Chapter Eleven #2
“I vow to use your strength only for the benefit of Rhovar’s future.
” Aurelie tried to speak with confidence, but her voice wavered beneath the eyes of the congregation.
She gritted her teeth as she drew the blade across her palm, Yuriel’s stare pressed into her all the while.
He seemed to look through her, into her very soul.
Never had Aurelie felt so exposed. When he extended his bleeding hand, palm up, she took a deep breath and accepted it with her own.
The archbishop stepped forward, bowing to Yuriel before he bound their clasped hands with a silken cord. Whatever he was saying, she could not hear, for the moment her open wound was laid upon Yuriel’s, her world split at its seams.
Her chest rattled with a chill so powerful that she choked, feeling as though she’d suffocate. She felt her own body, but there was something else there, too. A phantom being whose thoughts she could not exactly see, but whose own turmoil warred with her own.
Aurelie could feel his gnawing tension crawling through her like a hundred rats feasting upon her insides. No matter how composed or serene he appeared, there was no part of Yuri that wanted to be there.
The angel buckled, his brows pulled low as he scrutinized her.
Did he feel her guilt as much as she was consumed by his anxiety? Could he have known the truth of what she’d done? The angel opened his mouth, but whatever words he had for her were drowned out by a scream that shattered their silence, echoing through the cathedral like a blade sharply drawn.
The sound came from Ilaria.
Aurelie spun, tearing free from the cord that bound her to the angel and fisting the hilt of the crystal blade still in her hand. By the time she looked behind her, the church was in chaos, and with great horror Aurelie saw why.
A demon stood beside the royal family, its skin sizzling from being on hallowed ground.
How did it get inside?
Her breath caught, eyes searching. Azriel was barely holding himself upright, one hand clutching his chest as he braced himself with the other.
Each of the eyes upon his wings moved in a frenzy, twitching and rolling back into the feathers.
Even struggling to breathe, he kept his wings spread to protect the Noriclats.
And her father—where was he? If Azriel had fallen ill, then what had the demon done to Varen? Had it hurt him? Killed him? Had he somehow managed to escape?
And then she saw the gray wings that tore through the back of noble armor. Varen’s armor.
Aurelie squinted at the demon’s face. The shape was familiar, though it warped as its jaw widened, canines erupting from its lips. Then its eyes snapped toward her, a silver she recognized all too well now veined with red.
The demon let out a guttural howl, its anguish reverberating through the cathedral. Sleek black claws erupted from its nail beds, slicing through flesh as blood poured from each fingertip. Only that blood was no longer red; it deepened to gray, then to a black as dark as pitch.
Several knights had already pushed through the congregation, forming a barrier around panicked townsfolk. Marcel guided everyone toward the exit with shouted orders and hurried gestures, while the knights who’d stood watch stormed inside, swords drawn and gleaming in the torchlight.
“Hold your weapons!” Aurelie screamed, shoving Yuriel off when he reached for her. She lunged for the captain’s side, only to be met with a growl.
“Stay back,” Varen snarled, his voice unrecognizable. “Keep away from me.”
Yuriel’s wing slammed down in front of her, drawing her back. Aurelie had half a mind to slice the crystal blade through his feathers, but he was already moving, a bow materializing in his hands. He nocked an arrow, steadying his aim on Varen.
Aurelie grabbed the bow from behind, wrenching it back. “Shoot, and I’ll kill you.”
Yuriel shoved her off. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Varen!” Ilaria darted around Azriel’s outstretched wings, reaching for the captain. Aurelie lunged forward, instincts screaming to intervene, but her body betrayed her. One step, and her balance faltered. Yuriel’s resistance pulsed through her, making her limbs weak.
Ilaria ignored the king screaming for her to stay back. He tried to reach her, but Azriel moved faster, shoving both him and Queen Sybil back toward Nicolas, who had charged forward with Solange at his side. Aurelie’s stomach twisted as her gaze fell on Solange’s drawn blade, poised to strike.
“I said hold your weapons!” she screamed again, but no one listened. She fisted her dagger, seething. She was bonded now, and with that came authority over every knight in this room. So why did none listen?
Thank the Light for Ilaria, who closed the space between them with another tender step. “You must steady yourself, Captain,” she pleaded. “We cannot help you unless we know you still understand us.”
She set a hand upon Varen’s shoulder, and that’s when Aurelie’s world shattered.
Varen roared, writhing as his limbs twisted. His flesh was stretching, tightening over protruding bones and leathery wings. He whirled on Ilaria like a cornered animal, claws striking her across the face.
She screamed, stumbling back as blood gushed from the wound that stretched from chin to temple, narrowly missing her eye. Azriel tried to reach her but lost his balance, taking one step before falling to his knees. He clutched his stomach as he retched, golden blood spilling from his lips.
“By the Light,” Yuriel cursed, still blocking Aurelie with those damned wings. She shoved past them, toward her father. He was hunched, clutching his clawed hands to his chest.
Every knight in the room had their weapon trained on him, but it was Nicolas who stood closest. His face was ashen as he raised his sword, anguish in his eyes.
When he struck down, Aurelie moved.
She tackled Nicolas to the floor, colliding with him in a blur of motion.
His sword clattered across the stone as they tumbled.
Nicolas gasped, the sharp impact followed by a distinct crack.
Aurelie didn’t pause to determine whether the sound had come from his body or hers.
Pain was irrelevant, drowned beneath the roar of her pulse.
Even then, he reached for his sword, and she felt the cold dregs of fear as his fingers nearly found it.
She couldn’t let him.
There was a monster within Aurelie. It had been born the night she watched her family fall, and it rose now with a great fury.
She realized then, without a single doubt, that she would kill Nicolas if that’s what it took to save her father.
If she needed to, she would drive this dagger through his throat and never look back.
Instead, Aurelie brought her blade down upon his sword hand.
Nicolas’s scream echoed through the cathedral as his hand fell, dismembered.
Solange cried out, her face gone white as her brother’s blood poured. Her eyes locked to Aurelie, who stiffened in preparation of a blow. But rather than attack her, Solange turned her blade on Varen.
No.
Aurelie twisted free from Nicolas and scrambled upright, but there was no time to stop the executioner’s blade. Her heart plummeted as her father bowed his head, resigned.
And yet, when steel met flesh, it was not Varen who suffered.
Aurelie staggered back, crying out as a phantom pain tore through her arm. She looked up to see Yuriel standing before her father, golden blood pouring from where Solange’s blade pierced his arm. It had nearly severed his arm, and the knight stumbled back, horrified.
That brilliant light flared from Yuriel once more, obscuring the scene. Only this time Aurelie’s eyes didn’t burn as she looked upon it. She blinked eyes that no longer felt entirely her own, strengthened and able to make out the dark miasma that encircled her father.
A father who was still standing only because of Yuriel.
A sob escaped her as her body crumpled in relief.
“Do not strike!” It wasn’t clear whether Yuriel’s voice was in their minds or spoken aloud, but everyone froze. “If you kill him, Azriel shares his fate.”
Azriel was still slumped on all fours, breath labored as blood poured down his chin.
Yuriel turned and took Varen by the wrists.
The demon didn’t resist, his body continuing to morph even as he was pinned to the floor.
Varen’s skin was growing darker, purpling like a fresh bruise.
The sinewy wings erupting from his back were a nightmare—shredded and raw, as though they’d been raked through with a pitchfork.
What was he?
He had wings and horns like a wrathborn, yet the pigment of his skin grew more vibrant by the second, and was she seeing things, or was his tongue forked? Only envyborn had that, but they didn’t have wings …