Page 161 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I don’t move, caught between two choices that feel almost identical: help Aralia or condemn her.
Helping Aralia would save Desdemona—and that would kill us all.
I shake my head, taking a deep breath. “But that would mean helping Desdemona,” I whisper, shocked at the sound of these words on my lips.
Calista’s shocked, too. Her face shatters, but not with anger. I could handle anger. I’ve grown used to hers. This is disappointment.
It wounds sharper than any scream.
“Wendy,” she sighs, her eyebrows folding together. “Killing Desdemona to save people is one thing. Letting her die for your own reasons is something else entirely.”
“That’s not—”
It’s as if my power detects my lie before I do.
That’s exactly what this is.
And I want to tell her she’s wrong. That it’s still justice. It’s still noble.
I’m still saving the worlds.
But I can’t even look her in the eye.
I know Calista’s right; I know where all this hatred leads. Despite myself, I can’t stop it. I wish I could lie to myself.
The prophecy is a crutch, and I will use it until I can no longer stand.
I glance back at Aralia and Desdemona, sighing with shame as Lucian approaches. He helps a tired Aralia, brandishing a sword at the people who try to fight through him.
Aralia lets the barrier drop, and as Lucian is stepping past it, another kid follows. Lucian doesn’t waste a second before turning, running his blade through their arm. The kid’s hand falls to the floor, and he cries out in agony.
Lucian protects Aralia while he picks up Desdemona, pulling her from danger.
He does what Calista begged me to do, and while I feel disappointment, Calista breathes in relief.
I tell her once more to run, and I follow when she does.
?
I stand at the exit to our suite. Calista sits on the couch, examining Desdemona’s necklace and occasionally giving me a disapproving look. She hasn’t said anything about me leaving Aralia, but I feel her disdain grow with every breath.
The stone shifts in her hand, her intrigue strong.
“Is it the Memorium?” I ask.
Calista holds the small stone to the light again. “It’s been altered.” She squints as she says, “Though I think itwas.”
There’s something she’s not saying.
“And?”
“Patience.” Calista closes her palms around the stone, her fingers tightening. A minute later, she drops it with a hiss, the stone clattering to the ground as though it’s a burning ember, too hot to hold any longer.
I race across the room, asking, “What is it?” as I lean down to pick up the necklace, leaving behind its broken chain. Immediately, I feel what Calista did. It doesn’t burn me as it did her—but it doesn’t feelright.
Certainly not how a Soul Stone should feel.
“You feel it?” Calista asks, her eyes widening.
