Page 113 of Burn of the Everflame

A request. A demand. A desperate disciple’s prayer.

“Nothing has to happen,” I said. “Just let me stay here and hold you until you fall asleep.”

The war played out on the battlefield of her face: the cavalry of her stubborn resolve clashing with lonely arrows, all while bleeding from the explosive artillery of desire. There was not a second where I could tell which side was winning, only that casualties were mounting all around.

Her eyes fell guiltily away, her mouth closed tight.

The darker, possessive side of me gripped tighter to its sword, unwilling to accept defeat. It would be so easy, such a gods-damned relief, to hammer through her walls uninvited and force her to relent.

I would win, if I did. Perhaps not on a day when she was her fiery, strong-willed self, but the woman before me was down to the last weary soldier of her will to fight.

But I had sworn to go to war for her. Not against her.

So I took her hand, and I curled her fingers around the pendant I’d just clasped at her neck. My godhood called out to the spark of magic I’d infused in the phoenix’s ruby heart with an order to keep her warm. I had no idea if it would work, but when her eyelids heavied and her muscles relaxed, my spirit eased.

Against all my instincts, I finally rose to leave. The flap was almost closed behind me when I heard her speak again.

“Luther?”

I dipped my head inside, vibrating with hope. “Yes, my heart?”

Silence.

For so long, only silence.

“Thank you.”

They weren’t the words I’d hoped for.

But it was enough.

I raised my hand, and a burst of magic scattered over the canvas roof in a field of blue pinpricks that resembled the twinkling midnight sky—and in the corner, courtesy of my illusions, a crescent moon.

“Sleep well,” I said. “Better days will come, I promise.”

I prayed it was a promise I could keep.

28

DIEM

“Eleanor . . . are you absolutely certain?”

My doubt was fighting hard to break through the mask of calm composure I’d been wearing since dawn. With the governing council meeting for the first time, I couldn’t afford to show any hint of weakness. I was the only one who knew that no new Crown would succeed me. If I didn’t persuade the people of Emarion to get along, my death might save the Descended from Ophiucae, but it would spare no one from the deadly fight for power that would follow.

Given that, I’d been relieved when Eleanor suggested I let her and Zalaric choose something for me to wear. I knew their clever minds would find the perfect way to emphasize the importance of the occasion.

I just hadn’t been expecting this.

“Yes, we’re certain,” Zalaric said, coming to stand beside me as I studied myself in the mirror. “It’s dramatic enough that the Descended will take note, but simple enough that the mortals will remember where you came from.”

It was indeed dramatic. Though the fabrics were modest, that was where restraint had stopped. Over a pair of skintight leather pants the color of aged brandy, a stiff wool overskirt in midnight blue-black exploded from my hips into a massive train. A scrap of filmy white linen draped around my neck and over my breasts, leaving me bare all the way to my navel, held in place by intricate leather straps inspired by the Ignios fist. A trio of chains held two plates of armor on my shoulders, each made of brass cut into gryvern-like scales.

I felt uncomfortably exposed—especially when it came to the mating mark, whose glow threatened to betray me through the gauzy fabric—but I also felt strong. With this on my body, I no longer felt the need to hide it, or myself, away.

“It’s perfect,” Eleanor gushed. “You look like a warrior Queen.”

“A Queen about to give up her power,” I said dryly.