Page 113 of She Who Holds My Wrath

“Enough,” I say quietly, my voice trembling.

But he doesn’t stop. “She sacrificed herself for what?” His voice cracks as he gets louder, tears brimming in his eyes. “For a king who won’t rule? A husband who won’t stay by his wife’s side?”

The words hit, my chest aching from the hatred in his tone. But I hold my ground, raising my chin. “He is here,” I say. “He is fighting. Just not in the way you want.”

Aran stares at me like he doesn’t recognise me at all. Then he turns and leaves with an animalistic sound of fury. The door slams behind him, the echo ringing through the chamber.

No one speaks for several long seconds, and all I can do is stare at the now empty space where Aran stood.

Virena finally exhales. “Grief makes cowards of us all.”

“And warriors,” Vor’Khar counters.

I straighten, feeling the weight settle fully onto my shoulders. “Korithax will find his way. Or he won’t. Either way, the war is coming.” I look at each of them in turn. “And whether he stands beside me or not, Hell will be ready. I will be ready.”

The courtyard is packed by the time I step out onto the balcony. The throne room was not large enough to accommodate every soul that turned up today to hear me speak. The warm air blows through my hair as I stare out at the crowd below. They’re standing, waiting for answers to the rumours now spreading like wildfire through the realm.

I lift my chin. “Yes,” I say clearly, not waiting to get to the point. “Your King has returned.”

Before I can even continue, a roar erupts. People cheering and stamping their feet in celebration. Demons of every age and species cry in joy at the news, and my heart aches. If he could see this now, see how loved he was, would it make a difference?

“However,” I continue loud enough to be heard over the noise. “He will not stand beside me right now.” The cheers falter, and the weight of thousands of eyes upon me has blood roaring in my ears. “He is healing. And he deserves time. We know war is coming. And we know it will land here. This war began with me, and they will try to end it with me. With my kingdom.”

A ripple of unease moves through the crowd, and I do everything in me not to fidget. Instead, I focus on the way my blood-red gown softly flutters around me in the warm breeze. The way the sun kisses my skin, like my mom is watching down on me with pride in her heart, just like she did in Solara.

“I will not allow you to suffer for my defiance,” I vow, every single word from my heart. “I will find safety for those of you who wish to leave. And for those who choose to stay—I will protect you.”

A man with deep purple horns and ebony skin raises his hands into the air, his fingers forming the triangle of Korithax’s sigil. Just like I had done in the throne room after he died. “I was made here,” he says firmly. “And I will die here.”

Another set of hands rises, the same sigil held high. “Me too.”

And another. “I can’t fight, but I can help.”

Over and over, their hands raise in solidarity, a sea of formed triangles looking back at me. Demons, both male and female, and those who are neither, raising to fight for their realm, to fight for their home.

Tears fill my eyes as I look out at my people. “Then there will be no judgement,” I say thickly. “Only choice. If you wish to stay, we thank you. If you wish to leave, we will help you.”

They cheer, embracing each other and smiling despite the oncoming slaughter. They believe. And as their voices rise around me, as hope sparks dangerously bright in their eyes—I feel it. Like fingers brushing the back of my neck. A ripple of foreign magic. A presence was listening that did not belong.

We weren’t alone.

Aran has avoided me for two days straight.

Not subtly either. After the council meeting, he’s gone out of his way to not see me. He changes corridors when he sees me coming. Leaves rooms the second I enter. Sends Maelkar to relay information instead of speaking to me directly. It’s childish, and it’s dangerous, because we do not have the luxury of fracture within our court right now.

But Aran wasn’t the only one avoiding me. Korithax had vanished just as completely. But I couldn’t deal with both of them right now. I had to deal with one fracture at a time. And currently, Aran was the one I could still reach. So, I’ve done the only logical thing I can think of: I corner him in a place he can’t escape.

Lyvia, sweet little traitor that she is, quietly informed me he’d buried himself in one of the lower archive halls of Sovarith. So that’s exactly where I went.

The journey through the Council Spires feels like stepping inside the bones of memory itself. Towering blackstone corridors that stretch endlessly overhead, their walls carved with ancient script that seems to shift faintly when I’m not directly looking at it. Lanterns filled with trapped bright blue soulflame burn in iron brackets, casting long, wavering shadows across polished floors. Every footstep echoes for far too long.

The lower archive halls are worse. Rows upon rows of towering shelves rise into the darkness, crammed with scrolls, ledgers, sealed contracts, bone-white tablets, and books bound in things I choose not to identify. Memory-stone pillars line the aisles, whispering softly with fragments of names and old confessions when brushed by passing air. Lyvia had warned me not to get too close to those. The scent of ink, dust, wax, and old parchment hangs thick enough to taste. It’s a graveyard for secrets and history. And right in the middle of it, sits Aran.

He’s half-buried in scrolls at a vast obsidian desk, his shoulders tight, and his jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. He looks terrible. His usual pristine black hair is a tousled mess, like he’s dragged his hands through it a hundred times and hasn’t cared enough to fix it. Dark shadows bruise the skin beneath his eyes, even deeper than when I saw him last. Heavy stubble has grown along his jaw where he usually keeps only the neatest dusting. His shirt is creased, collar open, sleeves unevenly rolled. I’ll be the first to admit Aran is usually breathtakingly beautiful and well put together. But currently, he looks like grief materialised itself into a living form, and dressed itself in a man’s dishevelled body in the form of Aran.

He freezes the second he senses me. Slowly, his gaze flicks to the single narrow staircase behind me, then to the shelves hemming him in on either side.

“Don’t,” he says immediately, not even bothering to look at me. “I’m busy.”