Page 13 of She Who Holds My Wrath

“He’s alive,” Sariya says quickly, but her warm tone is weighted. “He’s… in the dungeons.”

“WHAT?”

“We’ll explain on the way,” Elyistria murmurs, already turning towards the palace.

I fall into step between them, leather pants rustling with each hurried stride. “You locked him up? Why? As queen, I should’ve⁠—”

Sariya takes my hand gently as we continue walking. “Please, Daisy. Understand that we acted in your best interest. Aran is not who we believed him to be. He has betrayed us. Betrayed you.”

“No.” My voice is sharp, certain. “Aran would never.”

But my stomach twists when Elyistria adds, “He’s with Velentha.”

I stop dead. “Velentha—as in the Divine Six Velentha?”

“The very same,” Sariya says grimly.

“And you locked them… together?”

“He begged us to save her,” Elyistria explains. “She came into the war room bleeding, and he pleaded for her life. Once she was stable, we secured them both in the dungeons for questioning.”

My pulse pounds in my ears. I don’t believe it. I can’t. Not Aran.

Whilst we resume our hurried walk to the dungeons, Sariya and Elyistria continue to fill me in on the information they know. The grimoire, Velentha being stabbed, and Aran’s desperate pleas. As we approach the dungeon, it also occurs to me that I didn’t even realise this freaking place had one. It’s Hell… surely anyone deserving of a dungeon would just end up in Gehenna?

We stand outside the doors, and I wipe my sweat-slicked palms across my trousers, not having the chance to change from my fighting gear.

“Ultimately, it is your choice what happens to them both, Daisy. But Aran is now deemed a traitor,” Elyistria murmurs as she pushes open the door.

“He is no such thing until I hear his side,” I mutter, waking past her down into the damp space beneath the castle.

The torches flicker against the stone walls as I descend. My boots echo on the steps, each one heavier than the last. My eyes adjust to the poorly lit space, and that’s when I see them. Velentha first—curled up against the bars. Her usual hooded cloak is gone, her chin length, midnight-black hair reflecting the torchlight. She looks so small, so… not-godlike at all. Then I spot Aran, kneeling beside her in the next cell, his hand cupping her cheek. My heart cracks at the sight. Not because my friend is sat behind bars in my dungeon, but because they were right. He clearly cares for her, which makes him a traitor.

I walk towards them, both glancing over at me before quickly pushing to their feet. My eyes dart between them, anger and betrayal swimming through me as I stare at one of the people responsible for my husband’s death. I notice she’s swaying slightly on her feet, but I can’t bring myself to have an ounce of care for her wellbeing. I feel the heat flicker across my skin, my white flame suddenly dancing along my entire body, illuminating the dungeon in an eerie white glow as anger takes over any form of logical thinking.

“Daisy,” Aran murmurs. “Please. Let me explain.”

“You betrayed me?” My voice shakes. “Betrayed Korithax?”

“No! Never. Please, just hear me out.”

I close my eyes, my chest heaving as I force myself to breathe. I can’t just burn him on the spot. There has to be a reason for all of this. A reason why he was cradling her cheek in his palm like she’s the love of his life. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. For a heartbeat, I swear I hear Korithax’s deep voice in my head. “Hear him out, little flower.”

I feel tears build beneath my closed lids as his voice caresses my mind. I take another deep inhale before letting it out on a shaky breath. I slowly open my eyes, feeling my flame vanishing back beneath my skin. I still feel it—the power—writhing, desperate for release. But not yet. I owe it to my king.

I nod once on a shaky exhale. “Korithax would want to hear you out. Explain yourself.”

I stare in utter shock as he starts to explain everything. The secret alliance with Velentha. The stolen Særathi grimoire. The near-execution. Pieces of a puzzle I didn’t even know existed start to fall into place, and with each word, my stomach knots tighter.

“They aren’t powerful enough to use all of the magic in the grimoire,” Aran states, giving me a slight reprieve from the anxiety building within my chest.

Velentha steps closer to the bars on shaking legs, her voice low but steady. “There are things we cannot tell you yet. But I can tell you this: the Divine Six have built an army of ten thousand. And they’ve already used two spells from the grimoire.”

“Which?” I manage, my voice rough.

“Waking the Dormant,” she says, “and Godbinding.”

The dungeon is deathly quiet, just the crackling of the torches and a distant drip drip drip echoing around the cavernous space.