Page 17 of She Who Holds My Wrath

The crack in my tone feels like a fracture down my spine—weakness showing despite my best efforts to remain collected. I should not be showing fragility in a realm that is all about brutality. My hands tighten in my lap until my knuckles turn white, aching slightly from the pressure. I subconsciously seek out the goddesses, desperate for a sliver of comfort. Across the hall, Elyistria and Sariya each give me a subtle nod, steadying me with their gaze.

I inhale slowly, raising my chin. “Not only did you lose your king—you were left with a queen you do not yet know. A queen you have not had the chance to trust. I know I have big shoes to fill. Korithax was more than a king—he was a warrior, a shield, a blade. He stood between you and every threat. And I promise you this—” my voice hardens “—I will do the same.”

Movement catches my eye, and I my gaze drifts to a stocky man in the front row. He has curling yellow horns that match the bright gold of his eyes, with a pale complexion. He’s scowling, and as my eyes scan around him, I realise he’s not alone. Low murmurs drift through the hall, doubt rippling through pockets of the crowd like a sour wind. A woman with ivory horns leans towards her neighbour, whispering behind her hand. Another shakes his head slowly, arms crossed. I notice the counsellors writing down not only my words, but the way the crowd is reacting. They don’t believe a queen can match a king.

Fine. Then I’ll show them.

I rise to my feet, the heels of my shoes clicking sharply on the marble, each step a deliberate strike as I move to the very edge of the dais.

“I am not Korithax,” I say, my voice ringing across the hall. “I have not fought in wars or slain great beasts. At least, not in this lifetime. But I have before.” I let the words hang for a beat, my gaze sweeping the room. “I am not Dasmyrin. But she is in me. And I am in her. It took time to accept that, but I feel her now, growing stronger with each day.”

I lift my hands, letting the power coil up my arms and bloom into pale fire at my fingertips. I focus, praying to anyone listening that my flame doesn’t have a mind of its own like usual. I need to show them I can rule. I need to show them I am powerful, even if I don’t feel like it. Please just listen to me this once. Please don’t try and burn the whole freaking palace down.

“I was mortal-born. But I’m no longer that girl. I am the reborn immortal queen.” My voice drops, fierce and steady, despite my trembling pulse. “The Divine Six are not who you think they are. I created them alongside my sister, Elyistria. We built the realms you walk upon, the skies you look up to. And they betrayed us. They betrayed you. They stole your king, my husband, and they will take more if we let them.”

The stillness is electric now. Every eye is fixed on me. I can feel Dasmyrin in my veins—an ancient, steady flame bolstering me.

“I am not Dasmyrin. I am Daisy. And I will protect you. I will train every day, sharpen my blade and my magic so that when the time comes, we will meet them with fire and fury. I am not Korithax, but I hold his wrath. This is bigger than our realm. Our entire universe is under threat. The Divine Six have grown greedy, drunk on power. And I promise you, under my watch, their reign ends here.”

I let the fire fade from my hands, my voice cutting through the quiet. “War is coming. And we will not be on the losing side. I am not only your queen, but I am also your protector. Under my rule, the corrupt will fall, tyrants will burn, and Zeriavoss will rise stronger than ever. We will not succumb to dictatorship. We will rise. We will fight. We will win.”

For a heartbeat, there’s only silence and the pounding of my own pulse in my ears. Then Lucifer stands. “All hail Queen Daisy,” he calls, his sinful smile aimed right at me. I know his words are not sincere, but he’ll do anything to make himself the centre of attention. If only for a moment. But despite it, his words have an effect, because the room explodes. “All hail Queen Daisy!”

They rise to their feet, voices booming, feet stamping against the cold stone floor. The sound swells until the very air vibrates with it. I glance back at Aran. Pride softens the lines of his face, a glimmer in his emerald eyes that warms my heart. Turning to face the crowd once more, I bring my hands together, thumbs and forefingers forming the sharp triangle of his sigil. I raise it above my head, the weight of it anchoring me in who I fight for. I stare out at the crowd, my chin raised high.

“For Korithax,” I say, my voice breaking—but not with weakness. It breaks with the weight of what the symbol above my head carries. It breaks with pride as well as fear. With honour and commitment to the man that should be stood by my side. For him, I will do everything it takes to see this kingdom rise.

The chant roars back at me, deafening. “For Korithax!”

Thousands of hands rise, triangles held high, a sea of sharp edges and fierce loyalty to not only the man who stole my heart, but to me. The woman who will continue his legacy, no matter what.

Chapter 8

The door closes without a sound.

No slam. No click of a lock. Just the suffocating hush that comes when the world decides it will not follow you any farther. The air here tastes old. Older than kingdoms, older than gods. Every breath carries the weight of centuries, as if the stones themselves are holding their breath.

The path is narrow, carved from black rock that swallows the torchlight whole. The flame in her hand burns small, as though reluctant to show her the way. Walls loom close, wet with condensation, the slick sheen reflecting strange shapes that vanish when she tries to look at them. Her steps are soundless. She is not sure if it’s the stone, or herself.

Somewhere deep ahead, a pulse shivers through the air. Slow and steady, almost like a heartbeat. It pulls at her, urging her forward. She passes carvings so cracked their meaning has long since fled, yet the grooves hum faintly beneath her fingertips. Her skin prickles. This place remembers.

The tunnel opens into a cavern. The air is thicker here, almost liquid, clinging to her skin. The torch’s light brushes the edges of an altar with marble veined with something darker than stone. Something that seems to drink light instead of reflecting it.

And on it… a shape. Shrouded. Still. The space around it bends, as if the world refuses to touch what rests there. Even the air moves differently—slower, heavier—like a tide drawn back from the shore before a storm.

She does not speak at first. There’s no need. Whatever lies here is beyond words.

But alas, her voice finally finds her, quiet as a prayer. “The world is breaking,” she says to the lifeless shape. “They are not ready for what comes. But… perhaps she is.”

No answer comes, but the air shifts, a whisper-soft disturbance against her cheek. Her throat tightens. She curls her fingers around the edge of the altar, grounding herself against the strange weight of the room.

“They will not find you,” she continues. “Not yet. Not until the time is right.”

The torchlight flickers violently. She glances at it, frowning. Then, she stills. A sound. Barely there. A breath. Her chest aches. She steps back quickly, the hair along her arms standing on end. Remaining here any longer would be dangerous. The air feels heavier by the second, as if something means to anchor her here with it.

She turns and retraces her steps, not looking back. The door seals behind her as silently as it opened, shutting the darkness away.

But she swears she still feels that breath, ghosting against her skin long after she’s gone.