Page 190 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

It grated on him even more after realizing how deeply his uncle was manipulating everything on Lyra yet kept that wealth for himself.

“Hello, Roremar,” Aldryn said, voice cool.

Tarli Richmond, the Head of the Accords, and Brean Witz, the Head of the Trade House both stood beside the desk. And in one of the matching armchairs before the window, sitting beside a marble chess set, was⁠—

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Roremar ground out when he met the beady eyes of the Snake Charmer.

The man grinned, predatory and gleeful as he shuffled a pawn around the board. “I’m here for the show.” He waved a hand, one finger still deformed from where Roremar had broken them all. The bruising on his face had cleared up—unfortunately.

Roremar’s chains clanged as he lunged, the short length between his wrists pulling tight when he stretched out for the disgusting man who had allowed Emmeline to be abused all those years. Darcy caught his arms, wrestling him back.

“Don’t be stupid,” he whispered in Roremar’s ear.

“Nothing to lose.” He didn’t give a Fate’s damn what any of them considered smart. He was a man meant to die. He may as well avenge her as he went.

“Roremar.” His uncle’s serious voice sobered him, a habit after all these years of being beneath his thumb.

Roremar tossed his disheveled waves off his forehead, assessing the room more clearly. There were two other Starsearchers present. Both high ranking based on their formal leathers and cloaks but not from Lyra as far as he knew.

“Who are you?” He had no need for pleasantries anymore.

“These are the heads of two of the other constellation isles,” Falliare began. “The War Master of Alvan, Enya Yorren.” The woman with dark brown hair cropped above her shoulders and a sharp stare nodded at him. Aldryn gestured to the man beside her who towered over everyone else in the room, with eyes as wide as an owl that didn’t seem to miss a beat. “And the Lead Cartographer of Byron, Maeson Trellis.”

Byron and Alvan?

That was the telescope sigil on his pin, though. And the woman’s bore the starfire phoenix. Roremar’s brow creased as he met his uncle’s eyes, trying to figure out what his goal was here.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Aldryn said. But he offered no more information.

Didn’t matter anyway. Part of him didn’t want his uncle here at all. At least it was only Falliare and not the rest of his family. He couldn’t face them after what he’d done. Couldn’t hear his little sisters’ sobs as his fate was declared or watch Leo try to fight the trembling lip he’d always gotten when he was upset no matter how old he got.

Roremar had to protect them.

“To be honest, I don’t quite know why we’re here either,” Enya Yorren said. “Though I’ve been enlightened about the case by a few different people and was more than willing to assist when I received the letter. But I’m not sure why it is Maeson and me in particular.”

Maeson nodded in agreement.

The double doors to Falliare’s office slammed back against the walls.

“We can help with that.” The voice cracked through the room, bouncing off silver ornaments and stained glass with a force only the Fates commanded.

It sent a mix of unending desire and dread through him.

No.

What in a Fates starry eyed fuck was she doing here? She couldn’t be here now.

But he couldn’t stop himself from turning around, couldn’t pry his eyes from hers despite the questions rising in the room. Like some avenging Angel, a Fate of Saviors and Sacrifices, Emmeline DeLeoste stood in the doorway. Her black leathers hugged her body from neck to toe, triple blades glinting dangerously. Desmond stood at her side with Roremar’s own sword strapped to his back.

And as Roremar’s gaze locked with Emmeline’s, the empty hole in his chest pulled tight. Sheer determination—understanding and compassion and things he refused to name right now—stared back at him.

She knows.

Emmeline nodded as if she heard that horrified thought echoing through his mind, and disgrace washed over him. She knew. She knew what he’d done, and this time she believed him.

“Emmeline, no,” he barely breathed. She couldn’t do this—it would only drag her down, too.

“Emmeline?” Enya, the War Master, asked. “The one I’ve been writing to.”