Page 119 of She Who Holds My Wrath

I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I cannot be anywhere near her. So I carry on walking when I see a thin line of light spilling out beneath the war room door. One torch still burning inside when it should have been extinguished hours ago. The door itself sits slightly ajar, as if whoever is inside didn’t bother closing it properly. Or didn’t care enough to.

I slow without meaning to, curiosity getting the better of me. I shouldn’t go in there. I know that instinctively. It’s not my kingdom anymore, which means it’s not my war room. But something in my chest twists, familiar and heavy, and before I can talk myself out of it, I push the door open.

Aran is seated at the table, hunched over what I assume is the grimoire everyone keeps muttering about, shoulders rounded, forearms braced against ancient pages as if he’s holding himself upright by sheer force alone. His black hair hangs loose around his forehead, uncombed, with dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. He looks… ruined. Like a man who hasn’t slept since the world practically ended, and doesn’t plan to start now. He doesn’t look up at first, just continuing to stare at the pages like they might finally give him the answers he’s been seeking if he glares hard enough.

I clear my throat, the sound echoing softly through the room. Aran stiffens, fingers curling into the parchment. A little too slowly, he lifts his head and our eyes meet.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The air between us is dense with everything unsaid. With Velentha. With Daisy. With months we spent helpless—him trapped in grief and helping a queen rise to power, and me trapped in death.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Aran says finally. His voice is rough, stripped bare in a way I’ve never heard from him before.

“Neither should you,” I reply quietly.

He scoffs and drags a hand down his face, fingers pressing hard over tired eyes. “Someone has to figure this out.”

I glance at the grimoire spread open in front of him. The runes inked across the yellowed pages shimmer faintly, shifting as though sentient. Old magic that’s hungry, and the kind that always demands more than it gives.

“She would’ve told you to stop,” I say.

His jaw locks instantly, a pulse of resentment rolling from him sharp enough to taste. “She’s not here to tell me anything.”

The words hit just as he had intended. Though I can’t tell whether the bitterness is aimed at me, or her, or at the cruel fact of her absence. Maybe all three. It hurts, regardless.

I step further into the room, the door closing softly behind me. “She wouldn’t want you destroying yourself.”

He lets out a hollow laugh. “Funny. Because that’s exactly what she did to me.” His eyes lift, glass bright and furious. “She fucking destroyed me.”

I flinch at his tone. This is a side to Aran I have never known. He’s always been measured, calm, the steady hand in the chaos. The reasonable brother with the kind heart. This Aran is grief in human form. Jagged, bleeding, and dangerous in ways swords never are.

Aran pushes back from the table abruptly, the chair scraping against the stone. “She believed in you,” he snaps. “She believed in us. And now you won’t even⁠—”

“I know,” I cut in, my voice low but steady. “I know.”

“Daisy already told me what happened to you,” Aran says suddenly. “She told me what you saw. What you endured. And I know I should have more compassion for that.” His face twists with self-disgust. “I know I should.” His hands curl into fists at his side. “But every time I think of her dying alone so you could come back…” his voice splinters. “I can’t help being angry, anyway.”

The honesty of it knocks the breath from me. “You should be angry,” I murmur. “I am too.”

His expression falters for just a second, as though he hadn’t expected that answer. “I watched her die, Aran. I felt it too. I felt her soul burn itself apart to pull me back.”

My hands brace against the edge of the table because if I don’t anchor myself, I may splinter too. “And I have to live with that,” I continue, my voice barely audible as I try to hold on to the emotions warring within me. “With knowing I came back… wrong.”

Silence stretches between us. Aran’s anger doesn’t vanish, but something else creeps in beneath it. As though he’s understanding.

Hi shoulders sag, just a fraction. “I don’t know how to do this without her.”

The words are so small they nearly don’t sound like him. “I know. But you will.”

That breaks something in him. His breath shudders as he sinks back into the chair, rubbing at his eyes like he’s trying to keep himself together through sheer stubbornness.

“I’m angry,” he admits quietly. “At you. At her. At the gods. At myself.”

“I know,” I murmur. “You’re allowed to be.”

He looks up at me then, really looks at me. At the shadows coiled beneath my skin. At the fracture in my presence that wasn’t there before.

“And you?” he asks. “What are you allowed to be?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Terrified.”