used as a weapon, casting powerful illusions, realistic enough to convince even the most skeptical minds of a warped reality. One of my ancestors was powerful enough to use its power to travel between realms.”
Like he was forcing himself, Rooke drew a shuddering breath, pulled his gaze from the window, then in two long strides, closed the distance between himself and the relics.
When he stopped in front of the table, the air in the room bent in around us, the walls of the castle shifting in and out of sight.
Kaden’s presence was affecting the artifacts. Or their magic was responding to him. Not a surprise, perhaps, given they were created for his bloodline, but still, the effect was disconcerting. Even the air tasted brighter, tinged with enough ozone to sting my eyes, burn my lungs.
This was so very dangerous, what we were doing. Playing with forces not meant to exist. But better us than Gravelock, I told myself. Better we hold the key to the world’s destruction than a madman determined to burn everything to the ground and laugh in the glowing ashes.
God, Torin was right. These fucking things should be under lock and key.
“And that one?”
I was afraid to get any closer, not with the sheer amount of power churning off them in great, choking waves.
“The Thorn, they say, was forged from the breath of a dying god, made not for creation, but for the fundamental principle of ending. Magic, flesh, life itself, that blade is capable of nullifying the magic of anything it touches—when used with intent,” Rooke explained in a hushed voice.
“Oh, it definitely does that,” Var muttered.
“Remember,” Kaden said, “in the world of magic, intention is as powerful a weapon as any sword or any army. That blade can sever oaths and curses, even the most binding ones.”
“And turn Fae soldiers into primordial soup,” Varian muttered, shooting me a sidelong look.
Okay, now I definitely didn’t want to be anywhere near these things.
“Then what do we do?” Ryland’s voice was laced with frustration. “Hide them? Use them? If Gravelock takes them back, we’re fucked, Rooke, totally fucked.”
Kaden didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached out a shaking hand, grasped the Thorn—the point so sharp the blade seemed to sing, then—before I could shout a warning—dragged that gleaming edge across his palm.
“Stop,” I hissed, lunging for him, “you can’t afford to spill any more blood. You already lost too much last night.”
Rooke ignored me, tipping his slashed palm sideways over the Thorn, then the Mirror, blood dripping in a steady stream onto both artifacts, chanting softly in a language I didn’t recognize.
Thick stone walls around us disappeared completely, until we stood on a windswept island, buffeted by a whipping storm.
For a moment I was lost, swept away in the strangeness of not being rooted to the world, then Ryland was there, wrapping strong arms around me, crushing me tight to his chest, blocking out the cold that stole the air from my lungs.
Air that grew heavier, darker, unbreathable, the longer Kaden chanted.
Time seemed to slip, to stutter, and for one frozen moment, all I saw was Rooke, inky hair suspended around him like he was underwater, dark blue eyes gleaming with purpose, lips drawn back as if he was snarling at the entire universe.
Fear ripped through me, gnashing against my ribcage, clawing up my throat, Ryland gripping me tighter, seeing what I was seeing.
This was no pampered son of an aristocrat.
This was a High Fae Lord with ancient God-blood running through his veins, filled with hate and fury, capable of ripping the world apart with his bare hands.
My eyes dropped to the table, the beads of blood gleaming on the artifacts like cut rubies.
All Kaden needed was magic. Something this realm had in short supply.
And then the truth hit me. Gravelock wasn’t wantonly sucking the magic from this realm; he was hoarding all the power to keep Rooke weak, to keep him prisoner. Keep him here. Because he was afraid of Rooke. Afraid of what he could do, even without the Triune.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Ryland shouted, while all around us, shadows swept in, surrounding us in a gale of swirling darkness. Even the island disappeared, the world tunneling down to only the four of us and this thrumming power beating against my chest.
“Binding them to me,” Rooke muttered darkly, without looking up. “Gravelock will have a difficult time wielding them while they’re tied to my blood. Even if he takes them back now, he’ll have to unravel this binding first, before he can bleed me and forge his own. That will take time.”
I bit my tongue, wanting to tell him that was a stupid plan, when he let out a shuddering breath and closed his bloody hand. Without thinking, I picked up an unused strip of cloth from last night and pressed it tight against the gash.
“This is too deep, you idiot,” I hissed. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to cut yourself properly?”
“Stop being so fussy, commander, I might think you actually care.”
Rooke’s voice dropped lower. “But if you want to play with knives, you can give me a lesson later, if you wish.”
He was so close his breath mingled with mine, those shadows still spinning lazily around us as I stepped back, cursing myself. What was I doing? We were in fucking danger, I shouldn’t be…flirting with the enemy.
“We have to take back the Crown,” Rooke said, his tone matter-of-fact as his hand curled around mine, trapping me in place, something Ryland—with that frown and his narrowed eyes—did not miss.
“The Butcher and his guards will hole up at Evernight Castle. Now that Gravelock has the third piece, he’ll protect the Crown with his life and the lives of all his soldiers.
They’ll secure the perimeter, strengthen the wards, and plan their invasion.
I figure we have a day at most before they return. ”
“We’re thieves. We stole the relic once before,” Varian suggested softly, “I’ll locate the Crown inside his castle, and we’ll just…”
Ryland was already shaking his head.
“Not at Evernight. That place is a death trap; nobody has ever gone in and come out alive.”
“What if we take the other two pieces and hide them? Somewhere he’ll never find them?” I suggested, well aware Ryland’s gaze was glued to Rooke and my clasped hands, a furrow forming in his brow. I pulled my hand away, first folding Rooke’s fingers over the cloth.
“What if we take them back to the Citadelle, keep them under lock and key? Queen Anaria will keep them safe. We’ll smuggle you out of the Shadowlands, Rooke, and with the backing of the entire Valarian army…”
“There’s one little problem, commander,” his smile turned sad. “The ward isn’t what keeps me captive, not really. It’s the fact I will die if I ever leave this island. Part of the curse, I’m afraid, and something I’ve never quite worked my way around.”
“Then one of us takes the Thorn and the Mirror back through the ward. We have allies waiting on the other side, powerful allies.”
“You’d never make it; Gravelock’s grown too strong,” Rooke explained. “He’d catch you before you reached the border, reclaim the two relics, and we’d be right back to square one. He knows they’re here and is formulating his attack to kill you three, and leave me alive.”
“Well, lucky for you, unlucky for us, I guess,” I muttered.
Rooke didn’t smile.
“Venmir Gravelock has devoured every last drop of the magic in this realm, hoarding his power until he unites the Triune, drains me dry, and drops that ward. When that happens, your precious Valarian will fall. The world will fall. We can’t let that happen.”
His face softened.
“You want your city to remaining standing? We have to end this now, before he regroups and comes for us, because we are not strong enough to stand before him, not if he has the Crown.”
He looked between us, his expression even.
“We have to get inside Evernight. We have to take back the Crown. And we have to move fast. That is the only way to end this and survive.”
A sharp, biting laugh escaped Ryland.
“What you’re suggesting is suicide. The castle is impenetrable, we couldn’t get inside those walls, even with a hundred Dreadwatch soldiers at our sides. I agree with Lyrae.”
He nodded.
“We take the two artifacts across the border and into Tempeste.”
“You’d never make it past the ice,” Rooke said flatly. “The only way to kill him is to possess all three; otherwise, we’re just prolonging the inevitable.”
Rooke’s gaze flicked to mine, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something other than his usual confidence—a shadow of regret, lingering there.
“I’ve had decades to plan this out, Ryland. This is the only way. Without the Crown, we have nothing. Everybody loses.”