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Asmo brushes away the leaves, revealing the wooden signs I made to mark each body's grave. I didn’t know who they were when I laid them to rest in this grove, but I tried to imagine each of them a backstory, to give them a name based on the things they died with.
"Well, isn't this delightfully creepy," he says, then brushes off another.
15
Asmodeus
A whispering shroud ofmist curls around our feet like possessive fingers as we move through the rows of graves. Some are still buried in the leaves, but those I’ve managed to uncover are all marked with withered wood plaques. Names have been scratched into them, and verdant moss clings to the wood grain, like the ground attempted to swallow those make-shift headstones.
I stoop to reveal another headstone. "Who’s Riddick the Brave?" Brushing aside the moss, I trace a finger over the lines she carved, as if they were drawn with a piece of white stone.
She doesn’t answer, and I glance up at her. The silver fabric of her tunic swishes around her thighs as the breeze sweeps through the forest, shaking the leaf canopy above us. Lips twisted and vacant eyed, she’s present, but somehow not.
“Starlight.” My voice is a bit louder, but my nickname seems to grab her attention.
Valeria's lips twitch as those emerald eyes fly to meet mine. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Who is Riddick?” I hold up the wooden board, name faced toward her.
"I found a broken bow next to his bones. It seemed fitting, and everyone deserves to be remembered."
Something warm blooms inside my chest, and I knead my palm over my sternum, desperate to send it away. Of course she would name them all. Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. If she felt strongly that she carried their bones out here to bury them, naming them seems so… simple.
I didn’t think elves held any sort of compassion for demons. They always have looked down on just about every other creature in existence except for the dragons they worship. Yet, Valeria buried demons she’d never met, never had a reason to care for.
The act alone cuts through any of the remaining regret I’ve held on to for allowing her to live in my keep. Since I made that deal, I’ve worried I’ve made the wrong decision. Especially with Griffin living in the keep now. Our deal doesn’t protect him from her, like it does me.
Something about her is different, though, and despite Valeria stabbing me upon meeting, I knew it then. I saw it in her eyes. Just wasn’t sure of what until now.
Where the elves couldn’t care less about others—unless they were of pureblood, fury marked, or moon blessed—she cares. Valeriafeels, unlike the emotionless, high and mighty elves I’m used to associating with. And although we are different species, in this graveyard those differences fade away. We’re more than just the flesh on our bones, our magic or gifts and abilities. We’re people with empathy for life.
It’s too bad someone like her couldn’t lead the elven realm. Things would be very different, and we certainly wouldn’t be on the brink of war. Had someone with her ability to see past thespecies lines that divide us sat on the throne in Vanderlyth when Jade was alive, maybe she wouldn’t have been cast out.
Jade was highborn, but not pureblood. She was a result of an affair. She descended from one of the original family lines of elves, yet due to her father being a shifter, Jade was considered a half-breed and sold as a servant slave to the highest bidder. Luckily, my mother sought to end such things and would buy any children sold into the trades. It’s how Jade came to live in Hell Hold, and how I met my mate.
We were so young then… But had someone with Valeria’s compassion ruled over the elves, Jade might’ve never been sold, we might’ve never met, and I might’ve never killed her. She’d have lived a long and happy life.
Sucking in a breath and pushing up from the ground, I drag my fingers through my hair, drawing the dark, blue-black strands away from my face. “Well, we should get to it then, huh?”
With a flick of my wrist, two shovels spring forth from thin air. Handing one to her, we begin to dig. For a long time, there’s nothing but the rhythmic sound of metal against soil that passes between us. It’s not until I find the first body that I dare break the silence.
It’s wrapped in fabric. As I brush away the dirt, my fingers glide off the remnants of wax drops, like a candle had been tilted over it, like they’ve been blessed the same way elven royalty are laid to rest. Pulling the wrapped bones from the grave, I can barely make out the design on the fabric. It used to be curtains, and she must’ve forged it from the ruins to ensure they were put in the earth properly—as her people believe—and that only makes me appreciate her more.
Stealing a glance in her direction, I watch her dig, hands caked with dirt. Smears of it line her brow. She took care of my people and buried them with such love, like one would a family member…
A silent thanks sits heavy on my tongue, but I don’t know how to voice it. Instead, I set the bones aside and start on the next, and the next, until all twenty-six graves have been dug up and the bones collected.
Placing all the bundles in two large canvas bags, I lift the first and toss it over my shoulder, hearing the clack of bone on bone as the weight settles.
“Careful,” Valeria snaps. “How would you like to be tossed around? It’s bad enough you’re disturbing their rest, and if this works, then great, but you can at least try not to break them any more than they already are.” Her tone is sharp as she glares daggers into me, crossing her arms. Her ears twitch and I can’t help the faint hint of a smile that slips past my defenses.
It stirs something within me—something I have no desire to explore but enough sense to acknowledge. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Rolling her eyes, she waves me on and we trek back toward the boundary wall where we left Griffin.
When we reach the wall, she feels the stones, sleeking along the mossy surfaces until one gives away. From there, more come apart until a hole large enough for us to crouch through forms. One at a time, we push the canvas bags through, and before Valeria can crawl through the opening, I let my hand on her arm, stopping her.
"Before we go back, I wanted to say thank you," I say, my voice low—quiet—as if some part of me doesn’t want Griffin to hear it. Or maybe I just don’t want to admit to myself that I’m thanking the woman who stabbed me.
