_described by High Priestess of Vahlo Lady Postuma of House Juni as ‘shadowbound,’ a unique form of sacrilege occurring only in certain shadow-born in which the sacredorderof the Codex is torn asunder, granting extraordinary powers. Athreat to the very fabric of magic and therefore the world, the shadowbound must be sought out and destroyed,regardless of royal ties. See also Queen Julia I
“That wasn’t there before.” Ronan has underlined the missing text that has been revealed, but he didn’t need to. I’ve read this piece of paper a hundred times.
“It’s not the only one. Look.” Ronan hands me one of my mother’s journals, using his light to render the original text legible:
And lo, Vayla, the giver of life, decreed that into this world would be those born with the powerto end it.For all thingsmust end, and all must turn to shadow, even her sacred light. In this, she joined with her lover, Vahlo, the guardian of the underworld in the holiest of the holy lands. And they delivered their message to the prophet, ‘Let not our holy disciples fear the end, for from this night a new day will dawn. And all will be reunited in the kingdom of the gods.’
Ronan watches me reading, his eyes hopeful. “See? It says not to fear the end. It’s not about death; it’s rebirth. Transformation.”
“In the kingdom of the gods?” That doesn’t sound a lot like the world as we know it. It sounds like the underworld or the realm beyond our own where the gods dwell. “Does that mean we all have to die to get there?”
“This was recorded a hundred years after the prophet supposedly received the message. I don’t think the literal words matter as much as the point. If this was an arrangement of the gods, their ambition for the world, then who are we to fight it?”
Ronan has dark shadows under his eyes. He looks as though he’s been awake for hours, reading by candlelight. I tuck his hair back behind his ear, and he closes his eyes at my touch. “Why don’t you have a bath? I’ll make us some breakfast. We can talk about it once you’ve eaten something.”
“Sylvie.” His voice is softly urgent. He grips my hand, and I know what he’s going to ask before he asks it. “Do you believe me? Do you think I’m right, and there’s a way we can use this?” His voice chokes in a way that crushes me. “Together?”
“I—” I don’t know. “Let me read for a while. I’ll catch up to you while you bathe.”
“You first,” he says, unable to tear himself away. He’s certain there’s something on this table that will convince me. And gods, I hope he’s right.
I leave him to it while I wash the blood and soot and dirt from my body and change back into my own clothes, trying to do something with my ruined hair. Ronan hears me throw the comb into the mirror and comes to see what’s wrong.
“You can barely even tell,” he says, coming up behind me and looking at my reflection. “If you just pin it behind your ear—” He picks up a pin from the dresser and slides it in place. It’s a little clumsy, some of the hair poking out at a weird angle, but I know he means well.
I look into his hopeful eyes, sensing the fear that underpins our every interaction. Gods, I love him so much. I don’t want to hurt him.
“Sylvie, please,” he says, sensing my shift in mood. He kneels in front of my dressing stool, taking my hands in his. He strokes the ring on my left hand. The ring he gave me when he asked me to be his wife. “Just tell me what you’re thinking. I can handle it.”
“I’m thinking…” My voice catches. I look away quickly before the tears can fall. Ronan tightens his grip on my hands as my voice goes tiny and weak. “I’m thinking that I can’t let you die, Ronan. I just can’t.”
“I’m not going to die—”
“You don’t know that! You can’t know that. Those papers in there aren’t answers. They’re guesses, rumors, superstitions. There’s only one answer to this, and it lies with us. In what we decide. In what we do. I don’t know what this power is or what it means, but I know what it feels like. It doesn’t feel like rebirth. It feels like death. And Icannotlet that happen. Iwill notlet you die.”
“It doesn’t feel like death to me. Search my feelings, Sylvie.” He presses my hand to his chest, and I sob when I feel his heartbeat under my fingertips. “I’m not lying. It doesn’t feel that way to me. Maybe it feels that way to you because of Vahlo. It said you were Vahlo’s child. Maybe you only feel the death partof this.” He lifts my other hand to his cheek. “But feel this. Feel me. Tell me this doesn’t feel good to you. It doesn’t feel like death. It feels like hope.”
I can’t tell him it doesn’t feel good to me to touch him because that would be the worst kind of lie. And the feelings he shares with me are exactly as he says. Beyond it, even. “It doesn’t feel like hope, Ronan. It feels likehome.”
He kisses me then, tentative and restrained. Uncertain of my response.
I kiss him back, hard. I wrap myself around him, holding him as tight as I can, never, ever wanting to let him go.
But I know that I must, and I know he can feel it too.
“Please don’t let me go,” he says.
“Ronan.” I sigh, trying to catch my breath through my tears. “Ronan, Selara needs you. This world needs you. You’re the only one who can save it, the only one who can fix things—”
“Selara needsus. Weare the ones to save it. I know it. I’ve been certain since we met. It’s meant to be us. You and me.”
Since we met. Since he felt me in the palace. Or maybe since he felt me in my mother’s womb. We were drawn together, destined for each other, pulled together by fate for a purpose. For this purpose, maybe. “But what if that’s all this is? You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. What if our destiny, this prophecy, what if it’s the only reason we’re together?”
I hate myself for saying it the second the words leave my mouth. I’ve thought it—of course I’ve thought it. Back when I was fighting against feelings that tore me from my family and everything I’ve ever known. Back when I felt like he was doing something to draw me in, that I was falling for him not because of my own choice, my own desire, but because of some external force compelling me to him, whether guided by his hand or not.
But when I say it now, when I admit to something I’m certain he knows I’ve thought about, it feels as though I’ve slapped him. Worse, even.
It feels as though I’ve stabbed him through the heart.
