Page 243 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

All four of them cried out. Emmeline pressed her palms to her ears, stumbling against the altar. Desmond covered Lola’s body, and Myrella shook even more than she had been before.

“What the fuck is that?” Eston yelled.

“No idea!” Emmeline answered. Her magic hated it, though. It spun faster and faster within her, the readings a tangle of urgent warnings she couldn’t parse out.

Myrella whimpered over and over, dropping to a crouch, and Eston cried something unintelligible. Desmond kept talking to Lola, protecting her, but even the unending ringing didn’t wake her.

It went on for what could have been minutes or mere seconds, until all of a sudden it sliced off.

Emmeline’s ears still rang like the echo of a gong, but she forced herself to her feet. Myrella was still huddled behind the altar, trembling.

Desmond cradled Lola against his chest, trying to get some warmth back into her body. “Let’s get her the fuck out of here before that happens again.”

Emmeline and Eston agreed, the guard mute, and they helped Myrella to her feet. They started back the way they came in, but footsteps shuffled down the tunnel.

“Dryvius,” Emmeline breathed. Had that sound been signaling his arrival? Is that why her magic was warning her?

Eyes meeting Desmond’s, she could practically feel the color leeching from her face. They hadn’t been quick enough. Hadn’t gotten to Lola soon enough.

Pulling a triple blade, Emmeline looked around for any other way out of here. Her eyes landed on the carving on the floor—the one that had been blurred in her reading of this place, that she hadn’t been able to make out—and she froze.

She’d been too focused on Lola to notice it before, but now, it was slowly starting to glow silver, a vein of starlight in the stone. The brighter it ignited, the easier she could decipher it, and the tighter panic clenched her chest.

A feathered pair of wings surrounded by twelve unique renditions.

The Warders of Selene. What was a version of their sigil doing down here?

The footsteps grew closer, and the walls closed in. She was a mouse in a trap, watching the spring snap.

“I’m so sorry,” Emmeline whispered to her friends, but especially to Lola—the person who’d extended so much kindness and warmth when she arrived in this strange new city, though she hadn’t offered any in return initially. Emmeline clenched her triple blade tighter. “I promise, Lola, he won’t get you.”

Emmeline’s eyes flashed back up to Desmond. “You get a chance, you go. Doesn’t matter which route you follow. It will lead somewhere that’s better than here. These tunnels emerge in different spots around the city. Get above ground wherever you can. You, too,” she added to Myrella.

They both nodded.

Emmeline’s heart pattered as the final footsteps tensed the air. She waited for the Fate to appear across the chamber—wondered what exactly he looked like, what face had been haunting them these recent weeks.

She held her breath, listening closer⁠—

“He’s not alone,” she whispered.

But before anyone could answer, the approaching party spilled out of the tunnel, all twelve Fate monuments between them.

And it wasn’t Dryvius at all, but⁠—

“Roremar,” she breathed, his allies and Cirre at his side.

Chapter Eighty-One

Roremar

Holy Fates, Emmeline was the best sight he could have seen in these Fateforsaken tunnels.

He’d ditched the wax from his ears when the ringing cut out, stuffing it in his pocket in case it returned. Without it, he could freely hear the relief in her voice when he pulled her to him. As he held her so tightly his shoulder barked in pain, but he didn’t give a Fate’s fuck with her in his arms.

His eyes slipped closed, his heartbeat syncing to hers. Fighting through this trial was the most worthwhile thing he’d ever done. He’d conquer every fear, climb every mountain of self-worth, if Emmeline stood at the summit.

Why was she down here, though? Did he know she was here? Was she supposed to be?