Page 47 of Embers of Ruin

I force the warmth back down but it refuses. My magic reaches for his darkness with an eagerness I don't understand, winding around his shadows like old friends reunited after years apart. What is wrong with me?

“You call me a monster,” his voice drops again, rough and low, “and in the same breath you look at me like I hung the moon and every star that follows it, and you hate yourself for it. You think I don't see that, too?”

His jaw tightens. “There are things you don’t know about me, Lyra. About what I am. About what you are to me. But you will know this, if nothing else—you belong to me. Fight it for the rest of your life if you want to. It won’t change a single thing.”

He doesn’t wait for me to find anything sharp enough to throw back. He turns, and this time when the door shuts it isn't quiet—the whole room shakes, dust sifting down from the sconce above like the palace itself flinched.

Whatever Thorin thinks he has a claim to—whatever he believes I owe him—is his delusion to bear, not mine. I refuse to be anyone’s possession. Not his. Not anyone’s.

The only problem is…my body and magic aren’t getting the message.

CHAPTER 13

Idon’t sleep. I lie in the dark instead, replaying those four words Thorin said to me on a constant loop.

You belong to me.

Somewhere around the third hour I decide I hate him. Why would I want to belong to a king who hunted me down to keep me hidden in a palace? By the fifth I decide hating him is easier than whatever the alternative feels like, and by the time gray light creeps through the curtains, I've settled on hating him being the only possible option I’ll accept. Because it is. I want to kill him, there’s no way around that. But things are so muddled between us that pushing him out of my mind is the only way to escape thoughts of him.

And Thorin is the reason they are muddled. He had my parents executed; he just doesn’t know that I know this information.

My magic disagrees with my choice. It's spent the whole night humming beneath my skin like a struck bell that refuses to go quiet, no matter how many times I glare at the ceiling and tell it to behave. Betrayed by my own body before breakfast. What an amazing way to start the day.

I'm still deciding whether to be furious or simply exhausted when the knock comes. Not Onyx's knock, but something crisper and more formal. I know that knock. Sighing, I tilt my head back, praying to the gods that she’ll assume I’m dead and leave me alone. I know that won’t happen. I know she’ll barge in, and I’m not in the mood for her brutal honesty today.

Surprisingly, she doesn’t.

“Lady Tarethyn,” Mazelle calls through the door. “Training begins in a quarter hour.”

“Goodbye, Lieutenant Mazelle.” I call out and to my surprise, there’s no retort, nor a snippy remark that would cause my blood to boil.

Approximately twenty minutes later, I open the door, already dressed and ready for Mazelle’s formal assessment.

“Where's His Majesty? Busy scaring people shitless today?” I say sharply as my eyes scan around her, searching for his presence. I know he’s not there, though; I would have felt him if he were.

She cocks an eyebrow, tilting her head to the side. “His Majesty’s business is honestly none of yours, Lady Tarethyn. You should focus on your training.” Her reply is sly, and I know this means she heard about our argument last night. For fucks sake.

I cut my eyes at her and continue walking, ignoring her smart-ass remark. I’ve just about had it and if she says one more thing, one more—I might just turn my magic on her. But then I would be the villain in everyone’s story… so I keep quiet, and continue walking in silence.

“His Majesty is occupied with matters of the crown,” she says, her expression not flickering in the slightest. “I'll be overseeing your training this morning, along with Cadrin and Riven.”

“Won’t that be lovely,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. I’m not thrilled, but I don’t have the energy to argue against it. If Thorin doesn’t want to train me or see me—so be it. I won’t pout about it.

“Yes, today will be quite a treat. I’m thrilled,” Mazelle says flatly, letting me know she’s just as excited about our training session as I am.

The Sacred Gardens look exactly as dead as they did a few days ago, which feels rude considering all the effort I put into trying to bring it back to life. Two new guards, Cadrin and Riven, wait by the gate when we arrive. Cadrin’s bright blond hair catches what little light manages to filter through the gray sky, looking far too pleased with himself for this early in the morning. He bows, deep and theatrical, and tells me he hears I had an eventful evening. I tell him I have no idea what he's talking about. He then proceeds to tell me the whole east wing heard our shouting match and that the servants talk. I decide on the spot that I like him considerably less than all the other guards, and inform him that I would enjoy never having to endure his company again. He seems disappointed that I’m not in a mood to gossip, but that's life. We can’t all get what we want. I know that firsthand.

Riven, on the other hand, says nothing at all, which I prefer. He inclines his head, then takes up a position near the fountain, sword-straight, eyes already sweeping the garden the way Onyx does when he’s on duty. Did. Used to do. Referring to Onyx in the past tense stings more than I expect. Maybe it’s because I don’t know if I’ll be seeing him as much anymore, and the thought leaves an ache in my chest. In an odd way, he’s become a confidant, a source of comfort, and now—now I don’t know what we are.

Mazelle claps her hands once, gaining my attention. “We'll be starting something new today. This tree. Channel your magic, and attempt to bring it back the way you bring everything else back.”

“It’s not that simple, Mazelle. You can’t just bring something back that’s been dead for centuries.” I explain, but she holds up a hand.

“For your sake, you had better hope it is. You have one job, and I expect for you to complete it.”

I want to argue with that but I don’t have the energy to so I settle for glaring at her instead, which she absorbs with the same unmoved patience she absorbs everything with. She walks toward the blackened trunk, examining it. It’s huge, and I don’t know if I can bring something this large back to life, but I’ll try. This tree has been gone for hundreds of years. What she’s asking for is practically impossible. But I’ll try.

Without Thorin, the garden feels different—if anything, quieter. The silence presses in from every direction, making me miss his rude insistence that I try, or his unwavering belief that I can bring life back to his garden. I press my palms to the bark and reach for the source of the rot that lingers in the soil, attempting to call the tree back to life.