Page 27 of She Who Holds My Wrath

Smoke. Fire. Screams.

The cries of the dying bleed into the cries of the living. People calling out for loved ones they may never find. The radiant village of Cinderspine is gone. Reduced to nothing more than rubble and ash. A once lively space now just a graveyard of splintered beams and broken stone.

Aran portalled us to the edge of the fields, but even here the stench of death clings to the air, thick and unrelenting. I want to cry. Gods, I want to scream until my throat tears. But of course, I can’t. My people need their strong, powerful queen, not a weak, broken girl who crumbles at the sight of death and destruction. Daisy has no place here. Only Dasmyrin. Only the very small part of me strong enough to stand in the ruins and not shatter completely.

I force myself forwards, my shoes crunching on the gravel, the hem of my gown dragging through the soot and blood. Soldiers’ footsteps hammer down the path through the fields, armoured bodies flooding the wreckage, tearing through rubble in search of survivors. The forge is nothing but a mound of stone and smoke. The flames hiss and crackle where molten metal eats through wood. People would’ve been working in there. Strong, proud demons who turned up to work another day to be able to arm our soldiers. Gone.

I turn sharply to Aran. “The wards?” My voice is raw.

He turns to a higher palace guard that has arrived to help—his distinction noticed by his deep crimson coloured cape—and pulls him by the arm, muttering something in his pointed ear. I see the crease between his brows as the guard relays information to him. With a quick nod, Aran releases him and turns back to me.

“Still impenetrable,” he stays, his face pale and tight.

So how? How did this happen? I push forward faster, dread guiding my steps. Doing my best to ignore the screams and collapsing walls, I drag my feet through dust and debris to the place I need to see the most, the place I pray to still be standing. But when I see it, my breath halts in my lungs. The playground is a ruin, the small park crushed, its swings nothing more than twisted metal. The school itself is half standing, half a bleeding wound of rubble.

“Gods,” I whisper.

The same plump, silver-haired woman from before stumbles towards me, children clinging to her torn, dusty skirts. Her horns are streaked with ash, her face carved in panic despite doing her best to remain calm for the sake of the babes hanging to her in desperation.

“Did everyone make it out? Please tell me they’re safe.” My eyes frantically scan the small faces, searching for a familiar set of orange horns.

Her lips tremble, tears pooling in her eyes. “Theodus… he’s missing. He was running riot just before the blast. I lost him—I had to get the others out—I—” She breaks. Sobs wracking her body as she falls forward.

I catch her in my arms, holding her tight. “You saved them,” I murmur into her smoke scented hair. “Look at them. You saved them, and that’s enough. He’s a strong boy. He’ll be found, I promise.”

She nods weakly, pulling back. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Daisy,” I insist, forcing a smile through my terror and the sting in my eyes. “Just Daisy. I’ll send more soldiers to help you.”

I gesture sharply to my guards, and they rush off to find more soldiers. But my heart is still pounding, fear for Theodus clawing at me. He has to be alive. He has to. There’s not a single chance that little hellion didn’t make it out of this alive. My eyes scan every direction, desperate to see the vibrant flash of his horns. But instead, my eyes land elsewhere, and my ears ring. My chest caves as I force myself forward.

“No.” The word rips out of me, my steps stumbling. “No, no, no, no, no—” I break into a run, shoving through the crowds. “MARTA!” I scream, my throat burning. “MARTA!” A head of white hair flashes and relief floods me. I sprint forward towards her. “MARTA!”

The woman turns, searching for the source of the manic screaming. But unfamiliar blue eyes clash with mine, and I realise it’s not her. I spin, wild and frantic, my eyes tearing through the faces. She has to be here. She always is. She would outlive us all.

“Eluin!” I spot yellow hair, streaked in soot and blood, a gash slicing his temple. I run to him breathlessly and grab him by the arms. I can’t bring myself to speak, but he knows exactly what I’m asking. Sorrow fills his gaze as he looks at me, and ever so slowly, he shakes his head. Tears streak his ash-smeared face, and a look I’ve grown too familiar with haunts his eyes.

“No. Where is she?” My voice cracks with desperation.

His gaze drifts past me, tears flowing down his cheeks. I turn, following his line of sight and see two soldiers carrying a stretcher, white braids spilling over the side.

My stomach drops, the world tilting on its axis. “That’s not. No. No it’s not her.”

They lower the stretcher alongside a growing line of corpses, several feet away from the bakery. Without a single ounce of hesitation, I run to it, collapsing to my knees beside the covered body that I have convinced myself is someone else. I reach forward, but a hand stops me.

“Your Majesty… don’t,” one soldier murmurs softly.

“Daisy,” Aran’s voice is quiet, laced with pain. “You don’t have to⁠—”

“I have to,” I whisper, my trembling hand reaching for the sheet that covers her.

My fingers clutch at the fabric and slowly pull down, my breath stilled in my lungs as I brace myself for the worst. The world around me fades. The shouting of guards. The crackle of distant flames. The frantic clatter of boots against stone. All of it dulls, like someone has plunged my head beneath dark water. The sounds stretch thin and distant until there is nothing left but the frantic pounding of my own heart, and the shallow scrape of air entering my lungs.

The sheet rustles softly as it moves beneath my trembling hands. I pull it down just enough. Her face appears from beneath the cloth. And for a moment, I can’t breathe. Marta. Her kind, wrinkled face is still. The familiar softness of her expression has not left her, even now. Blood streaks the corner of her lips, dark and dried against the skin dusted with ash. A smear of soot cuts across her cheekbones, and there are tiny flecks of stone tangled in the silver strands of her hair. But even in death—even broken by fire and falling stone—Marta looks… warm. Gentle. Like she’s only sleeping, and at any moment she might wake, wipe the flour from her hands, and scold me for kneeling in the dirt like some foolish child instead of being inside where it’s warm.

My vision blurs. My gaze drifts without permission, tracing the familiar lines of her face as though my mind can’t accept what I’m seeing. The deep laugh lines carved around her mouth. The faint crease lines between her brows that would appear when she pretended to be stern. The small burn scar along her jaw. Memories of Marta wrapping me in a hug that smelled like cinnamon and sugar from just hours ago flicker through my mind like shards of broken glass.

Gone. She’s… gone.