Page 200 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“What do you want with the Fatalium?” Roremar demanded, forcing his voice to steady. The empty spot on his finger where that ring used to sit ached.

“A mineral that can control Fates?” Falliare’s grey brows lifted. “Surely you see how valuable that is?”

How dangerous, in the wrong hands.

“So that’s what you came here for? To chase sources of this mineral?”

“Yes, and as I work toward it, I’m befriending the Chancellor. He has his own…interesting plans. He tasked me with a few accompanying requests while I work. I think it will be a mutually beneficial partnership.”

Roremar purposely kept his face impassive, not letting on he knew anything about those rituals. He couldn’t begin to decipher the cold tone to Falliare’s voice. The threat. His mind was thrown by the revelations about his father.

No matter how hard Deacon Silventa had tried to keep his family from Aldryn Falliare—no matter how hard Roremar had worked in his wake—the Temple Master always won.

“And you knew? This entire time, since my father gave me that ring, you knew what it was?” He was breathing heavily. “You knew about the protection my father left me, and you didn’t think it was important to tell me? Especially after Dryvius killed him.”

“As I told you, after your brother’s death, I suspected your Fate tie for years, but I wasn’t positive. I’d been working to figure out exactly what was off about your magic since you were a teenager, lit different candles with subtle incense in the wax to see how you reacted. Your father learned of my investigations. He threatened to expose a few of my personal projects to Lyra’s general public if I didn’t leave you alone. You know how well-loved your father was. That could have carved a dent in my support large enough to one day crumble it.”

A cold chill spread down Roremar’s spine, freezing him to his spot. Pieces of the puzzle he didn’t want to acknowledge surfaced in his mind.

“What are you saying?”

“I should thank you.”

“What. Are. You. Saying?” Roremar clipped each word, barely able to force them out.

Aldryn lifted his glass to Roremar. “You made such a convenient scapegoat.”

Roremar didn’t feel the drink slip from his fingers.

He didn’t hear the glass shatter against the floorboards or the tiny shards jump up to fleck his bare hands.

He wasn’t even aware of the conscious decision to charge forward and slam his arm to his uncle’s throat.

All he could hear was his father’s final words in his ears.

All he could see was the snap from darkness to consciousness, a blade in his hands.

All he could feel was sticky blood between his fingers and the drowning blame he’d lived with for ten years.

“Say it.” Roremar shoved his uncle against the wall. The glasses on the sideboard shuddered, frames falling off their hooks. Roremar barked, “Say it.”

“You didn’t kill your father, Roremar.” He spoke flatly, each word choked as Roremar pressed him to the wall. “Dryvius hadn’t wrested control of your mind enough ten years ago. I drugged you. I set the scene, and then I killed him and placed the blade in your hand.”

Roremar stumbled back a step, vision tunneling.

“You killed him.” His knees buckled, and he caught himself on the windowsill, panting. “And you framed…me.”

“Only in your mind,” Aldryn corrected. “You are the only person who ever thought you killed your father. Now, when you die tomorrow, at least you’ll know the truth.”

“You let me—you let me think it was my fault.”

He’d let him live for a decade blaming himself for killing his own father, he’d manipulated him in the time since, pulled strings to get Roremar to do what he needed.

Roremar couldn’t breathe. His lungs seized.

“Nico,” he wheezed.

Finally, an ounce of pity in his uncle’s eyes. “That one was you. As were the other murders on Lyra.”