Page 194 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“I don’t remember that one. I remember seeing him, then I blacked out. When I came to, he could barely whisper out a few more words, and the blade was in my hand. I didn’t understand it was Dryvius controlling me. All these years, I had no idea what happened. Just thought I went mad thanks to my Fate tie.” He swallowed. “I think my father knew it wasn’t my doing. He was the only person I ever told the truth to.”

A secret taken to the grave. Perhaps that was why Dryvius targeted him. He couldn’t have Roremar’s father protecting him, disrupting the Fate’s grand scheme. He needed to force his puppet to be entirely alone.

And with that amnesiac moment of his past where he’d blacked out and woken to his personal nightmare, Roremar made more sense. How he needed control despite his previous reckless reputation. How he was always trying to piece answers together because he didn’t have them for that day.

Hatred burned through Emmeline, the power of the Fates churning within her, rowdy ever since she used so much magic to find out the truth.

“I still don’t understand why he wanted Nico,” Roremar breathed against her neck, words rushed like he needed to finally get them out. “I’ve been trying to figure it out for a week. The others were all Anphrosia.”

“I’ve been reading about them.” Emmeline pulled back and wiped tears from his cheeks. “There are rumors Anphrosia and Dryvius had affairs just like she did with the others. It’s possible he’s just as scorned as Arenothos and Aevollon, that he was looking to harm them in the process, hence Desmond’s design book and victims from Alvan. Truthfully, I think it’s more likely he wanted⁠—”

“Revenge,” the Snake Charmer interjected from his armchair, just as he’d told Roremar at the Mezzanine.

Emmeline had been ignoring Brutus Celvo’s presence, her throat tightening at his voice. Roremar stiffened, glaring at the serpent, but neither of them spoke to him.

“Maybe he wants revenge on the Fates,” Roremar muttered, “for killing him. Or for trying to, since it clearly didn’t work.”

“The star tattoo functioned as a compass,” Emmeline added. “The elongated points always aimed toward Byron—toward the isle dedicated toward Anphrosia and Dryvius.” She placed her palms against Roremar’s chest, his heart thumping erratically.

“But Nico was Serchus.”

Emmeline bit her lip. “One heart of greed entrenched in kin, and many dancing with sweet sin. That’s what Anphrosia said to me recently, and parts of her message were written at the second crime scene, in the victim’s note.”

“Greed…Serchus. Kin…” Roremar shook his head slowly. “My family.”

“Sweet sin…Anphrosia. They’re steps in the ritual.”

Roremar nodded.

“Do you know why Dryvius would have been trying to complete this ritual?” Enya looked between Maeson and Tarli, calling Emmeline’s attention back across the room.

“Beyond inciting his namesake or seeking revenge?” Maeson huffed, looking to Tarli. The Head of the Accords only shrugged. “We know very little about why he did anything. As Miss DeLeoste mentioned, his lore is not widespread, and that which we do have has little to cross-reference, like the Birth of Chaos.”

The myth referenced a time when Dryvius’s illicit affair with a noblewoman on a faraway land caused an attack on Starsearcher Territory. He was fleeing, and the chaos followed him to Gallantia. It was one of the few confirmed pieces of his history, but it supported their theory that so much came back to scorned lovers and revenge.

“Anphrosia…” Maeson muttered. His isle, after all, honored her and Dryvius.

Emmeline straightened. “That’s why I originally wrote to you, sir. Does the Warders of Selene mean anything to you?”

Every official in the room shook their head.

“Selene is a name for an almighty, three-pronged being. Goddess, Angel, and someone unknown. And the Warders aren’t a cult as we thought. The name refers to the Fates.” Roremar’s eyes widened at her explanation. “Their mark was at the scene of every murder. Makes sense if it was a Fate himself committing the crimes.”

It had been Regina’s notes on the cult that pushed Emmeline into that final reading.

“How did you figure it out?” Roremar asked her and Desmond, seeming to bury his pain for later. That awed look he often gave her lit his grey eyes the slightest bit, like the very real loss of his brother and the lives taken at his hands were shadowed beasts, claws ripping into him.

“I had help with that part. But your Fate tie…You lied to Desmond about who you were aligned to.”

Roremar’s brows scrunched as he turned to his friend. “You knew?”

“Spirits, no,” Desmond said. “Emmeline figured it out when she asked me who your tie was.”

Roremar’s eyes dragged back to her, and she explained, “You can’t be aligned to Pheasantos. Or I supposed you could, but it’s highly improbable. I don’t know the odds on it.” She shook her head, getting back on track. “Pheasantos rarely forges ties the week before or after the summer solstice.”

“You didn’t believe I simply had a rare alignment?” But from the way he pursed his lips, he already knew the answer. “I messed up with the quarter centennial.” He sighed, dragging his hands through his hair, the chain between his wrists clanging together and making Emmeline flinch. “The first time I told the lie, I was barely ten. I didn’t know what that was. All I knew was that this impossible voice was speaking to me—one that was supposed to be dead, shamed, and cursed.”

Her heart broke for that little boy, probably so afraid of what it meant. But what she didn’t understand was why Roremar didn’t seem relieved? What he’d done would haunt him, and that was no small fact, but his truth was out now.