Page 186 of Between Despair and Hope

“I hate to celebrate a man’s death, but—”

“It was far past his time to go.”

Taking a sip of my drink, I observed Em introduce Elora and Theo to Marella and her brother, Jesper. My daughter’s smile was shy, one I’d seen grace her mother’s features a few times before. Theo said something to both girls, and they took a moment to look at one another before bursting into a fit of laughter. Em immediately sought me out, eager for me to witness the sweet interaction, and my throat tightened.

With Declan finally making moves, this moment could be one of our first and last happy ones, and I felt sick to think about what might come to pass. Declan believing he was the Accursed, and Emma undeniably being the Beloved meant her role in all of this was something we needed to discuss.

It wasn’t the first time I’d wished I’d laid a full-out assault on Folterra the moment I’d recovered. But we didn’t have enough soldiers to reliably rift the entire Vestian army to Folterra, and the ships we had wouldn’t be enough either. Between that and the winter storms I knew would wreck the strait, it made little sense to risk my people. From our spies' reports, Declan had a far larger army than we’d ever considered between his own people and mercenaries he’d either purchased from Skos in the east or Qirus in the west. No, defensive positioning was the best path forward. I had to trust the plans I’d made with my advisors. Dewalt spent so much time with his head in books of military strategy, he would have made sure I knew of any better opportunity.

Emma straightened, turning to give me a strained smile, clearly feeling something through the bond. Checking on Elora before she made her way over to me, her gaze flitted around the room as she approached.

Assessing any threats.

“Hey,” she whispered, pulling both of my hands into hers, beautiful full lips pulled down into a frown. “I know,” she said. “I’m afraid too.”

With the touch of her skin on my hands calming me, I leaned forward, pressing a kiss to lips made to both tempt and soothe me. The thought of not being able to protect her, of her being the one meant to end all of this, was going to send me to madness. With a sigh, I cupped her jaw and gave in, promising in my heart to relinquish any sense of control I ever thought I had. But it didn’t mean we’d go into it ignorant of just how fucked we were by this prophecy.

A loud screech and a clattering of dishes gave me an idea I wasn’t sure would yield fruitful results, but an overwhelming sense of rightness overcame me.

“Have you forgiven the little prince?” I asked.

Chapter 48

Cyran

Ithadbeenamonth since I first appeared to her in the illusion of a glen near Evenmoor. A full month of Elora continuing to wear the bracelet. I hadn’t made myself known to her the entire time, but I continued to appear in her dreams. She still had nightmares, and they were far worse than the ones I’d helped her with in Evenmoor. Remarkably, the one in which I killed her wasn’t the most frequent anymore, but, instead, the one haunting her was an altercation with Faxon. The one which had caused me to use a mindbreaker upon him.

She’d never told me about the whole conversation they’d had that day. In fact, she had tried convincing me nothing dreadful had happened, and the red mark on her face had merely been a product of the cold. Had she thought I couldn’t see the imprint of his hand? When the shadows had whipped their way up my arms as I left her room, intent on doing everything in my ability to ensure he wouldn’t hurt her again, she’d started screaming my name as Ismene held her back.

I still didn’t understand why she wouldn’t want me to punish him for what he’d done. I’d never killed a man before, but the rage I felt deep in my bones told me I could have done just that if I had allowed myself. But at that point, the seer had already told me what would happen. What I’d have to do. And I didn’t want to cause her any more pain in the time we had left. It was already unfair I was going to have to hurt her, and I resisted every urge within me to grow close to her. But gods, had it been futile. The verit oath I’d sworn about keeping her from harm forced me to act. So, I didn’t kill him, knowing she’d hate me for it, but I made it so he couldn’t hurt her.

It took a few days for her to speak to me again afterwards.

More often than not, when I would find my way into her sleep, it was Faxon who haunted her. Who slapped her, whispered in her ear, and sometimes it was he who slit her throat. And it was me—a dream version of me—who held her as she died. I made myself endure it with her the first few times until I could no longer bear it. It was torturous. I found myself going to bed earlier and earlier to guarantee I’d make it there in time to intervene. I did my best to form illusions to intercept and interrupt the worst parts, but the fact remained: I played a part in those agonizing moments.

A new pain I hadn’t predicted was having to watch her dream about her bloody friend.

It made sense she had dreams about Theo, and, of course, all of them were pleasant. Theo laughed with her, practiced sparring with her, ran barefoot through a meadow with her. In most of the dreams of him, they were both younger by a few years, with fresh faces and easy smiles. I knew I had no right to be jealous or upset, but I hated it. Her dreams of Theo never devolved into a torment for her. Her dreams of Theo were everything she deserved.

The one and only time I ever noticed any kind of discomfort in regards to Theo was during a dream I could tell came from a memory. And it didn’t last very long. She sat on a log beside him in front of a fire, travel gear on the ground beside them. Faxon snored on his bedroll on the other side, just out of sight. She was tense, her shoulders nearly touching her ears, and her posture was stiff. And Theo, the lanky, awkward idiot that he was, leaned in with pouty lips and closed eyes. Her cheeks had pinked, and I made shadows swirl around the whole scene when her gaze moved to his lips. The dream had ended then, and when I woke up in my uncomfortable bed in the dormitory, I’d felt sick to my stomach. And lost.

So very lost.

She hadkissedhim. Laughed with him, smiled with him, hadfunwith him.

I could never be that for her, and I was sure she would never want me to be. Why would she? I was the son of a brute, raised by my brother, who was even worse. Gods, I wasn’t any better, was I? I was a murderer. Killer to the best thing I’d ever known. There was no way she could ever look upon me with the same fondness she reserved for him. And I was a witless fool for ever thinking otherwise.

She’d seen me at the feast. She was with him, and she saw me. Watched me make a mess of myself, drinking myself into oblivion. I still didn’t know why I even went to the ceremony. Hell, why was I even still in Astana? Perhaps I should have been in Evenmoor all along. Maybe Declan would have hesitated before destroying the mines.

Clearly premeditated, word had spread about his burning of the basalt mines just on the outskirts of Evenmoor. Elora’s father had been kind enough to send a messenger when details of the attack came with the dawn. I had a tenacious ache in my head, my nausea even more imperious, and I couldn’t control myself, retching on the poor man’s shoes.

The man—Warren, I thought his name was—had barely reacted as he explained something about the porosity of lava rock and what happened when water trapped inside heated too quickly. The gist of it was, my brother caused a massive explosion, which, if it didn’t kill on impact, the inhalation of obsidian dust had kept anyone from fighting back as a portion of his army slaughtered those who dared stand against him. With most of the rebels gathering in Evenmoor, how many of the Folterran resistance had died at his hands?

Had Cook survived? Magdalena? My sister? I doubted he would have let Ismene return to Evenmoor after moving her to Darkhold to be near him. I’d barely been able to see her more than a few times while I’d been in Vesta, and it terrified me. Every visit was a risk, a chance her defiance would be found out. She’d passed on helpful information to me the last time I saw her, and I hoped my warning to Nigel and the other rebels went heeded. She’d known he was planning something which involved fire, but it probably hadn’t been enough.

I regretted not seeking out the help of King Rainier. I should have asked him to assist and protect the rebels. How could I ever expect to be better than my brother if I didn’t have any idea how to lead? How to safeguard my people? The death of those who dared stand against him, of those who—rather stupidly—thought I was somehow a decent choice all weighed heavily upon me. What kind of king could I ever be?

The second wave of queasiness had moved up my throat, and the messenger had dismissed himself before he fell victim once more to the contents of my stomach. I’d gone back to sleep fitfully, attempting to forget it all.

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