Page 152 of Fires of the Forsaken
“You’re human,” he said, although his statement sounded more like a question. “And easy to kill—”
“And ending my life will only incense her further, will it not?”
Byron opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“I have no wish to harm anyone.”
His jaw closed with a snap. “No wish to harm? How can you make such a claim when you’ve already murdered innocents?”
“Accidentally.As I, again, have repeatedly stated. I cannot control my power, but I truly do not wish to harm humans. In fact, I’m quite tired of watching you pathetic creatures die.”
Again, my words seemed to have made an impact.
Byron turned away, running his fingers over his scars and staring at the ground as he paced. His breathing grew short and agitated.
He stopped, stared at me, and resumed his pacing. For a moment, he said nothing. Until his mindless wandering brought him back to my side. “Your tunic doesn’t burn,” he said. “Material from the Celestial city?”
“I don’t know. It was a gift from—” My stomach turned to rot as I pictured Terrick’s kind smile.
“A Celestial?” Byron supplied.
“No. A friend. Terrick. Perhaps you know of him; he was a hybrid who fought in the war.”
“I was a child when that war was fought,” Byron said. “Did yourfriendtell you where he got that tunic?”
“He purchased it from a merchant in Darfield.”
“Lies.”
“No. I invite you to tear a strip of this fabric and take it to Darfield. The merchant displayed this tunic in their window for years and priced it exorbitantly. They were quite proud of it, no matter how they obtained the fabric, and I’ve no doubt they would verify my claim.”
Byron’s jaw closed again. He turned away from me, tension roiling across his back. “And what happened to this friend of yours?” he asked. “Why is he not here to defend your innocence?”
“He’s dead.Ikilled him.”
Byron’s jaw twitched, but he turned away, saying nothing.
More tears rolled down my cheeks. I hated the way tears felt; rather like ants crawling across my skin.
For several moments, there was silence, broken only by my grating breaths, and Byron’s low, unintelligible murmurs. His hands ran restlessly over his scars, nails digging into flesh, as though trying to recreate the pain those burns had once inflicted.
I thought of the pockmarked woman who brought him wine. “Seruf has been here before.”
Byron remained facing the door. “Yes. A long time ago.”
“What did she do to this town?” I asked. “To you?”
“Sakar was not always peaceful. You were not yet born when Ramiel ruled here.” Byron gave his scars another vicious scratch.
“I lived the early years of my life in Detha,” I said. “I think you’ll find I’m well-aquainted—acquainted with the harshness of a Celestial’s rule.”
“And Detha is within the borders of Idril—Ramiel’s home—is it not?” Byron asked.
“I’m not certain.”
“Did you ever see him?”
I had to ponder this; the early years of my childhood seemed like another lifetime. “No,” I said. “Only his Wraiths.”
