Wren didn’t grow up in the palace, but she’s seen my father’s darkness. Witnessed his rage, been the target of his fury. Things I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy, let alone the woman who has stolen my heart.
The seer sighs, the sound filled with years of pain.
“The darkness festered and grew, a starving monster that was never satisfied.” The mist thickens. “It was, and is, a living being. When it first took root, hundreds of years ago, it started eating away at its hosts. Ravenous, it devoured every piece of goodness in their hearts until none remained.”
My stomach writhes. This story can’t have a good ending, but something within me warns I don’t know the worst of it.
My bond with Mist stirs, and I can sense my familiar’s curiosity. I assure her that I’m all right and that I’ll see her tonight before returning my attention to what’s unfolding in front of me.
More mist contorts above Evelyn’s hands as she spins her fingers. An opaque dagger made of magic hovers above her palm. It looks so real that if I hadn’t seen her form it, I never would’ve guessed its origin. The thin blade is over a foot long, silver in color with a faint purple sheen, and wilting roses are engraved on the hilt.
“After that, it wasn’t long before the first Harvest took place. When the first drops of blood were shed, darkness rooted itself in the land. It grew like a weed, and it hasn’t gone anywhere.”
Plucking the dagger out of the air, Evelyn runs her index finger along the hilt. A heaviness settles upon my shoulders, and drawing air is difficult.
“I’ve heard that term before,” Wren murmurs. “A Harvest.”
The seer pauses, her finger tracing the silver blade, but she doesn’t look up. “I know.”
“But I thought... I thought it was a dream.” Wren touches the half-inch raised pink scar on her neck. “Or a nightmare,” she adds in a hushed whisper.
Evelyn inclines her head. “I saw that in your memories. But it was neither of those.”
Wren swallows, her hand prodding at mine. She laces our fingers together, clinging to me as though I’m the only thing keeping her on this side of sane.
“What is a Harvest?” My words are quiet, and my stomach churns as dread fills me. I have a feeling I already know the answer, but I need to hear it out loud—need her to confirm the depths of the darkness I already suspect exist in my father’s heart.
“You know what it is, Hunter Moreau,” Evelyn says sternly. “Both of you do. Only, you know it by another name. A false one that plays on the gods’ gifts to us, one that was created long ago to appease the masses.”
The walls shudder, closing in on me. Everything seems too tight. Too small.
It’s funny, because I swear that some of the fear I’m feeling comes from outside myself. Terror coats my tongue, so thick I can barely open my mouth, and I’m not sure that it’s mine.
Then Wren says in a strangled whisper, “The Giving Ceremony.”
33
RAGE IS A LIVING CREATURE
KING ANDREAS
Rage is a living, breathing creature writhing beneath my skin as I storm up the white marble steps leading into Esyn’s temple. My collarbone feels like it’s on fire, and crimson sparks fly off my fingertips.
An eagle’s cry fills the air, and as I reach the landing of the holy space, sharp talons dig into my shoulder. My bonded familiar’s presence does not bring peace or temper the rage coursing through my veins.
I am anger, and anger is me. I will never know calm, not now. Not while they are still free.
“Alette!” I shove open the temple doors, uncaring that they slam into the walls with a resounding boom. “Where the fuck are you?!”
Each breath feels hot as though flames are clawing at my throat. Fury tinges my vision red. My breath comes in short bursts as I storm through the vacant temple. The moons are hidden behind a veil of clouds, casting the holy space in shadows and darkness. The pews are empty, and the stone altar at the front fucking mocks me.
That gods-damned head priestess still hasn’t shown her face. I know she’s here—every priest and priestess, along with their acolytes, reside in the temples of their chosen god.
“Alette!” I shout at the top of my lungs, picking up a prayer booklet and throwing it at the nearest wall. “So help me gods, if you don’t show your face?—”
“Calm down, Andreas.” The words come from behind me, mockingly sweet. That bitch. “I’m right here.”
I don’t know who the fuck Alette thinks she’s fooling with that simpering tone of hers, because she and I both know she is nothing if not blackhearted to her core. I’ve seen her standing in pools of blood more times than I can count, a smile on her face as she revels in the clear-headedness that comes from participating in the Harvest.
