Page 3 of She Who Holds My Wrath

“Oh, that’s right. You just screamed like a dying bastard when Korithax set you alight for behaving like the filth you are.” She sneers.

I tense, awaiting a retaliation. Instead, he flares his nostrils and leans back in his chair once more, deciding against battling with the Mother of Mists. Thank the gods. I say nothing. I’ve never needed to say much to be heard. And that’s the thing about people—they always talk too loud when they’re afraid. And right now? They’re terrified. They should be.

I glance to the side. Elyistria is watching me again, suspicion flickering behind her calm facade. It’s subtle, but something tells me she’s realising who I am, or who I am not. She’s not fully understanding, but she knows enough to be wary, which leaves a feeling of unease in my chest.

When the meeting dissolves, it’s not with unity—it’s with uncertainty. With fear. With the anxiety of not knowing what happens next.

Lucifer stretches his long limbs like a cat, already halfway to the door. “Well, I’m off to pretend I care. Let me know when the world finally ends.”

Vor’Khar leaves like a storm out the door, lightning crackling at his heels. Virena floats through it in a swirl of haze, and Kaelith stalks out, muttering under his breath, clearly still irked about his altercation with the Mother of Mists. That leaves three—Elyistria, Sariya, and me.

Elyistria steps closer, her icy blue eyes burning directly into my soul. “We need to talk.”

Sariya nods once, the wildflowers in her hair spilling petals as her bouncy afro shifts. “Privately.”

I nod to the guards once, in a silent demand to leave, the sound of the door clicking shut filling the tension-filled room.

“You’ve been withholding information,” Elyistria says without preamble. “Even now. Even in the face of this war, you keep secrets, Aran.”

“Yes,” I reply casually, though my body is tense.

Sariya’s usual warm and kind face is set like a storm, her jaw clenching. “You admit it?”

“I don’t see the point in lying anymore. You’d see through the facade eventually.”

They exchange a look. Goddess of Light and Magic, and the Goddess of Sun. Together, they could crush entire legions with a thought, despite both of their powers not being quite what they used to. Something shifted with their magic once Dasmyrin was eradicated. Like a part of them died with her. Neither of them has said it outright, but I’ve seen it. I’ve seen the way Elyistria can no longer conjure magic the way she once did. She does not breathe magic into beings anymore. Just like I suspect Daisy, despite harnessing Dasmyrin’s power of flame, cannot conjure worlds or realms anymore.

Neither of them move as they stand silently assessing me. On a shaking exhale, I reach into my jacket and pull out the thick book that feels like it’s burning a hole into my side the more I keep it hidden. Leather—bound in scales darker than night and etched in runes—pulses with faint light in my slightly trembling hands.

I set it down gently on the table in front of us. “This is what we need.”

Sariya looks down at the book in confusion. “And that is?”

“A grimoire,” I say. “Særathi-born. Written before this universe even came to be.”

Elyistria steps forwards, reverent but wary. “Where did you get this?”

“That’s not the question you should be asking.”

“Then what is?”

“Can you trust me enough for us to use it?” I ask.

The silence that follows is sharp, telling me what I feared. They don’t trust me. At all. I can’t blame them, after all, I have just handed them a book older than even themselves and asked them to blindly have faith in me. I try to explain, but Sariya speaks before I can.

“You are not who we thought.”

I meet her gaze. “No, I’m not. But I promise you, I am exactly what you need.”

A sharp knock echoes into the silence that’s settled over the war room. Then another, urgently pounding.

“Enter,” I call, voice taut.

A palace guard throws open the door, his chest heaving. “It’s Queen Daisy. She’s awake⁠—”

Elyistria is already moving, Sariya close behind as they both push towards the guard in urgency, their elegant gowns swishing behind them.

“She won’t let the healers near her,” the guard continues. “They said she’s… she’s not herself. She’s screaming. Her hands—gods, her hands are lit with uncontrollable fire.”