Page 201 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Roremar pressed a hand to his chest as he struggled to pull in air, body trembling. He knew that was true, though. He remembered seeing Nico.

But he hadn’t killed his father.

He hadn’t killed his father.

Mind rushing, he forced out, “How did you know?” How did Falliare know that Dryvius would one day use Roremar in the way his nightmares wrote?

“I didn’t,” Falliare admitted. “I knew of your tie and saw you feared it. I let the public think it was an enemy in the war camp and your mind create the rest.”

And Roremar had.

He’d convinced himself he was guilty. Because of this secret he’d harbored for years, he’d convinced himself of something he knew he was incapable of. The pure knowledge and fear of his Fate tie had warped his mind and belief in himself.

Had that been what gave Dryvius the idea to control him in the first place? Was it Roremar’s own nightmares that brought his horrific present to life?

Dryvius killed Nico because of his tie to Serchus, but had it been Roremar that gave him the idea to use him to do it?

What in his life had he ever been in control of, responsible for, other than destruction? Other than hurting the people he loved most?

He was a puppet, half of his strings pulled by Falliare, the other half by the Fate of Chaos and Revelry. And both were now wrapping those strings around his neck.

He was going to be sick.

But I didn’t kill my father.

That one fact—that one sliver of clarity—was a bright spot in this darkness. It wiped a window in the grime his sins painted on his vision. It healed a piece of the rot that spread in his veins.

His gaze landed on the open window. On the twelve constellations haloing the sky, waking as the blue faded, as they had since Emmeline’s magic exploded.

He was done. Done being a pawn, a target, a scapegoat. Done allowing anyone else to reign over him.

Roremar Silventa was the sole tie to the Dead Fate, the Heir of Chaos and Revelry, and he would master his own ruin.

Swiping up the stone Desmond had bought, Roremar stormed past his uncle and left without another word. And Falliare let him go.

Valyn blurred together, colors melting into a mirage of revelry. Revelry, he nearly laughed to himself, the city’s scorn bitter on his tongue. His uncle’s confession roared in his ears, even as it cleared a fog within him.

I didn’t kill my father.

Before he knew what he was doing, he burst through the gates to the Chancellor’s manor. No guards stood at the fences or the garden entrance in the east wing, as if the Fates were finally sending him a blessing.

Roremar strode to a set of grand doors at the end of an empty corridor, an open lock fallen at the entrance, instinctually knowing where she was. He threw them wide, screeching to a halt.

Emmeline stood in a demolished room, face tipped to the stained-glass skylights and white rubble glimmering at her feet.

She jumped at his entrance, spinning toward him. “Roremar?”

His magic beat and pulled within him, as if this had once been…

A seeing chamber.

How poetic for what he was about to do.

“I’m done.”

At the sharpness in his tone, Emmeline straightened, curiosity igniting in those stunning hazel eyes. “Done?”

Roremar braced his hands on the doorframe, holding himself back. “I’m done letting everyone in this fucking city—the entire Fatesdamned realm and beyond—control us when you and I both know we’re more powerful than all of them combined. I’m tired of watching you be a pawn in their games rather than dropping their heads at your feet.” Roremar dug his nails into the wood. “And I am so fucking done with pretending.”