Page 135 of A Liar's Twisted Tongue

“I’m going to power it and use it against the Arcanes.”

He’s quiet a moment. Then, “That’s the exact opposite of what Wendy wants—of what I want!”

I look him in the eye when I say, “I’m so close now, Zaire. You’ve always been my voice of reason. For better or for worse, I fear that I’ll lose that without you.”

“Okay. But what happens when you get it, Luc?” I open my mouth, but he continues, “What if this elusive revenge costs you something you’re not willing to lose?” Again, I open my mouth. “What if it’s just one thing after another until you’ve wasted your entire life? When will it end?”

For as many times as I tried to speak before, I am stumped.

“I’ll swim the sea when we get to it.”

“If you can tell me right now,” he says, “I’ll do it. I’ll be your voice of reason, I’ll choose you. Your revenge and your vendettas, I’ll make them mine.” His dark eyebrows fall. “When will it end?”

I’m quiet. I’m thinking. I finally say, “I don’t know what comes after.” I’ve been thinking of this beloved revenge for seven years. It’s grown in my mind to become all-encompassing. It’s the thing I would fall asleep to on the worst of nights in the kingdom and the suite alike.

It was my saving grace amidst the abuse.

I don’t know what comes after.

I don’t know that there’s peace or contentment or happiness for me.

“What do you want?” Azaire asks me. “When you close your eyes, what do you see?”

“The Arcane,” I answer. I feel it. Hot and fluid. “Dead.”

* * *

Despite what Azaire said, I go to Freyr the next morning with one goal: getting an answer, and one plan if he doesn’t oblige.

Torture.

Most of his fingers are broken and one eye is entirely swollen shut, while the other is close to. He sits in the corner of the cage, convulsing, no doubt from the remnants of my shadows. I lift a hand and pull the rest out of him, something I was too exhausted to do last night.

“Are you ready to talk?” I ask. He gives me the kind of look that tells me he’s closer to killing me than talking. I think about what Azaire said—of what I knew—this doesn’t leave you.

With that in mind, I pull out my sword. “I will cut you open, stitch you up, and do it all over again.”

His voice is barely a whisper when he says, “I meant what I said.”

“What was that?”

“Been through worse.”

“I’m going to Lorucille today. I need the name of the project.” He looks up at me without lifting his head. I’m not sure he even can. “What am I looking for?” I ask, to put it into simpler terms for him. When he doesn’t answer, I ask, “Are you protecting someone? Is that what this is about?” I step closer.

“I’m dead either way.” His voice is hoarse, and his body is slouching down over itself more with every passing second. “And I don’t talk to people like you.”

“People like me?” I question.

“Entitled fucks.” He spits on the dirty floor.

“I’d rather not get blood on my shoes, since as you said, I’m an entitled fuck. Though, in the end, I’ll get new shoes and you’ll be dead. I suppose the point of this pontificate is to ask, do you want to spend your last days in agony? Or do you want to answer my very simple questions?”

He makes a sound that I suppose could pass as a laugh, though it sounds more akin to a cough. “I didn’t mean you’d be the one to kill me.” He barely gets the words out.

I’d ask him to elaborate, though seeing as I know he won’t, I decide to go with the simpler option of following through on my promises of agony and slice him open.

I use the red knife, and I’m not surprised when it doesn’t burn him.

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