Page 9 of She Who Holds My Wrath

A tear hits the back of my hand. I blink hard, trying to push them back, but more follow. I thankfully haven’t bothered with makeup, otherwise that would be smudged all the way down my cheeks now. I guess it would just add more mess to the outside to match the disaster warring inside. I haven’t even tried to untangle my hair properly. It’s scraped into a messy bun at the top of my head, and I honestly don’t care. I feel like I should be stronger. I should be confidently stepping into the role they all keep pushing me in to. Queen. Avenger. Destroyer of gods. Instead, with each hour that passes, I feel weaker. Smaller. Like the world is swallowing me whole and spitting out my bones. I don’t feel like an almighty queen, fit to take over the throne of Hell. I feel like Daisy Sandoval. The same girl who tried to kill herself in her shower all those months ago.

I reach for my coffee again, but my hand hesitates. The ruby ring catches the light—Korithax’s mother’s ring, the one with the twin serpent heads biting the stone. His mark on me. His promise. A raw, feral noise claws out of my throat as the sadness combusts into something darker. Pure, unadulterated rage courses through me. I hurl the cup across the room, coffee splattering across the obsidian stone walls as the porcelain shatters into a thousand tiny pieces.

“FUCK.” My scream rips through the chamber, echoing off the high ceilings. The doors burst open and one of the two guards’ rushes in, sword held tightly in his hands. His eyes are wide, scanning for threats.

“Your Highness⁠—?”

“GET OUT!” My voice breaks. He hesitates, his eyes raking over me to ensure I’m not hurt. “I said, GET OUT.”

Heat surges through me, raw and unchecked. My hands blaze with pale fire, and before I can pull it back, it whips towards the guard in a blazing inferno. He stumbles, raising his arms to brace for the impact. But the fire never hits. Instead, shadows rise from the floor like smoke turned solid, curling protectively around the trembling guard. My magic meets the darkness with a hiss, swallowed whole. I stumble back, my heart hammering behind my ribs. My own flame just tried to hurt an innocent man doing his job. And I had absolutely no control over it happening. Again.

The shadows dissipate slowly, leaving only a man leaning lazily in the doorway, hands in his deep-purple trouser pockets, with a grin plastered on his face like sin itself.

“I see the rage muffin is in full swing this morning,” Maelkar purrs. “Good morning, my little hellflower.”

My face flushes. “I—oh my gods, I’m so sorry, Corin,” I stammer to the guard now staring at me from behind Maelkar, his once deep blue skin now looking more like a pale blue, with a sheen of sweat across his brow.

“It’s okay, Your Highness,” he mutters, eyes averted. He bows once before he slips back outside to his partner as quickly as he can.

Maelkar tilts his head. “Wanna tell me what that was all about, queenie?”

“Don’t call me that,” I snap. My hands are trembling, but thankfully the flames have once again died out. “I’m just frustrated. I’m supposed to be getting stronger. I’m supposed to be handling this. But every time I think I can, the sadness, the anger, the rage—it all comes back and crushes me. I feel like I’m falling apart. Like I’m getting weaker, not stronger.”

He steps fully into the room, his presence somehow filling it as the door clicks shut behind him. “Daisy, it has been just more than a week since it happened. Give yourself some fucking grace. You may not be mortal anymore, but you still have a beating heart. Your husband and your best friend were murdered, right in front of you. Of course you’re not okay.”

I swallow the growing lump in my throat, not able to stop my lips from trembling. “But⁠—"

“No buts.” His voice is firm, slicing through my self-loathing like a blade. “Shut up and listen to me. You are allowed to not be okay. The only thing you’re not allowed to do is wallow and rot. So, hurry up and get ready. We have training to do.”

I glance down at myself and gesture to the dress with a frown. “I am ready…”

He looks me over and actually scoffs. “You cannot train in a dress, Daisy.”

With a lazy flick of his hands, shadows plume over my bed, and when they dissipate, a set of fitted black leather pants and a plain black long-sleeved top appear atop it.

“Get dressed in that. I’ll meet you in the training ring. And try not to roast anyone else alive whilst I’m gone.”

Without letting me respond, he vanishes into the hall, leaving me standing in silence. I stare at the doorway for a moment after Maelkar disappears, my pulse still thundering from the outburst. I blink at the now empty space, forcing my breathing to calm before finally padding over to the bed to grab the Shadowtongue’s gift. The leathers are smooth and cool to the touch, the fabric shifting under my fingertips like water over stone. I shuffle into the dressing room with the clothes in hand.

The black leather pants are stiff at first but hug my legs securely, and the long-sleeved shirt feels lighter than it looks, its texture strange against my skin. It feels like silk, but like it could endure a bullet. A pair of thick socks sit neatly on a shelf, and beside them, sturdy black boots that look built for fighting. I tug the socks on, then lace the boots up tightly, finishing mid-shin. Standing in front of the tall mirror, I tilt my head, taking in the girl staring back at me. My messy bun looks wrong, like it belongs to the broken Daisy who can’t get out of bed. Despite feeling that way, I can’t let my kingdom see me like that. I pull the elastic free, letting my golden hair tumble over my shoulders in a tangle of knots streaked with silver-white strands. I drag a brush through it just enough to tame it, and weave it into a single plait, letting it fall down the centre of my back. Practical.

I turn, about ready to leave, but my gaze catches on something glinting on the table beside the mirror. The dagger. The one Korithax gave me. The lump that never seems to leave my throat swells as I pick it up, running my thumb over the hilt. Memories flash through my head of him above me, my dagger dragging down his body, his sinful moans as blood bloomed across his skin. The images cause the soulmate bond to tug painfully, and I blink back the tears that threaten to fall. Taking a shaky inhale of breath, I strap the sheath to my thigh, letting the blade sit proudly in view. A deadly piece of him, carried with me into whatever hell today brings.

When I finally step into the hallway, my guards straighten immediately. Corin leads—his deep blue skin still a touch pale—and another guard falls behind me. It’s the first time I’ve left my rooms since… since everything. My chest feels tight, like the air here carries all the whispers I missed. The castle staff scurry through the corridors, and every single one of them glances at me with mixed emotions. They bow, but their faces are a mixture of pity and fear, their eyes slipping away as quickly as they land on me.

“I guess word got out that I’m a little unhinged at the minute,” I mutter to Corin.

He doesn’t answer, just gives me a tight-lipped smile that says everything without words: yeah, they know you’re a fucking psycho. Great. So not only is their king dead, but they also think their queen is a grieving lunatic who screams and bursts into flames. Fan-fricken-tastic. I bet the people of Zeriavoss feel sooooooo safe right now.

I follow the guards in silence, offering small awkward smiles to passing servants to show I’m not a threat. I don’t know if it’s convincing, considering I’m walking around in fitted fighting leathers with a dagger on my thigh, but I’m trying.

I can’t help but notice that every part of the coronation has been erased from the castle. The celebratory banners and decor have long since been removed, replaced by mourning flags of Korithax’s sigil. I lower my eyes to the ground, unable to handle the pain of seeing them any longer. I don’t want that constant reminder that my husband is dead. I don’t need to see mourning flags. I hate it, actually. But what do I say? “Take those horrible things down!” No, of course I can’t say that. They have every right to mourn the king they loved, even if it pains me to see it.

The corridors soon open up to an outdoor walkway, the crisp air brushing over my face as we emerge into the training grounds. I pause for a moment, taking it in. The arena is nothing like I expected. No grand stadium, no polished floor or gilded platforms. Instead, it’s a wide expanse of sandy gravel, the ground scuffed with marks of previous sparring. Wooden weapon racks line one side, heavy with swords, axes, bows and spears. A few straw dummies and arrow-riddled targets are scattered across the area, and white rings are painted onto the ground, simple circles for sparring bouts. It’s raw and practical, a place built for war, not pageantry. And it’s empty. Completely empty, save for the man leaning lazily against a tree at the edge of one of the rings.

“There’s my little rage muffin,” Maelkar calls, his grin sharp. “Ready to get sweaty?”

I roll my eyes, ignoring the wink he throws my way as he saunters forward. He’s out of his usual deep-purple silks, and is instead dressed like me: black leather pants and a fitted long-sleeve shirt. But where mine is mostly plain, his shimmers with something that looks like scales. On him, the training gear looks like sin given form. It clings to his muscular frame so seamlessly it’s almost difficult to tell where the clothing ends, and his deep-midnight skin begins.