Page 96 of The Kingdom's Reckoning
"And you do not know everything," his father retorted.
A breeze swept through the woods and ruffled his clothes. Iron and smoke tinged the air. Fallen leaves skirted across the forest floor, rustling. When his mother’s hair swept across her face, Graeson brushed it away.
"You are just like her," Barinthian said, his voice quieter than before. "Full of hope."
"Maybe before," Graeson said, struggling to hold on to the last dredge of hope that threatened to slip through his fingers.
"Before and now."
Graeson huffed. "What use is being a god, in being a dragon, if I can’t even save those I care about?"
A small child’s voice rang in his ears.
You won’t save her.
The little girl had been right. Graeson had thought she was referring to Kalisandre, but it was his mother she was warning him about. If only he had known…
"This was how the tapestry was woven," Barinthian said, pity dripping from his tongue. "Once the stitches are made, there is no unraveling it. Now, you must do what needs to be done. You must become the reckoning the kingdoms need. You will remind the mortals who dare challenge the Fates, who fight against the natural order of the world."
"The war is over. Domitius is dead."
"No," Barinthian said. "The war has only begun. Kage has ignited the flame, and fire is spreading."
Graeson’s nose twitched. He did not care about any of it. Why did any of it matter if their stories were already written? If there was no way to fight the inevitable?
"If the Fates have already dictated the outcome, what is the point?"
Barinthian sighed. "We do not have much time," he warned.
To Graeson’s right, Moris stirred, his leg twitching.
"Your mother saw various versions of the future, and every time the outcome was different. The fate of the war remains to be seen."
"I need to bury her," Graeson said, grabbing her limp hand.
Leaves rustled.
"I will take her."
"You will not touch her! She deserves a proper send-off. She deserves?—"
"I know what she deserves," Barinthian growled, his voice rattling the branches and sending the barely clinging leaves fluttering down.
"Did you love her?" Graeson asked, the question slipping free before he could pull it back.
He didn’t know why he had asked. Of course, Barinthian didn’t love Lysanthia. If he had, he wouldn’t have abandoned them. He wouldn’t have left Lysanthia at Domitius’ mercy.
If he did, Barinthian would have said so, but he didn’t. Instead, he whispered, "I will take her."
Graeson wanted to fight him. He wanted to refuse. But as bright silver eyes blinked between the trees and a large black wolf came forward, its fur melting into the shadows, Graeson was rendered speechless, his body immobile. The wolf was twice the size of a normal one, its paws nearly as large as Graeson’s head and its body half the size of Nyrri. He should have been terrified, and he supposed a part of him was. But the wolf prowled closer, its movements slow and calculated.
"I-I don’t understand," Graeson stammered.
The wolf arched a brow and huffed.
"Gods can take many forms. As the son of a god and a mortal, you can only take one," Barinthian said. But when he spoke, the wolf’s mouth did not move, and Graeson realized he was simply hearing Barinthian’s voice within his mind. Yet he knew without a doubt that the wolf before him was not an ordinary creature. This was his father. Or at least one of his forms.
The wolf nudged Lysanthia’s body with his snout, shifting her.
