Page 231 of Burn of the Everflame

I looked out at the new arrivals, still standing at attention at the city’s edge. “Then where did they come from?”

“Stragglers. Travelers on the Ring Road and stubborn folk who had refused to leave their homes. A few port arrivals with unlucky timing.”

I walked to the cell bars and clutched them. “If their minds are already gone, then let them die. I am begging you, leave the Descended of this world alone.”

He held my gaze, two pairs of dark grey storms swirling in a tempest of challenge, doubt, and tentative rapport. His mental talons dragged their claws along the walls of my mind, parchment-thin without my magic to shield them, but he didn’t pierce through. He was searching for something in me, just as surely as I was searching for something in him.

“Why do you fight so hard to save them?” he asked. “Not just the Descended. The mortals here. Vance. Even me.”

I swallowed hard. “So you are reading my thoughts.”

“I don’t have to. Your thoughts are written in your deeds.” His head gave a curious tilt. “What is it about me you wish to change?”

Not long ago, that answer would have been easy: Everything. His hatred, his vengeance, his coldness, his demand for submission. I’d judged him for all of it. Now . . . too much of how he felt and what he did was starting to make an uncomfortable amount of sense.

A fluttering sound echoed from the city, but before either of us could turn to investigate, Doriel let out a loud moan. Their body began to seize, a greenish liquid foaming at their lips.

Ophiucae chuckled. “I guess a sleeping draught wasn’t the only thing in that ale. I bet Doriel wishes they’d studied mortal poisons now.”

He sounded amused—he also did not sound the least bit surprised.

In the city, the sleeping men shuddered and writhed as the sounds of choking filled the air. I rolled Doriel on their side, then felt for their pulse—sluggish and slowing.

“If the poison is strong enough to hurt Doriel, your men won’t survive it, either,” I said. “You’ll have to use your Fortos magic to heal them.”

“Why should I? Vance and his men are ungrateful for my aid.” He gestured to Doriel. “I spared their life, and they call me a killer.” Ophiucae shrugged. “Perhaps the people of Emarion should see what happens without me to save them.”

I looked out at the convulsing men littering the streets, and a dark, discomfiting thought rose in my mind.

Vance’s men had killed thousands. They had no intention of stopping until every Descended—and every mortal who opposed them—was dead. Though I sympathized with the anger that had led them to this point, the world they sought to create was even more unjust than the one they wished to leave behind.

It had felt so damn good to deny the Ignios King my blood and let him die. Perhaps it would feel just as righteous to let the men who murdered my father reap the consequences of their own violence, doomed by the poisoned ale they’d enslaved Merosians to get.

Ophiucae watched me closely. Though I felt no presence of him in my mind, he looked as if he could read my every thought. “The world would be safer without them,” he said. “After all they’ve done, it’s what they deserve.”

A year ago, I would have said no one deserved this. In the months since, I’d endured every possible insult. I’d held my head high as every bastard in Emarion tried to tear me down. I’d fought and fought and fought and fucking fought, not for my salvation, but for theirs. My mercy was mocked and picked apart, my impassioned calls for kindness went ignored. The only thing my virtue seemed to earn me was a mountain of corpses, the world’s criticism, and a curse that demanded my death to fulfill.

Maybe Ophiucae’s heart wasn’t the one that really needed changing.

I looked up at my sire, and I understood him in a way that terrified me. A way that offered to break my chains and set me free.

The hard angles of his stare softened. “You have nine Crowns. I have the tenth. Together, you and I could do incredible things.” It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested it, but it was the first time he’d said it like that. Like it was something he wanted—badly. Like it was something he might sacrifice his plans to get. “We could rid this world of its evil and remake it into whatever we wish it to be. No more fighting or wars. No illnesses, no death. With the heartstone’s power, even the mortals could live forever. Isn’t that what you want?”

Gods, I did. Never having to say goodbye to my family again. Teller could be with Lily, and Luther and I could complete the mating bond. The rest of the mortals could have the peace they always deserved. He’d even offered to spare the Descended, if I asked it.

I’d sworn to keep searching for a way to stop his violence that wouldn’t leave me dead. Ophiucae was offering me that and more. A perfect solution. Everything I’d ever hoped for.

Still, something deep in my heart gave me pause.

At my feet, Doriel stopped moving. A rattling noise rose from lips that had turned a ghastly shade of blue. I sighed and gathered them in my arms, then dragged them to the bars.

“Heal them,” I said. “All of them.”

The warmth faded from Ophiucae’s face. “Again, you spurn me.” He sneered and began to withdraw. I quickly reached through the bars to grab his hand.

“Please, Father.”

Before today, I’d used that word in earnest for one man only. Though I knew Andrei wouldn’t mind—Use whatever weapon you have, he’d say. Guilt is only for survivors.—a million conflicting emotions tied in knots around my heart.