Page 200 of The Eye of the Fifth
The Empress had been absconded away. Swiftly carried somewhere Kyra’s storm could not harm her.
Salty tears leaked from his mate’s snowy, unblinking eyes. Even in this state, her grief remained, staining dirty rivers down her face.
He had to pacify her, and quickly, before she tore herself asunder.
???
No one.
No name belonged to the mortalised fury she had become. Nothing reigned but an insatiable need for death. Nothing rained but stone. Nothing shone brighter than the desire for destruction.
She watched through eyes that did not care as pillars cracked and fell, crushing frantic, scrappling figures that bore no faces. Showers of debris dented ancient marble. Red hot lava spat and scorned those within its reach.
All by her hand. Yet she felt no remorse.
She did not wobble as those around her did, for she was the ground’s quaking centre. Its source.
The molten core of the earth.
Something was calling to her. A faraway voice from a different time. Desperate for her to see. Yearning for someone to bask in its knowledge, in the truth of a memory shielded from present eyes.
The Black Throne grasped her attention.
???
Gedeon.
A figure bathed in silver silk caught Gedeon’s eye.
Duchess Ysabell had somehow shaken the sentries that had tried to remove her from the hall. Either that or they had perished.
She stood alone. A dark, slender hand lay against an unfallen pillar steadying her in the chaos. The other cradled her stomach, smoothing the flowing material around it to reveal an unmistakable swell. She lifted that hand and pointed to her eyes, then her ears, then pressed a finger to her mouth. And then she was gone, silk trailing behind her.
There was no time for Gedeon to discern her meaning, for Kyra was ascending the steps to the Black Throne. Somehow, though everything else was disintegrating around them, it remained unscathed. Mesmerising the power-blind female closer.
None but Zarynth’s chosen ruler could sit upon its blackened wood, such was the will of the magic that had been placed upon it aeons ago. Would the flames that sprung at the Empress’ touch flay his mate if she dared to try?
Gedeon would not wait to find out.
He sprung over the fractured ground, bending the lava that threatened at his feet to submit to him, until he stood at the bottom step. ‘Kyra,’ he called, steadily moving toward her, one step at a time. ‘This power is not you. Wake from its hold. Come back to me.’
The words had no effect. She did not turn to sit, but rather reached a hand out. The pad of her fingertips pressed against the archaic wood before he could stop them.
???
Kyra.
Through a thick haze, a name was being called. Over and over again.
That deep, familiar voice almost broke her away. But another, more urgent, pulled her away from its safety. Tired and old and sodden with pain, that other voice said,See, earth child. See what others never will. See the truth.
That name bore no resemblance, but she asked,What truth?
See, and you will know. Take this burden of truth from me once and for all.
Letting it steal her away, she floated into a memory of unfamiliar faces. All unfamiliar but one with hair touched by gold and eyes of venomous blue. She watched the violent scene unfurl, caught in a forgotten history.
‘Tis a memory designed to be buried, theold voice told her. The throne was an entity. Loyal to its very core, but not to who sat upon it.
