Page 80 of The Coven of Ruin
“I’d choose to live,” she breathed, and her heart ached with the truth of it.
They fell into silence again. His hand came to rest on the bed between her and his hip. Eventually, he asked, “Do you feel better?”
“Yes. Thank you, Ares,” she whispered, his arm so close that her lips brushed against his flesh as she spoke.
“My name is taboo for you to say, yet you insist on calling me by it.”
“And mine isn’t, and yet you never call me by it,” she countered, her lips whispering against his arm again.
He laughed, a short laugh that reverberated through her and the mattress. She was so surprised she tipped her head back to look at him, but the only evidence left was a slight dimple in his cheek.
He ran a hand through his hair before he peered down at her. “Go to sleep, witch.” A memory of him saying the same thing as she lay in his bed, in his tunic, surfaced in her mind. He settled back against the bed’s frame again. “I’ll make sure no shadows come for you.”
And she couldn’t help but realize as she closed her eyes, the warmth from his body seeping into her own, that she believed him. The Witchbane.Don’t trust the god.But why, then, did she feel so safe with him?
Chapter XXXIV
Sheawoketohushedvoices.
“—fear-mongering,” Prince Nero finished.
“They can’t expect any of the covens to stay put after this. Once they realize that the capital is compromised, the resistant covens will leave or die trying to.” Ares.
“It doesn’t matter. I feel that whatever we walk into today isn’t going to be what we expect.” Grae’s voice and she could tell that he had a pick in his mouth.
Trista sat up, drawing three wary gazes as she did. Grae’s focus flicked to her hair, confirming its disorderly state. “That could seriously be used as a weapon,” the war god said, turning to Ares. “Remind you of anyone?”
Ares snorted. To her, he said, “I retrieved your belongings from your room.”
“Thank you,” she mumbled as she attempted to comb her fingers through her hair.
“They’ll be opening the portal soon,” Ares added.
Pulling her legs out from the covers, she brought her knee up to inspect the injury she had received yesterday. Though the creature’s claw had cut a long slice up her ankle and calf, her skin had already started to stitch itself together again. In the aftermath, she had barely felt it. When she got to her chamber, she would put something on it to help the healing process.
By the time she had forced her hair into some semblance of order, their motley group was moving into the hallway. Everyone was solemn and quiet, their tense energy setting her on edge. The dead were covered in sheets and would be magically supported through the gateway.
Studying those who remained, she couldn’t help but wonder if they had indeed played a part in yesterday’s massacre. How could they watch their own people be slaughtered by something so wicked? When the portal opened and the line began to move, she contemplated how everything had changed in a singular day. What happened now that the Witch King was dead?
A kingsguard halted Grae as he moved to step through the portal. “Hold,” the mage commanded, looking through the watery gateway as if he could see something that they couldn’t, but all it showed was their hazy reflection.
“Healer first,” the kingsguard ordered. “We need to maintain the same structure as we entered under.”
Grae’s gaze slid to Ares. There was a tense moment where it seemed like a fight would break out before the god offered an easy smile. “Of course. The structure.”
He moved between the kingsguard and her. “We’ll be right behind you, Trist.” Though the god was smiling, his words were spoken as a reassuring promise.
“What’s happening?” she asked when several heartbeats had gone by, and they were still waiting. An inkling of dread swept through her. The mage didn’t respond, but a moment later, he lowered his arm and motioned her through.
Her foot struck the stone floor on the other side, and she knew something was wrong. The round chamber was empty besides two guards, who motioned for her to enter the dining hall. As she did, her steps faltered.
The dining hall entryway was closed, a thick wooden beam laying across the two doors. Prince Roan and Pavon stood near the front, accompanied by another mage she had never seen before. The covered dead were behind them, lined up on the dais. But it was the hall itself, filled with armored guards and three mages from The Black Garrison, that had her backing away into the chamber again.
“Move,” a kingsguard barked, gripping the back of her arm and dragging her forward. Looking over her shoulder, she tried to see if the two war gods and Prince Nero had stepped through yet, but the gateway was empty.
Prince Roan motioned to a spot before him and Pavon with a tilt of his chin, where four of the coven members that had survived knelt. They were battered, and their hands were bound behind their backs with witchsilver. One was a familiar gray-haired mage, the back of his head bleeding from where he had been hit—Igen.
Shoved forward by a heavy hand between her shoulder blades, she couldn’t keep herself from falling. The impact jarred her as she landed heavily on her hands and knees beside the Majus. Her bag of belongings slid across the stone hall as it slipped from her arm.
