Page 43 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Roremar

She was here.

Relief unspooled in Roremar’s chest as if he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

Emmeline was in the capital as she always dreamed, and in some twisted, Fateforsaken fortune, Roremar was here, too. He had no starsdamned clue what fucked up game he’d been thrown into, but he didn’t give a damn.

Ever since he saw her standing on top of that platform, he’d been unable to think of anything else. He’d barely even noticed the Chancellor as he spoke or the crowd yelling at him. Every drop of his attention was for Emmeline DeLeoste.

She was here.

Within reach, if he could get out of this prison—or barracks.

But while he shared the suite in the Soldiers’ Quarters of Valyn’s Fifth District with five other men he had yet to meet, he saw it for what it really was. There was still a blade hovering over his head. Still guards stationed at only the entrance to this room, not the other four the competitors were rooming in, and he’d been told he wasn’t allowed to attend the festivities tonight as the rest were.

He blew out a rough breath, flopping back on the single bed he’d been assigned and rubbing his eyes. At least he’d been unchained and allowed to bathe properly—wash off the blood and grime coating him after the slaughter. His damp hair soaked into the cool pillow, sending a chill down his spine.

When he opened his eyes again, the mystlight orbs overhead flickered across the tiled ceiling. One had clearly fallen out and the replacement was a few shades off, the speckled pattern not matching.

As he watched it, willing his mind to still, the small grey dots spun, forming constellations. Star maps that moved across the ceiling between mystlights like Emmeline had rearranged those in the sky.

“Dammit,” he groaned, sitting up and bracing his boots squarely on the floor.

He’d seen her. Her pain had coiled in his own chest as she watched him in that bloody arena.

Roremar would kill any man in here—commit any reckless crime—if it got him back to Emmeline. He was a risk to her, couldn’t be trusted long term, but for one more minute? He’d gladly stain his soul.

First, he had to get out of this cage. His head drooped between his shoulders as he thought, a ringed hand tunneling into his hair.

There was one chance—one person he could ask for help…

But while Roremar was desperate to get to Emmeline, he wasn’t quite despaired enough to ask the Fate of Chaos and Revelry for a fortune. Dryvius wasn’t currently using him, and Roremar wanted to keep it that way.

Perhaps the Fate had gotten what he’d wanted from him.

Perhaps he’d stay silent.

Even as the thought dawned and a sliver of hope sliced into the tattered edge of the hole in his chest, the abyss of missing memories slammed into him.

What had happened when he killed each victim?

Had they pleaded with him?

Was his face, twisted in cruelty, the very last thing they saw? Was⁠—

The door opened, and light spilled in a long rectangle from the corridor, much brighter than the dim mystlights overhead.

Three men strode inside. The first two were busy chattering, pausing when they noticed him. The third didn’t pay him any mind, pushing between the others and crossing the room. His brown curls—still wet from a bath—bounced with every step to his bed in the far corner, sending water droplets across the floor.

One of the men near the door twisted a dying roll of crushed herbs between his fingers, curiosity coloring his tone as he said, “Roremar the Reckless.”

Fan-fucking-tastic, Roremar grumbled internally. “You’ve heard of me?”

“Who in this city hasn’t?” He snorted a laugh as he dropped onto the bed beside Roremar’s and opened up a velvet pouch, spilling more rolls on the nightstand. He placed one between his teeth and pulled out a set of matches, lighting it with one flick of his wrist. He inhaled and puffed out the smoke. “Everyone knows you.”

His companion nodded in agreement, studying Roremar for a drawn-out moment as he twirled a wine glass between his fingers. He tilted his head, smirking in a knowing way that unsettled Roremar, but Roremar held his eye. He wouldn’t back down in front of any of these men, not after how Emmeline’s presence had revived him today.

Finally, the man broke eye contact, setting his wine on the table inside the door and stooping to grab a bag beside the first bed. Dark hair reached past his shoulders, curtaining his face as he pulled out a clean tunic and traded it for the one he wore, discarding the dirty garments in a basket in the corner.