Burn of the Everflame — Chapter 17

17

DIEM

stared at the shrinking silhouette of Ophiucae’s gryvern on the horizon,I overwhelmed and unable to move. I knew without looking that he’d removed the ten-pointed star he’d branded on my throat. Now I was an enemy Descended, like all the others. Free for his men to kill, if they got the chance.

I did not fear his men, and I did not want his brand . . . so why did my

heart feel so raw?

“Diem.”

Luther’s voice sent a current through my blood. Just hearing it again was a comfort, as if he’d placed his strong hand on my back to remind me he was here.

Gods, I wished he would. I’d barely been able to focus on the battle.

The moment I saw him, the mating bond had gone from urgent to crazed.

Beneath my cloak of shadows, the mating mark glowed even brighter than my skin, burning with an all-consuming need for his touch.

He sank to his knees and bowed his head. “My Queen,” he breathed, voice rough with reverence.

My hand trembled as it cupped his now-bearded cheek, and a ragged breath rushed out. At the touch of his skin on mine, the screaming in my head went silent. The maddening itch across my body soothed away, and my aching chest finally, finally, finally felt at peace.

He placed his hand over mine to press it closer. I let his warmth soak into me and reassure me this was real, not another of the island’s cruel, deceptive dreams.

The words I longed to scream crawled up my throat: You are my mate.

Seal the bond, and make me yours. I wanted to wait until we were alone, but I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep them in.

My stare swept over him as he rose to his feet. His clothes were ill- fitting and humble, looking mortal-made, and covered in deep slashes and blood.

My healing magic dove inside him, and he abruptly jerked away. His throat worked. “Zalaric first.”

The reminder of our friend, slumped motionless a few feet away, pulled me out of my lovesick daze. I ran through the Descended soldiers dizzily shaking off Ophiucae’s mental hold and dropped to my knees at Zalaric’s side. My hand flew to his throat—a weak pulse still beat beneath his skin. I pushed my healing magic into him, careful to route it around the scar on his neck that he, like Luther, had chosen to keep. My godhood did what it could to mend the gash at his ribs, but when it screeched and recoiled back inside me, my stomach lurched. The blade had been godstone, and its deadly

poison had already taken root.

“Where is he?” a man roared nearby.

My heart clenched at the familiar voice—though I’d never heard him

sound like that.

“Here,” I yelled.

Soldiers around me shouted protests as they were shoved off their feet and out of the way. Taran appeared in the crowd, taking me in, then Zalaric, then me again. “Queenie,” he rasped, that one hoarse word conveying so much: I missed you. Are you alright? Please don’t let him die.

“Take his hand,” Luther ordered Taran. “Skin on skin—it helps.”

Anguish tore at me to hear Luther repeat the advice I’d given him when Taran was wounded, the same advice I’d used myself when Luther seemed all but lost. Taran nodded and took Zalaric’s hand as Luther stooped beside me, his thigh pressing into mine.

“Godstone?” Taran asked, looking bleak. My hesitation was answer enough, and shadows flooded his gaze.

“I survived it,” Luther said. “So did you. The Blessed Kindred spared us. Perhaps they’ll spare Zalaric, too.”

Taran closed his eyes and held out a palm, wisp after wisp of his magic rising. “Please, Blessed Mother,” he begged. “Not him. Whatever you ask, I’ll do it.”

His prayer grated on me. The only reason godstone existed at all was the ego of the Blessed fucking Kindred.

“We don’t need Lumnos,” I muttered. “I’ll save him myself.”

I reached behind Luther and pulled the Sword of Corbois from the scabbard strapped to his back. I slid its sharp edge along my palm until a line of crimson sprang to my skin, then slipped my hand through the slash in Zalaric’s robe and pressed it into his wound.

“What are you doing?” Taran asked.

“Healing him,” Luther said. He stared at me, his wonder aglow. “It was never the poultice, was it? It was you.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t, not until I was sure it would work. If I was wrong, if I’d acted too late . . .

I studied Zalaric’s face, thinking of everything he’d endured to get here.

A childhood in hiding as a forbidden half-mortal, the death of his mother, the scar on his throat from a botched execution, years of trading his body for money to claw his way into the top echelons of Umbros society—then losing it all for trying to help me.

Taran raised Zalaric’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his wrist, and I realized Taran was shaking. He blinked hard, fighting back tears. It hit me then, how long I’d been gone. How much might have changed.

Zalaric stirred, and my heart leapt with hope. Again, I pushed my magic into his skin and held my breath—then released it with a deep sigh of relief.

All trace of the godstone toxin was gone.

Zalaric’s eyes cracked open.

“Zal!” Taran cried. “Zal, can you hear me?”

Zalaric looked around groggily, taking everything in. “How . . . why . . . ?”

“You were stabbed. I think Queenie healed you.”

“Yes, I can see that. But why am I lying in dirt?” His elegant features scrunched with disgust. “Do you know how much this silk costs?”

Taran blinked. “You’re worried about your robes?”

“You may be used to rolling in the mud like a pig, Taran Corbois, but I am most certainly not.”

Perhaps not much had changed, after all.

“You healed godstone,” Luther said to me quietly. “Did you use Fortos magic?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

He helped me to my feet. Zalaric swatted at a fussing Taran, who gingerly helped him do the same. The crowd around us parted as Alixe ran through.

“Diem—you’re back.” She gawked at my appearance for a moment, but when I met her with a steely stare, her posture stiffened. She pressed a fist to her chest and bowed excessively low. “Welcome home, Your Majesty.”

I looked around, assessing my surroundings in full. The palace walls had been damaged, the front gates melted away. Royals were beginning to peek out broken windows and hesitantly emerge from the front door. In the distance, plumes of smoke billowed from the blackened skyline of Lumnos City.

I turned to Alixe. “High General, I’m taking back my throne. Are you

with me?”

She nodded sharply. “I’ve always been.”

“Good. Gather the wounded, and find out if the army brought any Descended healers. Call in the healers from Mortal City, too. They can make a poultice for the godstone wounds.”

“They may not be in Mortal City,” Luther cut in. “The Crowns put the

mortals in the dungeon.”

“They did what?” I snapped.

“Not the healers,” Alixe said quickly. “We were able to spare them.”

Red crept up her cheeks. “I told the Crowns they were needed to treat sick children in Lumnos City.”

My temper boiled. “Empty the dungeon immediately. I’m going to need it for my prisoners.” I stalked toward the stony dome I’d crafted, Luther close at my heels. “Are my mother and brother in the dungeon, too?”

“No,” he said. “They’ve been with me. We only arrived back in Lumnos this morning.”

I frowned at him. “You’ve been gone this whole time? What were you doing?”

His expression hardened. “Building an army.”

I stopped at the edge of the rift I’d torn through the soil and raised a palm, bringing the cobblestone dome down with a thunderous crash. The Crowns’ heads whipped around in a frenzied search for Ophiucae. Their relief at his absence faded fast as their focus turned to me.

I spread my arms wide and glared. “Did you miss me?”

Doriel and Obaneryn gaped, while the Arboros Queen—ex-Queen— avoided my eyes. The former Faunos Queen was unconscious, maybe dead.

Only the prick from Ignios dared to speak.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” he wheezed.

“Funny, I was just thinking the same about you.” I eyed the telltale black veins coating his skin. “Looks like that cure from Sophos didn’t work out.”

“How did you get off the island?” Obaneryn asked. His blue-green gaze hovered on my Crown. “And what is that?”

I shrugged. “Family heirloom.”

“Nine peaks,” Doriel breathed. “Those are my sparks”—they gripped Obaneryn’s arm—“and your waves. She stole our Crowns!”

“I didn’t steal anything. The Kindred have a habit of forcing their problems on people who’d rather be left alone.”

The former Arboros Queen edged forward. “You’re saying the Kindred gave our Crowns to you? Why would they do that?”

I shifted my glare to her, and she shrank back. “They must have decided you weren’t doing a very good job of protecting the continent.” I scanned the ruined palace, the piles of corpses, the burning city. “Can’t imagine why they’d think that.” I crossed my arms. “Why are you all in my realm?”

“They called a meeting to discuss a truce with the Guardians,” Luther explained.

“We thought your mother would feel more comfortable meeting in her home realm,” Doriel said cagily.

“Liar,” Luther growled. “You didn’t trust each other in your own realms, so you picked one of Diem’s. I’m sure my father was more than happy to oblige.”

“It was the only realm Ophiucae hadn’t attacked,” the Arboros woman admitted. “We suspected he was sparing it out of loyalty to you.”

A wave of uncomfortable emotions washed over me—a warm flush that left me reeling, and an icy burst of shame that cooled it away. I swayed a bit on my feet, and Luther’s head snapped toward me, his curious stare burning into my side.

I straightened my spine. “Your realms are now mine. I will give you one chance, and one chance only, to give your oath to your new Queen.”

The Ignios brute scoffed, the others frozen and stunned.

“Suit yourself.” I waved a hand, and soil shifted to form a bridge.

“Prince, take them to the dungeon.”

“With pleasure,” he snarled.

“Wait,” the Arboros woman cried. She walked over the bridge and knelt in front of me, her fern-green eyes cast low. “I will serve you.”

I had so very much to say—so many vicious words about her weakness, how quick she’d been to betray me, her rush to yield at the first hint of defeat. But she had stood with the mortals when no one else would. Though her courage ran shallow, I had greater enemies to fight.

“Rise,” I said, and she obeyed. “What’s your name?”

Her cheeks reddened. “Mireille.”

“Mireille, you will return to Arboros as my emissary. You will tell the Descended there I am their Queen, and they are to obey my command.”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“Yes what?”

She flinched. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Wicked pleasure rushed through me. My conscience chided a warning: This is what corrupted them, too. The thrill of power, the joy in watching others submit. I shoved it away, clinging to my rage. “If any of your Descended refuse to accept me as their Queen, tell them they have one week to leave my realms.”

“But . . . aren’t they all your realms?”

“All but the Forgotten Lands.” I flashed a cold smile. “They’re welcome to try their luck with Ophiucae there, if they prefer.”

She blanched. “And the mortals?”

“They are free to live, learn, work, and travel with equal standing to the Descended in all respects. All respects, Mireille, no exceptions.”

She looked offended. “Mortals and Descended have always been equal in Arboros.”

“There is not a single place on this continent where mortals and Descended have been equal,” I shot back. “That ends now. The days of

Descended rule are over.”

“Are they?” a voice called out.

My eyes swept over the soldiers who had crowded forward to watch.

They stopped on a man in an Emarion Army uniform. His brown hair was thinning, grey beginning to sprout at his temples. His brown tunic marked him as a mortal, confirmed by his sun-leathered and battle-scarred skin.

“You say you’re our Queen,” the man went on. “But you’re a

Descended, just like them.”

“Come here,” I ordered.

His throat bobbed, his confidence wavering. “Your Majesty, I didn’t

mean to—”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

He cautiously walked forward. “Lonard, Your Majesty.”

“What realm are you from?”

“Born in Meros, Your Majesty.”

“Why did you join the army, Lonard?”

“I get seasick, Your Majesty. And I hate the smell of fish.” He flashed a sheepish smile. “Doesn’t leave me many options in Meros. Thought I might have better luck as a soldier. Joined right out of school, when I was fourteen.”

My heart cracked. “You were still a child.”

“Not by Descended laws. But aye, I was. They gave me a sword I didn’t know how to use and ordered me to kill my own kind. Told me the bad ones were ruining things for those of us who were innocent.” He frowned. “But I don’t feel very innocent.”

“I’m not sure any of us are,” I agreed. “Even those who did nothing.”

Guilt ripped through me. “Especially those who did nothing.”

“I asked my Commander once why we only went after mortals. He told me the rebels were the biggest threat, and we’d get to the Descended in time.” He looked down at a corpse on the ground, its brown eyes glazed over. “Thirty years I’ve been waiting, and I’m still fighting people who look just like me.”

I thought on his words. I could not make him false promises about who I was and what I planned to do. I was a Descended Crown. And although I despised it, in order to stop Ophiucae, I would very likely have to take mortal lives, too. It left me wondering if he was right—if I was really any different from the Descended who wore these Crowns before me, declaring people bad or good based on whoever I’d decided to protect.

“I’d like you to serve me, Lonard.” I glanced at the insignia on his shoulder—a modest officer, low in power, but the highest rank mortals could realistically achieve. “As a Commander.”

His face went slack. “There’s only been one mortal Commander.”

“I know.” I smiled sadly. “My father.”

Luther’s hand brushed mine, his finger hooking around one of my own.

“Andrei Bellator was no innocent, either,” I admitted, “but he was brave, and he was fair. He did what he thought was right, and he taught me to fight for those who needed saving in whatever way the world would allow. I can see that you’re brave, Lonard, and I think that you can be fair.

Maybe I am just another Descended Crown, but I’m going to try to make it

something good. Will you help me?”

He warily looked me over, hesitating.

“If you prefer,” I went on, “you can retire from the army with full pension. Full Descended pension.”

His eyes grew huge. Descended veterans received ten times the sum of a mortal. Even low-ranked Descended earned more than my father had been given for his history-making career.

“Take the money you’ve earned and go home, if that’s what you want,”

I said. “If you stay, do it because you believe in what you’re doing, not because you have no better choice.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re fighting the rebels?”

“Some of them,” I admitted. “The ones who were just here, doing all of this. But I’m fighting for the rebels, too—the ones who want the injustice to stop.”

Lonard looked around at the fallen bodies and gave a firm nod. “Aye. I got a few fighting years left in me. I’d like to do something good with them, too.”

“Wonderful, Commander,” I answered. His face lit up. I spotted Alixe with a group of mortals near the melted gate. Their clothes were soiled and rumpled, their expressions tired—the newly released prisoners, I guessed. I waved her over. “Lonard, I’d like you to be responsible for all the army soldiers in Lumnos. You’ll report directly to my High General, Alixe Corbois.”

“This is an outrage,” a man bellowed behind me. “I am in charge of the soldiers.”

“Not anymore,” I said, not bothering to look. “The Emarion Army is mine to command.”

“My army will never answer to some self-righteous, Crown-stealing, half-breed b—”

His voice sizzled to silence, joined by the smell of searing flesh and a blissfully familiar thrum of magic in the air.

“Commander Lonard,” Luther said, his voice dark with fury, “one of your men just defied his Queen.” His aura pulsed, followed by a muffled scream. “Remind me, what’s the punishment for an army soldier who disobeys the Fortos Crown?”

Lonard was doing a terrible job of suppressing his satisfaction. “For a Descended, two hundred years of imprisonment.”

“And for a mortal?”

“Death.”

“Her Majesty did say she wanted things to be equal,” Luther rumbled.

My gaze slid and locked with his. There was a coldness to him now, a ruthless severity. This was not our usual playful banter—Luther wanted the Vice General bleeding, suffering, and dead.

Apparently, our time apart had dragged us both into the darkness.

“Your orders, my Queen?” he asked, a cobra ready to strike.

Kill him.

The words waited on my lips, taunting me, inviting me. The exhilaration of knowing I could do it and no one could stop me. The delight of imagining the fear it would inspire in others who might consider

challenging me, too.

Kill him.

Luther wanted it so, so badly. The thought of pleasing my mate and earning his praise brought a rush of sinful delight. His eyes dropped to my lips, nostrils flaring, and desire pulsed between my legs.

What did it say about me, about us, that the prospect of his violence at my command was having this effect?

“So much for equality,” a voice mumbled in the crowd.

I turned to a woman with yellow eyes and a strip of black hair sculpted into spikes down the center of her head. Nearby soldiers jabbed her with their elbows, trying to push her out of sight, but she obstinately held her ground.

“Does your speech only apply to mortals, or do we Descended get a choice, too?” she asked.

The Descended have always had a choice, I started to bite, but thoughts of Eleanor held me back. She was Descended, and she’d never had much say in her own life. Neither had Lily. Even Zalaric’s choices had been dictated by survival.

“Every soldier gets the same options,” I said. “Take your pension and go home, or stay and fight.”

“Doesn’t look like he’s getting much of a choice.”

I followed her stare to the Fortos Vice General. Luther had mutilated him. The man’s severed tongue lay on the grass, and his feet had been burned near to bone, his legs collapsing into a forced kneel. Luther’s icy stare stayed on me, awaiting my condemnation—or my permission.

I sighed heavily. Angrily.

“Release his hands.” Shimmering blue cords unwrapped from the man’s wrists, and I faced him with a scowl. “Put your tongue back in your mouth.”

He gaped at me, aghast.

“Do you want me to heal it or not?”

He quickly fumbled for the appendage and shoved it into his blackened, bloody mouth.

“If you try anything, you’ll lose a body part you care about a lot more than that one, understood?” I snapped.

I laid a palm on the top of his head and let my healing magic fuse the charred flesh of his tongue back together, then pushed the magic to his feet, marveling at the way my godhood wove fresh sinew and skin. I’d assumed Descended magic could only replicate normal healing, but the human body couldn’t do that with all the time and medicine in the world.

He collapsed to the ground, trembling, and stared in shock at his fully healed limbs. I looked away, enraged by the sight of my mercy.

Sometimes I hated my instinct to spare lives. What good had it done? I could be violent and unyielding instead, wield my power with such savagery that no one would defy me ever again. I could destroy anything that stood in my way. The world wanted me to do it. My own mate wanted me to do it. The gods seemed to want it, too.

In my heart, I was a healer.

But healers didn’t win wars.

“Stay or go,” I snarled at him, “I don’t fucking care. But if you stay, you’ll obey me. And him”—I pointed to Lonard—“and her”—then Alixe —“and anyone else I see fit to appoint.”

I raised my voice, looking out at the crowd. “We are at war. If we lose, all of Emarion will pay the price. Every realm. Every person, mortal and Descended. If I have to, I’ll save this world by my gods-damned self, but I

will not do it just to return Emarion to what it was before. I am your Queen, and this is my command: We will live together as equals.”

My voice dropped to a mutter.

“Or we’ll die as them instead.”

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