Page 63 of Vicious Is My Throne

I swept my foot through the ash, clearing off what had once been a tiled floor. “This might have been a workshop. Or the kitchen.” Indeed, there was a crumbling hearth on one wall. “We should search in the back where he slept.”

We moved through the burned-out husk of the building, dodging charred furniture and ashy books, most of them burned down to the spines.

The roof had collapsed on top of the tapestry-covered bed and a broken hand-painted pitcher poked out of the ashes, still sporting a jaunty blue and white design beneath the soot. I searched through every scrap of charred furniture, sifting through the ashes until my hands were black.

“We could search for hours and not find anything in this mess. Is there a way to track down magical objects? Something easier than poking through the ruins and hoping for the best?”

Every minute I wasted here was one more minute we lost to the creeping blight. Wasting time when I could be heading back to the palace, where I should have remained.

Helping to save Anaria and the rest of my friends trapped by the Oracle.

Zeph squinted at the darkening sky. “Storm’s on its way,” he muttered. “Night’s coming too. We should return tomorrow, bring some soldiers. More hands to help.”

I swept my foot through the ashes again, sending nails and broken glass scattering. “We can’t wait until tomorrow, I have to…” Dulled silver gleamed amongst the blackened ashes, the slightest flash of red catching my eye.

I picked up the melted chunk of metal, rubbing my thumb across the cracked stone, the edge of the red spinel crumbling at my touch. There was no hint of the otherworldly power the artifact had once possessed.

Not a drop of magic as if the dragonfire had melted that away too.

The setting was a worthless, liquefied hunk, no sign of the Vanguard Conclave’s engraved insignia, no hint of the writing that read, ‘From the darkest shadows, shine the brightest flames.’ Even the color of the broken stone was faded, as if Zephryn’s flame had sucked the life right out of it.

“Fuck.” Every drop of hope drained out of me, leaving me limp.

“I’m sorry,” Zephryn breathed. “Had I known…”

I tipped my hand and dropped the melted metal, the ruined stone back into the ashes. What was left of the priceless gem shattered on impact, sending fragments of dull red through the cinders.

I forced myself to take a breath, my lungs aching. “You couldn’t have foreseen this. None of us could have.” But a cold sense of dread sifted through me, leaving my mouth dry, my stomach hollow. As if I stood at a crossroads.

“Perhaps there is some other way,” Zephryn offered softly. “Another weapon, some other means to destroy them.”

But, like me, he peered intently through the hole of the burned-out roof to the mountains beyond the city, as if he was wondering how long we had left until the blight overtook Blackcastle.

“Perhaps,” I repeated dully, wiping my blackened palms on my pants, exhaustion sinking its teeth into every aching muscle. “But, for now, I have to sleep. A few hours to recharge and clear my head. We need a new plan. Something that doesn’t include that weapon.”

I came here for one reason, and I’d wasted my time.

Because ever since the moment I’d seen that rendering, I’d been counting on that weapon.

If we had that sword, then Anaria wouldn’t have to face Corvus alone.

One of us could wield the weapon in her stead and spare her the horror of having to face that monster. That’s what we were—Anaria’s swords.

All we needed was the right weapon.

And now…I blew out a breath.

I would have fought for my queen. Would have been proud to die for her if that meant she survived and had that future she so deserved.

But without the weapon, I couldn’t fight for her at all.

25

ANARIA

Stupid. So, so stupid.

I couldn’t believe I’d gotten lost inside the Oracle’s head.

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