Page 34 of She Who Holds My Wrath

“Many things,” I admit softly. “But not all were bad.” I rise onto my tiptoes, brushing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “It can end well. It will. I promise.”

“Velentha,” he breathes, his forehead pressing to mine, his voice shaking. “If they touch you, if they even try, I’ll kill them all.”

A laugh slips from me, small and a little too fragile. I brush my nose against his. “Always one for theatrics, my darling. Come. Let me dress, and we’ll get this over with.”

He exhales slowly. It’s unsteady and sounds a little defeated, but after a moment, he offers a small nod. I turn away toward the guest wardrobe, half-smiling, half-aching, to choose an outfit fit for my potential funeral.

I choose plain black pants, a simple black tunic, and a cloak. Nothing regal, nothing ostentatious. Just something light—something I can move in, something I can hide in if it comes to that. If they decide to strike, I’d rather flee than fight. Whatever happens in that room, Daisy needs them united. The realms need them united. Taking a life to preserve my own is not on the cards today. And gods help me, I pray it isn’t on the cards for Aran, either. The energy radiating from him is suffocating. He’s a storm barely contained, a ticking time bomb with every second pushing him closer to detonation.

“Ready, aeshira—my love?” I murmur, sliding my hand into his.

His grip tightens instantly, but he manages a small smile at my use of the ancient Særathi language I’d learned, just for him. Just for us. He lets out an exasperated sigh. “To walk you into the den of wolves? Never. But I don’t have a choice, do I? We’ll portal straight to the door. No one else sees you until I say so.”

I nod once and pull up the hood of my cloak, watching as he uses his magic to summon the magical doorway. Shimmering light swirls open, revealing the heavy door of the war room on the other side. We step through together, hand in hand, our shoulders squared as we prepare for possible doom. The guards stationed outside straighten instantly at the sight of us. My hood stays pulled low over my face; the less of me they see, the safer it is. At least, until Aran has made it clear I’m not a threat. Or until I’m running for my life. Either way, I guess.

“Aran,” one of the guards greets, his voice gruff.

Aran doesn’t reply. Instead, he clamps his hand tighter around mine—so tight I’m sure he’s bruising the skin beneath. He pushes the door open with his free hand, keeping me tucked firmly behind him, but never letting go. My own personal shield.

Before we left, he warned me: keep the hood up, no matter what. Vor’Khar especially is prone to acting first and thinking later. The room stills as we step inside, falling into utter silence. The only sound is the click of the door closing behind us, and my thundering pulse in my ears.

Chapter 17

DAISY

Darkness.

I’m not sure if I’m asleep or dead. Maybe both. Something is dragging me down, deeper and deeper until even the sound of my own screams vanish into nothing. I try to move, but my limbs are heavy. I try to breathe, but my chest doesn’t rise. I’m suspended. Caught between one world and the next.

And then the voices come.

Whispers, too faint to make out, curling through the black like smoke. Some sound like Korithax. Some sound almost familiar. Some sound like children crying for their mothers. All of them slip just beyond my reach, no matter how desperately I try to claw my way toward them.

A throne flickers in the dark. White flame one second, obsidian the next.

“Little flower.”

I turn towards the sound. Korithax’s voice was usually smoke and sin, and wicked laughter. But here, it’s something else entirely. It’s an anchor, steady and unyielding, grounding me in a way only he could. It sounds the way it used to when he believed I could be more than what I was. The sound brushes against my ribs, and every broken piece inside my chest rattles violently at the simple, impossible reality of seeing him again.

“Kori?” My voice doesn’t carry. It falls, like a pebble in a bottomless well.

The darkness ripples around me. A presence forms—him, almost. Not a him, so much, but the pressure of being held from behind, the ghost of heat at my throat where his mouth used to find me, the quiet he placed in my head when the world was loud. I reach behind. My hand is light. My hand is lead. He is near enough to touch, and yet a lifetime away. The dark swings like a slow censor, and when it settles, someone else appears in front of me.

Marta. White braids. Flour on her cheek. She’s not dead here. Or maybe she is, and this is the part of her that refuses to stop being alive. Her hands are full. Of course they are. A box of emberfruit tarts glows in her palms. She opens it slowly, revealing an empty plate sitting inside.

“I couldn’t save you.” The sentence tears itself out of me. “I should have. I could have⁠—”

Her eyes smile, even as silvery tears shine along their edges. “Sunshine,” she says, her voice as warm as her bakery, “you didn’t put the bomb to the building.”

“But I lit the fuse,” I choke. “I am the fuse.”

She leans in—not closer, exactly, but truer, clearer. “You’re the flame that warms and ruins and destroys and saves. Decide which you are.”

The darkness shakes again. Something shifts in the endless void around me, like the world itself is breathing too hard.

A small weight presses into my leg and I look down. Bright orange horns bump gently against my leg, nudging me the way he did when he ran into me before everything went wrong. Theodus looks up at me with those ridiculously large, radiant eyes, wide with something that almost looks like pride. His mouth is sticky with sugar, crumbs clinging to his cheeks like he’s just raided Marta’s bakery. In his tiny hands, he clutches a wooden sword. He holds it upright like it’s Excalibur.

My throat tightens so sharply it almost hurts. “Theodus…” My voice barely makes it past my lips.