“I told you. I gave it back.” I growl, and the silence that follows feels suffocating.
Velentha finally speaks, her voice quiet and distant, her hooded face turned towards me. “You still avoid the true answer to the question, Child of Ruin.”
Again, with the Child of Ruin. “What do you know?” I snarl. “Why do you always call me that gods forsaken name?”
She doesn’t reply; she only watches me, unmoving. She knows something. She’s always known something. But she only reveals what she wants to, even to the other five celestial assholes sitting in front of me.
“This is a dangerous situation, Korithax,” Seraphiel says. “You are too close.”
“I was close to a mortal soul I used to own. Yes. However, she is nothing now.”
“You lie poorly,” Amarithe whispers, smirking at me.
I want to rip that smirk straight off her face. Maybe I will. Maybe I will use Calrix’s sword to do it.
“You must not bring a mortal to Hell, Korithax. It contaminates the realm. She contaminates the realm.” Mal’Thariel spits.
This guy and his obsession with contamination. He acts like everyone is fucking plagued or something. It’s the only time the asshole ever deigns to speak. I just flip him off, smirking when he looks shocked at the gesture. I notice Elaron tilting his head at me and I inwardly groan, knowing I’m not going to enjoy whatever this asshole is going to say next.
“Why does your soul flicker when we speak of her, Korithax?”
I clench my fists. “I owe you no answers.”
“You brought her to Hell,” Seraphiel says, her voice like frost. “You are playing with divine boundaries.”
“I have been dancing around your fucking boundaries for centuries. What’s one more step?” I ask.
“You forget your place, Child of Ruin.” Velentha murmurs.
“And you forget your power.” I snarl. “Or rather, lack of it. You sit on thrones and whisper secrets while the rest of us fight to keep the balance. I’ll bow to you the day you’ve bled for something.”
I turn to walk away when Calrix’s voice rumbles through the air. “Careful,” he warns.
“Or what?” I snarl. “You’ll swing that sword of yours and cry about ‘order’? You think because you erased your queen that you’re anything other than cowards?”
I know I’m crossing a dangerous line. Nobody is allowed to speak of the First Queen. Every damn thing about her was erased, down to her sigil, but nothing can be hidden when you’re immortal. Those who lived through the queen’s reign continue to whisper about her legacy, despite the laws. Despite the lack of respect I have for the Uppers, they do have more power than any leader of any of the realms. The ones I know of, and the ones I do not. They could strip me of my title, they could kill me. But they won’t. I am the only one in the line for the throne of Hell, and they know damn well that chaos would reign if they tried to find another.
I watch a flicker of emotion cross all of their faces. A twitch, maybe guilt? Pff, no, never. They say nothing more, and I decide to leave before I let myself burn their perfect little sky realm to ash.
By the fifth day,the healer says Daisy’s vitals are improving. Who gives a shit? She’s still unconscious, still lying there like some pathetic cautionary tale, and I’m still stuck in this fucking room with her like I’ve been cursed by some divine joke.
I sit by the window, my jaw seeming to never unclench, watching the sparkling river beneath the cliffs of Zeriavoss. Red and white blossoms fall from the trees beyond the glass, so pretty, perfect, and delicate, and I have to resist the urge to tear the curtains closed just to block it all out. The tether between us hums, low and insistent. I hate it. I hate the way it pulls at me, the way it aches in my chest. Why her? I’ve claimed hundreds of souls, thousands even. Mortals are nothing new. And this one? This broken, messy little sunbeam? She’s truly nothing special. She’s stubborn, reckless, and so very painfully fragile. She’s so loud and dramatic and evidently clingy. She infuriates me so much. And yet, the pull is like nothing I’ve ever known. It can’t be her soul trying to come to its owner, because I no longer own it. I couldn’t hold on to it. Not out of mercy—don’t mistake the act for sentimentality—but because the entire thing felt wrong, unclean. I didn’t want that in my domain. She didn’t belong in Hell, not even in punishment. And maybe I didn’t tell her because some bitter, unidentifiable part of me wanted to see what she’d do when she thought she was damned. Maybe I liked watching her squirm. Maybe I wanted her tethered to something she couldn’t escape.
Six days.
Six fucking days and she still hasn’t moved, and I still haven’t slept. I’ve barely eaten, just consuming a few bites of fruit. I’m starting to see the walls pulse, the stones themselves thrumming with the same frequency I feel inside my ribcage. The healers have stopped trying to talk to me. I stare, breathe, and wait.
At nightfall, the chamber is silent. No aides, no footsteps, just the dying crackle of the fire and the infuriating sound of her weak, steady breathing.
“I don’t understand,” I mutter to the empty room. “I do not understand what you are doing to me, little flower. But whatever it is, I want it to stop.”
I flex my hands before curling them into tight fists. I can’t sit here any longer. I need violence, I need pain.
Chapter 15
Daisy
Iwake to the feeling of my chest inhaling deeply.
