Page 46 of The Ashes and the Star-Cursed King

“Since I’m a traitor and all.”

“Mmm.” The bed creaked as Raihn sat back up. I turned around to see him giving me a stare that made me jolt. All seriousness.

“We need to talk,” he said, “and we needed to do it somewhere I knew no one else would hear us.”

“I thought you said everything you needed to say. Or Septimus did, at least.”

My words were pointed, the accusation clear.

“I say what I need to say, in front of them.”

“You manipulated me,” I snapped. “You’ve been playing games with me since the beginning.”

Raihn’s face hardened.

“You committed an act of war, Oraya.”

I let out a choked laugh. “Icommitted an act of war?Me?”

This was a mistake. I shouldn’t even be here. I was armed now. I could—

He winced, then raised his hands. “I—let’s not. This isn’t what I’m here for.”

“Then what?”

He stood, went to the dresser, and pulled something out of the middle drawer—something long, wrapped in fabric. He lay the object over the desk beside me and unwrapped it.

My heart caught in my throat.

The Taker of Hearts. Vincent’s sword.

It was an incredible weapon—he’d had it for centuries, and never refuted or confirmed the legends surrounding it. That it was god-forged. That it was cursed. That it was blessed. That he’d carved out a little chunk of his own heart to have it made. He’d told me these legends when I was a child, sometimes—always with a completely serious face but a glint of amusement in his eye.

Legends aside, the reality was impressive enough. The weapon was incredibly powerful, enhancing Vincent’s already-significant magical strength. It was his and his alone, rejecting all other wielders. I used to joke that the sword was Vincent’s true greatest love. For most of my life, I think I believed it.

Now, the image of Vincent’s bloodied face, straining to look at me in his final breaths, cut through my mind.

I loved you from the first moment.

My chest was very, very tight.

Raihn stepped back, leaning against the wall, as if to give me space alone with it. “You can pick it up,” he said—oddly gently. “Just be careful. Hurts like a bitch if you touch the hilt too long.”

I unsheathed the sword and lay it over the desk. It was light, a slender and elegant rapier. The blade was bright red, swirls and sigils carved into its length that matched those on my own. The hilt was made of Nightsteel, forming delicate spirals around the handguard, which resembled the bones of Hiaj wings.

I stared at it for a long time, not trusting myself to speak. A slow-rising tide of grief and anger swelled inside me.

Raihn had been keeping this sword. My father’s most prized possession, now owned by the man who had killed him.

“Why are you showing me this?”

Surely he couldn’t think it was some kind of sentimental peace offering.

“Could you wield it?”

I blinked in surprise and turned to Raihn. I briefly questioned if I’d heard him right.

“No,” I said. “No one can wield it but him.”

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