Page 93 of Fate of the Sun King

“Thank you again.”

I turn to leave with the others as Tristan catches my eyes. He’s got a perplexed look on his face, and he’s rubbing his chest.

He feels the Staff.

Just like I felt the Crown in Heart.

I may not have any Woodlands magic. I might be all Heart, but Tristan has always straddled the line, and now… I’m sure that he’s The Woodlands’ next Primary.

CHAPTER THIRTY

CLORIS PAYNE

APHELION: TWO YEARS AGO

Cloris entered the city on a tide of bodies, no one marking her entrance. She gripped a long wooden staff in one thin hand as she hobbled along the golden paved street, squinting at the opulence of her surroundings. The bones in her knee had never set right, and that old injury caused by the Heart Queen always flared when storms were brewing. What she wouldn’t give to go back in time and rip out that brat’s throat. What an absolute fool she had been.

But Cloris was the one who’d had the last laugh, wasn’t she?

While Serce and her mate had dissolved into nothing but memories and ash, tainted by their mistakes, Cloris had Zerra’s divine protection to thank for her narrow escape. The arcturite cuffs had dragged her into near madness, but Cloris had never lost her faith in her god, and in turn, she was rewarded with life beyond the worst disaster since the Beginning of Days. Zerra had refused to heal her knee as punishment for her missteps, but it was better than the alternative.

After that, Cloris had been forced to go into hiding for years. There were those who knew she’d been present at the end when Serce had botched that cursed bonding. Some knew Cloris had been working with the queen, and she refused to be held accountable for that wretched woman’s actions. None of that had been her fault. Cloris was still furious that bitch had locked her in a cage like she was nothing but a slobbering animal. If she weren’t already dead, Cloris would have made it her life’s purpose to ensure Serce suffered painfully until she took her final breaths. Now Cloris would settle for her offspring instead.

A little over two decades ago, Cloris finally emerged from the shadows of her seclusion. The dust had settled enough so she could move out into the open once again. Memories were short, and the history books all asserted she was dead. It was a reasonable assumption. No bodies had been left to identify after the chaos.

Some small alterations to her appearance—the color of her eyes and the shape of her chin and nose—and a change of name completed her transformation. It was the perfect cover. She couldn’t return to her sisters at Zerra’s temple yet—another thing she’d never forgive Serce for—but she would forge new plans. When she was finished, they would welcome her into their fold with open arms. She would finally realize Zerra’s purpose when the goddess had given life to the priestesses so many years ago.

The ark of Heart. It had been her goal when she’d tried to steal the girl and once again found herself rescued from death by the divine hand of Zerra’s mercy.

She tried again when she’d approached Rion twelve years ago. Of course, none of that had gone as planned. The rulers of Ouranos were too absorbed in themselves to see the bigger picture. They were too myopic to appreciate the scale of what they could accomplish if only they’d open their eyes and see.

Looking up at the towering Sun Palace, she hitched up the hem of her skirt, rolling her lips together.

First Serce. Then that little brat. Then Rion. She hoped a fourth time would be the charm.

Slowly, she wove her way through the crowd, arriving at the gated entrance. Two guards in golden armor flanked the archway to the Sun Palace, their postures stiff and their gazes watching everything.

As she approached, she sensed their judgment. The curl of their lips and the shifting of their eyes. She knew how she appeared. Feeble. Broken. Not quite whole. Thanks to those cuffs, something had cracked in her mind, and though she’d spent so many years trying to heal, there would always be something not quite… right.

She shuffled towards the guards and stopped before dragging her eyes up. They watched her with bored looks, and she resisted the urge to slap the disdain off their faces.

“I’m here to see the king,” she said, standing as straight as she could and trying to project a confidence she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

One of the guards snorted as he exchanged an amused glance with the other guard.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Move along. You don’t belong here.”

He made a shooing motion with his hands, and her jaw clenched in anger.

Instead, she shuffled closer and lifted a hand to her collar. She’d used this only once in the centuries after the destruction, when she’d gone to see the Aurora King after emerging from the forest on the same misguided errand.

The guard’s thick eyebrows drew together as she pulled on the fabric of her dress, exposing the mark of a High Priestess tattooed into the curve of her collarbone.

Referred to as Zerra’s mark in the common tongue but known as the Empyreal Seal to all of Zerra’s true disciples. The mark would grant an automatic audience with any ruler in Ouranos when presented. Or at least that had been the case once upon a time.

She knew it stood out in stark contrast to her paleness. A midnight mark against a snowy canvas that had seen little sunlight in over two hundred years. The seven Artefacts formed a circle, each rendered in precise miniature detail.

The guard’s eyes narrowed as he took in the marking, leaning closer to get a better look.