Page 152 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
A prophecy is thebestreason. A promise of fate—a terrible, inescapable fate. What’s a better reason than that?
“Theendofeverything,” I repeat. “That’s what we’re facing; that’s what the prophecy was!”
“Tell me,” Lucian says, barely holding onto control.
He’s afraid I might convince him, but more than that, he needs to hear the reasoning before making his decision.
“What was it?” he asks.
Thinking of the prophecy is difficult enough. Repeating it is awful. I can’t imagine what it will be like when it manifests.
I can’t decide if I care about the prophecy—or if I’m just hiding behind it, using it as an excuse for my revenge.
One thing is certain: I must convince Lucian.
“Time fractures with the stone,” I recite.
“The one who leaves returns alone.
When the cracks in the universe divide,
love will be your demise.”
“That’s too vague—” Lucian cries, but I cut him off.
“You didn’tfeelit!” I shout. I didn’t know I could make a sound like this. My throat is raw, and my eyes are dry—yet the tears still come. “You haven’t been out here for days thinking about what you could’ve done differently! Like, if I’d just been able to kill her, maybe the monsters wouldn’t have attacked. The kapha came for her, Lucian, I swear it!”
But Lucian doesn’t respond. He steps back, shaking his head, unwilling to agree.
“This isn’t what Azaire would want.”
Something inside of me snaps.
How can he claim what Azaire would want whenhefeels like guilt? His will of iron to Azaire’s broken butterfly wings.
How can he claimanything?
“He wouldn’t want his death to lead to more death,” Lucian pleads. His eyes burn with possible tears. He tries to choke them down. “Peace, Wendy. You know he always wanted peace.”
Peace. He was supposed to bemypeace. He was my love.
Instead, he was taken too soon.
A shout builds in my chest, and it feels so easy. I wish I had let myself run free my entire life. “I can’t do it! There is no peace without him,” I cry. “I feel everything!Always!”I rest a hand on his tree, begging, once more, for him to be in there. “But I can’tfeel him. He’s not here. His soul is gone.He’sgone. And it’s like—”
As the words leave my mouth, a surge ofknowingrises. Something snaps. It’s a cruel clarity.
Killing Desdemona isn’t an idea or a plan. It’s my future. My fate.
It’s why I was the one to deliver the prophecy.
“It’s like I can’t even grieve when she’s still around,” I continue, my voice hollow. “I have to avenge him.”
“She’d take you in seconds.” Lucian nearly snarls. “You don’t know the extent of her power.”
As if he knows the extent ofmine.
That power pulses in my palms, like a blade pushing through bone. The pain floods my eyes, and five trees burst from the ground with it, growing taller than Azaire’s. With this anger, the weight of the power hardly hurts. Two trees grab Lucian’s arms, lifting him up, pulling him apart.
