Page 103 of Vicious Is My Throne

We all went still, five pairs of eyes pinning Rivière down to his bedroom floor like a bug. “What do you mean you executed them?” Raziel hissed, looming over the lord. “There were thousands of refugees. Thousands. They had nowhere else to go but west.”

Rivière lifted his chin petulantly. “This is our realm. Gifted to us by the Fae King himself?—”

“I’ll search the grounds and see what I can find.” Tavion moved toward the outer hallway. “You’d better be bluffing, you piece of shite, or I’ll make sure you join them. I’ll make damn sure you never see the Great Beyond, but the darkest corners of the Pit.”

I watched him stalk out with a swirl of cloak, forcing myself to bring my temper to heel.

What Rivière claimed wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. The Descendants ruled through fear and might, and the Scything had claimed members from a great many royal houses. After Solok’s visit, the power structure of Varitus would have been rattled to its foundations, and the king would have taken measures.

“I will make this simple for you?—”

“Some of them weren’t even Fae.” His lips twisted into a sneer of disgust. “Blackened and twisted and ruined, it was a mercy to put them out of their misery.”

Beside me, Raziel went perfectly still. Tristan, too, as if they were debating snapping Eirik’s neck. “Twisted how?” I asked through numb lips.

“Like they’d been corrupted by wickedness. Beasts. Covered in black spines and veins, some only by half, but some were altogether changed, not a shred of mortality left. We did them a mercy,” he muttered, wrapping his arms around his middle.

I glanced at Raz. His expression was stone, but fury burned in his eyes. Fury that changed to concern when his gaze fell on me, that place beneath my heart tightening.

He already knew.

The realization hit me out of nowhere. Raz knew my magic had transformed—corrupted—innocent people. And while now was not the time to get into this, my soul ached with the knowledge he’d withheld the information, even though I understood his reasons.

But…I turned my attention back to Rivière. I was done playing with this pompous fuck.

“The stone,” I said coldly. “Give us the stone and we will be gone.” My lips quirked, and not in amusement.

“My friend will find the truth about the Fae refugees, and depending on what he discovers, we may or may not be burning this place to the ground behind us. If you mean to survive this, Rivière, you will cooperate.”

“Why come here first?” he asked obstinately. “Why not go to the king first?”

“Because, while Duke Edric was the wealthiest of the royal houses, you have the most influence over the king, which means you possess one of the stones. That is the only explanation for your rather formidable grip on power given your weak, paltry magic.”

His eyes narrowed. “And who are you, exactly?” His gaze raked down my travel-worn leathers, my scuffed boots and tangled braid.

“My name is Anaria Centaria, and by blood, I am the Fae King’s daughter. But before Solok took me to Caladrius, I was one of Duke Ravenshade’s slaves. Your son Estienne tried to rape me the night of the Scything.”

My voice…was a raspy snarling thing, so primally Fae I didn’t even recognize myself.

“He and Berenger were the first to die that night, beneath a storm of fangs and talons, and I was glad—fucking glad—to watch them perish at Solok’s hands. Glad a monster came out of the shadows and saved me that night no matter what came after.”

I didn’t think Raz or Tristan were breathing.

The Rivière’s stared at me like they were seeing a ghost.

I didn’t mean to say all of that, for them to hear the ugly details of what happened that night, but I couldn’t stop the words from coming. “Your son was a monster. You are monsters. Your son meant to kill me that night, do you know that? Use me and kill me and leave me broken, like he had so many before me.”

Power turned the air to soup, brimming with shadows and the scent of freshly struck lightning.

Varitus was cursed. This place deserved to burn.

I’d nearly died here a hundred times over in my short eighteen years.

At the hands of the Mistress and the duke and Berenger and Estienne. I was hyperventilating, my chest aching from the force of my breaths until Raz put his hand on my back and my blood slowed, my head clearing enough for me to lean into him. I closed my eyes and forced myself to look into Rivière’s pale, gaping face.

To show him I was no longer afraid.

“I killed the Fae King and took his magic. Then I killed the Shadow King.” I grit my teeth. “I will kill you, too, if you don’t give me that stone. Now.”

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