Page 72 of She Who Holds My Wrath

She continues to look towards some distant point I can’t see, as if the world beyond this blood-soaked room is already opening for her. My vision blurs, fresh tears spilling over before I can stop them.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” I choke, the words breaking apart on a sob. Guilt claws through me mercilessly. “You deserved so much better than this.” I smooth her tangled hair away from her face, fingers catching on dried blood and knots, then tuck the strands gently behind her pointed ear. Her skin is cooling beneath my touch, the warmth fading with terrifying speed.

Leaning down, I press the softest kiss to her brow, careful in a way when you would touch something sacred. “Go be with your maemae, Selunea,” I whisper. “Be at peace.”

Her lashes flutter, the small tremor of breath slows, and then the shallow rise of her chest stills. I wait. And wait. Desperately for that next breath to come. But it never does. A broken sound tears out of me as I pull her closer, cradling her against my chest like I can somehow anchor her soul back into her body. My own chest feels like it’s splitting open all over again, grief carving fresh fractures through wounds that never had time to heal.

I had just saved her. I promised she’d be free. I told her she was going to come home with me.

The sobs come harder, shaking my entire body, but something inside them shifts. They turn sharp, burning and feral. Grief curdles into anger so intense it feels molten, searing through every other emotion until there’s nothing left but heat and resolve. This can’t keep happening. Not to the innocent. Not to the people caught in the crossfire of gods and monsters and rulers playing war. This needs to mean something. It needs to be a warning.

You stand with us… or you burn.

As I hold her, I feel it—faint at first, almost imagined. A tiny flicker deep in my belly. The well of power I’d reached for before, the one that had been nothing but emptiness, is no longer silent. It doesn’t feel full. Not even close. But something is returning, drop by fragile drop, like embers reigniting in a dead fire. My body screams for it. For the relief from my magic. For the sweet oblivion of letting it dull the pain clawing through every nerve. But I don’t take it. It’s not for me. Not now.

After a long moment of letting just enough power build back into my empty reserves, I lay Selunea down carefully, arranging her broken limbs with gentle hands, brushing her hair back from her face one last time.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

I call to that tiny sliver of magic instead, coaxing it forwards with aching patience until a small white flame gathers at my fingertips. It wavers, fragile and barely there, a shadow of what I can usually summon, but it’s enough. Not to hurt her. But to give her mercy. To make sure that no one can ever use her body again.

Focusing through the tremor in my hands, I guide the flame downwards. It spills over her in soft light, rather than fire, gentle and reverent. The air warms slightly as her form slowly dissolves into glowing ash that lifts and drifts away, as if the flame is carrying her somewhere kinder. Within moments, there is nothing left but a small scatter of pale grey dust against the stone. Gone.

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat, blinking through tears as I wipe my face with the back of my blood-slick hand, smearing crimson and cerulean across my skin without caring. My legs tremble as I force them to move, each step unsteady but stubborn. Beneath the pain and exhaustion, I can feel my power slowly returning, bubbling low in my core.

I bend beside Kaelith’s corpse and wrench my dagger free from his shoulder. The blade comes loose with a wet sound that makes my stomach lurch again, but I don’t let myself react. I drag the metal across the back of his ruined tunic, scraping away the slick violet blood until the familiar shine returns, and then slide it back into the sheath at my thigh where it belongs.

Without a single ounce of hesitation, I reach down and fist my hand into Kaelith’s hair. His head lifts with sickening ease, the severed weight pulling at my arm as his blood drips steadily to the floor, thick strands of sinew swaying with each movement. I keep my gaze fixed forwards, refusing to look too closely at the gore.

With my jaw clenched and heart hammering, I turn towards the corridor and start walking towards the throne room.

The corridors are silent as I walk through them, with Kaelith’s head swinging heavily from my grip.

Each step feels louder than it should, my boots striking the stone in slow, deliberate echoes that carry far ahead of me. The sound follows me, bounces off the walls, and announces me before I even arrive. Blood drips in a steady rhythm from the severed neck, pattering softly against the floor behind me, marking my path in dark violet streaks.

No one stops me. No one speaks. It’s as if the entire palace is holding its breath. They’re all waiting in that throne room for whatever lies their king was about to spin, whatever version of victory he was ready to feed them. Waiting for orders. For reassurance. For power. They won’t get it now. My grip tightens in his hair as I walk, fingers slick but unyielding. My body still aches, every movement pulling at bruises and cuts and exhaustion, but none of it matters anymore. The pain is distant now, drowned beneath something colder and sharper.

There’s no fear left in me. No hesitation. Only purpose fuelling each step. Turn after turn, the halls widen, growing grander, more polished, until the space opens into a long, vaulted corridor. At the far end, the double doors rise tall and imposing, carved with those same vein-like patterns of crystal pulsing faintly beneath the surface. Two guards stand before them, armour gleaming in the dim light, blades planted tip down.

I don’t slow, but I do make sure they see. The head swings once, twice. Enough for recognition to hit. The moment their eyes land on the mutilated head swinging from my grasp, they freeze. Shock ripples through them, their posture faltering for a fraction of a second as reality catches up. I see it in their eyes. The mixture of confusion and disbelief, the split-second refusal to accept what they’re looking at. Then, in perfect unison, both raise their blades and charge.

I lazily lift my free hand, calling to the fire that’s finally bubbled to a steady rhythm just beneath my skin, begging for destruction. It ignites in my palm—a searing white blaze that lights the walls around me. They stop dead in their tracks. Though neither lowers his weapon.

“I am willing to let you live,” I say sweetly, smiling as the flame curls higher, the light dancing across their armour and reflecting in their eyes. “Lower your swords and move aside.”

The older one—his skin a dull storm-grey, blue-grey hair tied in a low bun—snarls and lunges forwards anyway. I don’t hesitate. I flick my wrist, and the flame lashes out, fast and unforgiving as it wraps around him in a violent burst of white. It devours him instantly, too hot, too bright—there one second, gone the next. No scream, no resistance, just ash collapsing where he stood, scattered across the floor in a soft, final hush.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

A small feeling of shock, self-hatred, and disgust ripple through me at how easily I just killed a man. The girl I used to be, would be horrified. She’d cry. She’d apologise. She’d feel something deeper than a faint ripple of emotion. But now? Now all I feel is the burn of adrenaline and a cold settling into my chest, spreading slow and steady like frost creeping over glass.

I hate it. I hate that this is becoming normal. I hate that I didn’t even hesitate to extinguish another person’s life. I used to be soft. I used to be light—the sun. I believed in kindness and mercy. Now? Now I’m fire and fury, a queen reborn with a darkness that’s slowly snuffing out the light inside. I’m starting to understand why every ruler in these realms walks around like their heart is made of stone.

I don’t want to be like them. I don’t want this to be who I’m turning into. But I no longer have a choice. I can’t let any of it show, because weakness isn’t an option. Weakness is a death sentence. It’s kill or be killed. And I will not die without avenging my husband.

My eyes shift to the younger guard—jet-black hair, pale skin, his shaking hands still gripping his hilt, as though a simple blade could save him in this moment. His breathing is uneven, chest rising too fast, his eyes locked on me like I’ve crawled straight from his nightmares.

“How about you?” I ask, tilting my head, the fire licking lazily at my palm. “Want to join your friend there?”