Burn of the Everflame — Chapter 72

72

AEMONN

y fucking brother.M Ever since he came into my life, he’d done nothing but get me in trouble. The day Taran was born, I snuck into the birthing room. With my mother too taken by labor to dote on Father, he’d grown especially short- tempered, and it was the only place in the palace I knew I’d be safe. I hid behind a curtain, and I prayed to the Blessed Mother to make the baby a boy—a brother who was strong enough to protect me from a father who loved to make me bleed.

When Taran shot into the world, big as a boulder and screaming like a fox, I thought my prayers had been answered. “That one,” I’d shouted, too excited to stay hidden. “Lumnos gave us that one. He my brother. He save us!” In my toothy childhood lisp, “that one” had come out sounding like “Taran,” so that’s what Mother named him.

She told that story often. Everyone who heard it cooed and ahhed. They called it adorable. What a close bond they must have, they always said.

She left out the part where I got twenty lashes when Father found out where I’d gone.

You’d think I would have learned then that my brother was more curse than reward. When Taran misbehaved, he got a fist to the ribs—I got two because I should have stopped him. When I misbehaved, I got a blow across the ears, then a second for setting a bad example for him. Taran wasn’t the end of my misfortune. He was the reason for it becoming even worse.

As I stood in the center of a battlefield, surrounded by even more violence, I was struck by how little had changed.

I ducked to miss an axe that came swinging at my head, then threw up a shield to deflect a sword thrusting from my left. The mortal assigned to protect me had taken a blade to the gut about twenty seconds into the fight,

leaving me to fend for myself.

“What am I doing here?” I grumbled.

“Fighting for your Queen,” Taran yelled.

As if being trapped in a dirty melee with a bunch of mortals wasn’t humiliating enough, I had to do it next to him. His assigned mortal stared with dumbstruck awe as Taran cast his magic with one hand while effortlessly slicing through enemy troops with the other.

I wrinkled my nose as the entrails of his victim spilled onto my shoe. “I like Diem, but I don’t like her this much.”

Taran barked a laugh. “Fine then. You’re doing it for me.” His bright- white grin against his blood-spattered face made him look maniacal. “You owe me for trying to ruin my mating ceremony.”

“You owe me for that,” I said, scowling.

Though I’d volunteered to join Diem’s army at the council meeting, I’d never intended to actually follow through. I was a man of many, many talents, but physical combat wasn’t one of them, and my magic was too weak to be of any real use. I’d only waded into the gathered troops this morning to bring Diem some weapons my father had stolen, hoping the offering would make up for going back on my word. When Taran saw me and assumed I’d shown up to fight, he looked at me with respect for the first time in our adult lives.

That was the moment I realized I was utterly fucked.

I grunted as an empty-eyed Arboros Descended slammed into my shield, knocking me into a clump of mortals standing behind me. “Did you have to volunteer us for the very front?” I snapped at Taran as I shoved them off.

“Who better to lead us than a High General?” he teased, poking the regalia on my chest. Before leaving Lumnos, I’d hastily thrown on the uniform from my brief stint as the head of the Royal Guard. I’d realized too late it had been purely ceremonial. It had no protective armor, and the stiff wool felt like a prison under the sweltering sun.

Someone stumbled into me from the right—a terrified woman I recognized from House Benette. She clutched onto my arm. “Help me,” she pleaded.

“Where’s your mortal?” I asked her.

“I don’t know. We got separated.” Tears swam in her eyes. “I don’t want to die.”

I glanced at the mortal assigned to protect Taran—as if anyone could possibly keep that moron out of trouble. “You, come here. Guard this woman instead.”

The man took one look at my high-ranking insignia and put up no argument. He ran to the woman and stood in front of her, lifting his sword.

“Stay behind him,” I told her as I pried her fingers off my arm and backed away. “Focus your magic on the shield. You’ll be fine.”

“Nice,” Taran said, looking more amused than impressed. “You might be High General material, after all.”

I shot him a withering look. “If I was in charge, none of us would be here. Isn’t that why we have the Emarion Army—” I barely lunged in time to avoid an elderly Faunosian swinging a hunting knife. Taran stepped in to put a sword through his neck, and I grimaced. “—so people like us don’t have to do things like this?”

Taran’s grin vanished. “People like us?” he repeated. He shook his head, mumbling under his breath. “Still taking after Father, I see.”

Immediately, decades of animosity snapped right back into place. I felt like a fool for coming all the way here to earn his respect when he was so quick to assume the worst of me.

Your brother doesn’t love you. If someone put you in a grave, he’d pour them a beer.

The words played in my head, but the voice that spoke them was my father’s. Every time he’d caught me lying to cover up Taran’s misbehavior or paying off someone Taran had upset, Father never failed to remind me that I was protecting a brother who thought I was lower than mud on his boot.

And Taran had never done a thing to prove him wrong.

My teeth ground together as I turned my back and stormed toward the forest. I was stupid to come here. The only thing fighting at Taran’s side would earn me was an early death.

A hand gripped the fabric on the back of my coat. “Wait,” Taran said.

His shield glimmered into a dome around us as he scowled guiltily at the ground. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

My fucking brother.

Nothing had changed at all.

He was still the impulsive brat he’d been as a child, unable to stop himself from acting out, even when he knew it would bring down hell on both our heads. And I was still the bitter older brother, resentful of everything he brought to my life, but unable to accept one without him in it.

“I wasn’t just talking about Descended,” I shot back. “The mortal assigned to me was a baker, Taran. He didn’t belong here, either. The Emarion Army should be fighting this war.”

“They are,” he said. “But that glowing prick is too powerful. Queenie needs all of us to stop him. Besides . . .” The corners of his lips slid upward.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m having fun.”

His shield misted away, and he let out a loud whoop as he took out two more people with a single arc of his sword.

I started to call out a warning to Zalaric that he’d bonded his heart to a lunatic, but the expression on Taran’s new mate kept me quiet. His hands were raised, magic firing in luminous strands into the shield above us, but his eyes were on the bodies at his feet. His lips were bloodless and pressed

into a hard line.

“Aemonn, watch out!”

Taran crashed into me, and my back hit the ground. All ten thousand pounds of his muscle came down on my ribs.

“Get off me, you overgrown cow,” I wheezed.

“Then pay attention, you puny rat. You almost took an arrow. This is no place to get distracted.”

I coughed for air, trying and failing to push him off. “Tell that to your mate.”

Taran’s head snapped up. “Zal? You alright?” When his mate didn’t answer, he frowned. “Fuck. I think he recognizes someone from Umbros.”

He shoved his sword into my hand. “Stay away from anything sparkly and black.”

He ran off, and I raised a shield as I dragged myself to my feet and looked around. Zalaric wasn’t the only one seeing familiar faces.

Everywhere I turned, I spotted Descended I knew from court. Weeks ago, we’d gossiped about trivial House drama over bottles of expensive wine while lounging on armchairs in embroidered robes. Now, we were all staggering like kittens who’d lost their mother, unsure what to do or where

to go. The proud elite of Lumnos had revealed themselves to be an embarrassing, useless mess.

I gripped Taran’s sword and raised it to my chest, then took a tentative step toward the fighting. Don’t be delusional, boy, my father’s voice chided in my head. You can’t kill anyone. You couldn’t even fight me.

I’d heard those words often, too. Every time I asked to train in weapons or combat, my father forbid it. He wouldn’t even allow me a tutor for magical attacks, deeming my godhood too insignificant to be worth the effort.

Sometimes I wondered whether he really thought I was too weak, or if he worried that, once I learned to kill, I’d use it on him.

An enemy soldier hobbled toward me, if you could even call him a soldier. He looked more like a courtesan, with his chest bare and gauzy fabric draped around his hips. He was a mortal—from Umbros, I guessed.

He had no weapon, and blood oozed from his thigh where he’d already taken a blow.

I raised Taran’s sword, and I sneered. My father was wrong. I wasn’t

weak. I could fight, and I could kill.

I already had.

As I stared into the man’s vacant brown eyes, a different mortal flashed into my vision—a little boy lying on the street in a pile of broken wood.

It happened months ago, in Lumnos City. I hadn’t believed the boy at first. Every Descended had been warned that mortals often feigned wounds, then demanded to be paid, and that day had the markings of a similar ruse.

The boy had stepped right into my horse’s path, with another mortal standing feet away to serve as witness. It seemed obvious that it was all a nefarious plot.

But the mortal with him never asked for money.

And the boy never moved. Never even blinked.

Something scraped across my cheek, yanking me back to the battle. In my distraction, my shield had dropped, and the mortal was clawing at my face. His nails couldn’t break my skin, but Blessed Kindred, it fucking hurt.

Taran’s sword slipped and fell as I shoved the man away. I reached down to grab it, and the mortal dove for me again and knocked me to the ground. He clamped his hands around my neck and squeezed with surprising strength.

Light magic sparkled at my palms, but went no further. I’d only ever used my magic for party tricks and threats. If I tried to use it to attack and failed, it would prove my father right that I was weak. What if that meant every cruel thing he ever said was right?

Suddenly, the mortal let out a piercing scream as glowing lines webbed across his skin. He began to convulse, and the smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Seconds later, he exploded into a blue-red mist of light and blood.

I gasped for air, my vision blurred with crimson. Had I done it? Had I finally proved my father wrong?

Nearby, someone snickered. “My sister told me you were going to get yourself killed.”

A hand closed around my wrist and pulled me to my feet. I wiped my face with my sleeve until my vision cleared enough to see Jean Hanoverre standing beside me.

“Iléana saw you,” he said. “She told me to come save you before that skinny little mortal took you out.” He looked me over, not bothering to hide his contempt. “Blessed fucking Kindred, Aemonn, can you not even shield?”

I glanced at the ground. The only thing left of the man who’d attacked me was a few charred bone shards scattered over the soil. Jean gave a casual flip of his hand, and five more people around us shrieked, seized, and met the same fate.

My heart sank. My magic hadn’t saved me, Jean had.

I threw on a sneer to cover up my shame. “I’m surprised Marthe let you and Iléana fight for Diem.”

He snorted. “You think I’m here for that half-breed cunt?”

I surprised myself at how strongly I bristled. Though Diem and I were on uncertain terms, after seeing her humiliate my father so many times, I’d grown quite fond of her. And apparently, a little protective.

“Iléana said we had to join the other Houses, or we’d look like cowards,” Jean said. He flicked his wrist, and three more people screamed and died. “Grandmother agreed to send a few useless Hanoverres we can afford to lose.”

“Then why are you here?” I asked. Jean’s strong magic—equal to Luther’s, he claimed, though he conveniently avoided any chance to prove it—was House Hanoverre’s crown jewel. It was no secret that Marthe was

grooming him to succeed her as Head of House. It was hard to believe she’d risk losing him in a war.

Jean gave a sly smile. “I convinced Grandmother we could use the battle to our benefit.” He pointed across the fighting to a woman casting waves of magic into the shield above our heads. “You know her?”

I nodded, recognizing her as Clia Amraut, another future Head of House for one of Lumnos’s most powerful families.

“Her father’s been causing Grandmother trouble for decades.” Jean held out his palm toward her, and black thorny vines writhed across the field.

Though Clia had a thick shield around her, Jean’s magic easily burrowed through it and wound around her legs, then her waist, then her chest. Clia’s eyes bulged as the tendrils tightened like a fist.

I quickly looked away. Jean gave a dark, triumphant laugh. “Looks like House Amraut will be too busy mourning their heir to get in Grandmother’s

way for a while.”

“Clia was on our side, Jean,” I said.

“No one crosses my family and survives.” He gave me a long stare.

“You know, your House is falling apart, and now that Luther’s ruined himself by mating that mutt, Iléana’s prospects are open. If you beg, Grandmother might take pity on you and let you marry my sister.” He threw an arm around my shoulder. “You’d fit right in at House Hanoverre.”

With a flippant swish of his hand, more deadly magic flew. Bodies fell around us, enemies and allies, and Jean watched them die with equal indifference. He didn’t cast a single spark into Ophiucae’s shield.

“I’m not really the begging type,” I said archly, shoving off his arm.

He shrugged. “You might change your mind when I find Luther. Once he’s dead, the reign of House Corbois is over.” He squinted in search across the battlefield, then stopped on a point behind me. His smile stretched to his ears. “I knew that blood sun was a good omen.”

A mind-wiped Descended staggered toward me. Jean raised a hand to kill them, then paused. “Since you’re so uninterested in a Hanoverre alliance, I’ll let you handle this one yourself.”

“We’re at war, Jean. Settle your scores after we win.”

“When the Kindred offer you a blessing, you don’t wait to take it.” He walked past me, clipping me with his shoulder. “Blessed battle, Aemonn.

Maybe a Corbois will show up to save you.”

I stumbled back, nearly colliding with the approaching Descended, and swore when I saw her face: the green-eyed, blond-haired ex-Queen of Arboros. I raised my shield and scrambled away, but my pathetic magic wouldn’t last long against a former Crown.

“Come back,” I shouted at Jean.

He ignored me, already striding toward his target—and it wasn’t Luther.

His eyes were on Zalaric, who looked dazed as my brother stood close and stroked his face. Taran’s shield held back a mass of enemy soldiers that had gathered around them in a frenzied ring.

My panic turned to something worse. “Leave him alone, Jean,” I yelled.

“Don’t worry,” he called out. “Your brother isn’t my concern.”

The Arboros woman stretched her arms toward me. I flung out a desperate burst of magic, the strongest I could make it. It shot toward her in a sizzling orb, then dissolved into her shield.

I dove for Taran’s fallen sword. Roots broke through the rocky soil to coil around my wrists and trap them to the ground. My light magic burned

them away, but they quickly regrew.

“Jean!” I screamed.

“Are you ready to beg yet?” he jeered. His shadows filled the air, but they didn’t come for me. They pummeled the soldiers in front of him, clearing a path to my brother and his mate.

Taran’s magic was strong, but Jean’s was stronger. With Zalaric’s help, their shield might be enough, but my shouts of warning went unheard in the

clamor.

Shit.

I had nothing. No strength to break free. No magic to shield the brother I’d spent a lifetime suffering to protect. No way to save the mate I’d sacrificed so much for him to find. I was seconds from death myself, with no help in sight.

But I’d always had nothing. I’d lived through beatings and mockery since I was a toddler, and my title had put a target on my head since birth.

My life had been at risk a thousand times, and no one had ever saved me.

What threats I’d faced, I’d survived on my own.

I was Aemonn Corbois, Prince of Lumnos.

And I didn’t fucking beg.

The Arboros woman stood over me, fingers dancing as more roots roped around my neck. A gurgling sound rose from my throat, and my vision

blurred.

When my father forbid me from learning to fight, I’d focused on the only other thing that would save me: illusions. I could only manage small, subtle things, like blending into walls and rugs. It wasn’t much, but it helped me hide when Father was at his worst.

Time to save ourselves again, I told my godhood.

Fight, it answered back.

I turned my head to see the blood-soaked flatlands, and I studied every crackle and rift. I thought of the artisans who’d made Lumnos a haven for beauty and art, and I prayed that some piece of their blood flowed through mine as I wove my meager magic into a tapestry of grey, empty rock.

The woman blinked. Her foggy eyes roamed, looking as if she was searching for something but couldn’t remember what she’d lost.

She blinked again. A wounded mortal staggered by, and her gaze jerked up. Her shoulders gave a stiff turn, and she lurched away to chase them.

I would have cheered for joy, if I could breathe. Her roots were receding back into the soil—and trying to take me with them, crushing my arms and neck against the stone.

The sounds of battle faded beneath a ripple of cracks that could have been either rocks or bones. My eyes began to close. My thoughts turned fleeting and frail. A distant, ancient voice seemed to whisper, calling me home. The only sensation that remained was a heat in my chest, my lungs

burning for air they couldn’t find.

Burning.

Burning.

“Burn,” I mouthed.

Burn, my godhood answered.

The darkness exploded with pale blue light as warmth flushed across my skin. My wrists broke free, and I clutched at my throat as air flooded my lungs. I rolled to my side and drank it in long, rasping gulps. In my wobbling vision, I saw my wrists coated in ash and the glint of a sword

laying several feet away.

Taran.

I dragged myself across the ground and closed my hand around it.

Somehow, I made it to my feet, though I was struggling not to collapse. My last burst of magic had drained my godhood dry, so I had no shield to raise.

But Taran was out there.

My fucking brother was out there.

And if Jean got to Zalaric, Taran would either die trying to save him, or he’d die trying to avenge him.

So I staggered through the killing field, violence swarming in blurs, and I made a promise to the Blessed Mother that if she’d lead me to Jean, I’d forgive her for never answering my prayers all those years ago.

I stumbled into someone, and I froze, bracing for a blow. For a moment, I was back in Father’s office, cowering in wait for his fist to strike.

“You survived,” Jean said. “I’m impressed.”

He didn’t look impressed. He looked annoyed.

I tried to speak, but my throat was still too raw. A hoarse “Taran” was all I got out.

Jean rolled his eyes. “Your drunkard brother is your problem. I’m here to clean a half-breed stain off my House.” He turned and raised his arms, shadows at his palms. “Then I’ll find Luther and do the same for yours.”

“Taran,” I croaked again, louder. I forced my voice to a shout. “Taran!”

Finally, my brother looked my way. He took me in, then Jean, and I saw it in his face—the assumption he’d already made that whatever evil thing Jean was about to do, I’d played a part to make it happen.

And maybe, in a way, I had.

Jean’s aura trembled as his magic gathered in a single, lethal strike.

Taran tore his hands away from Zalaric, rushing to strengthen his shield, but the terror on his face said what all three of us knew—he wasn’t strong enough to spare his mate.

“Jean?” I said. “You forgot something important.”

“What?” he snapped.

His eyes cut back to me, then grew wide as they dropped to the sword I buried in his side.

I leaned in close. “No one crosses my family and survives.”

I’d always known that if I ever had to fight for my life, I’d be lucky to land a single blow. So I’d used my weak, pathetic magic to hide against the walls while Taran trained, and I’d memorized all the places his tutor said you could kill a man with just one strike.

And one of them happened to be right between the plates of Jean Hanoverre’s armor.

He stumbled back, but not before unleashing his deadly whorl of magic.

Not at Zalaric—at me.

Suddenly, it dawned on me that the Blessed Mother had answered me, after all. Because of Taran, I’d learned that I could endure all manner of pain. I’d learned that I could be cunning, and I’d learned to use it to protect the people I loved. I’d learned that I could do the right thing, the good and honorable thing, even when everyone looked at me and expected the worst.

As Jean’s magic engulfed me and my brother’s screams faded with the light, I smiled at the irony. I’d been the one to save Taran, in the end.

I wished he knew he’d saved me, too.

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