Page 73 of Burn of the Everflame

Doriel’s eyes glassed over. They unhooked the buttons on their opal-colored duster and retrieved a small blade from their hip.

“Don’t do this,” Obaneryn begged.

I snatched the dagger. It was just as I remembered seeing it on the boat to Coeurîle—glittering peach-pink gemstones set among distinctive copper swirls. “Such an interesting design,” I said, my tone deceptively light. “Custom-made just for you, isn’t that what you told me before?”

“Y-yes,” Doriel sputtered. “A gift from Ulther.”

I tipped its point to their heart. “Then why did I find one just like it in my father’s corpse?”

They turned an ashen grey. “I had nothing to do with that! I was in Sophos when it happened.”

My eyes narrowed. “Your representatives were here for my ball.”

Obaneryn slid between us. “What reason would anyone from Sophos have to kill your family?”

That was the question I couldn’t answer. In all my obsessing on the who and how, not once had I come up with a why.

“You have Umbros magic, don’t you?” Doriel asked. “Use it. You’ll see I’m being honest.”

Unfortunately, I already had. At Doriel’s first proclamation of innocence, my godhood had set to work searching for any trace of half-truth or deception, then gave a satisfactory purr at finding none. But that couldn’t be. That knife was too unique.

And it was the only lead I had left.

“Where are the Sophosians who came to my ball?” I demanded. “I want to speak with them before I decide what price you’ll pay.”

“I’ll send for them,” Doriel insisted. “I have nothing to hide. I’m innocent.”

The most maddening part was how deeply they believed that to be true. All the Crowns did, unmoved by the suffering they caused because they’d deemed it in service of a greater good. Greed and selfishness and obsession with control became holy acts, once done in the Kindred’s name.

Shouting caught my attention. An orange-eyed man in linen robes broke from a group of healers and stalked toward me. “You have a cure for godstone. Give it to my brother.”

I waved him off. “The healers will treat him with the other soldiers.”

He scoffed. “My brother isn’t a soldier. He’s a King.”

Fucking Ignios.

I lowered Doriel’s dagger and turned to the man—a younger yet equally hateful version of the man who stabbed me on Coeurîle.

He jabbed a finger at Luther. “That bastard won’t let the healers treat him.”

Luther held the bowl of poultice in his hands as thorny vines of shadow swirled around it. Our eyes met, and in the smoldering blue-grey glow of his lay a request: You’ve saved enough lives. Let this one go.

Luther had always praised my mercy. When the rest of the world called me naive for believing the darkest hearts could be redeemed, he alone had filled with pride.

But even he had his limits.

And so did I.

“Then let him die,” I growled.

The man balked. “This is an act of war against Ignios. He is our Crown⁠—”

“I am your Crown!” I exploded. My godhood roared through my blood, my skin glimmering with a furious silver glow. “I don’t care if the entire fucking continent comes for me. I have been broken, bled, and buried alive. If you want to burn me, then bring on your gods-damned flames. I’m not afraid of the fire.”

Silence overtook the yard. Not a soul dared to move and risk my notice—save for my Prince, whose hand pressed to his chest in salute.

“Diem,” Obaneryn said carefully. “You’ve always struck me as a woman of kindness. Letting a man suffer when you can save him . . . it’s cruel.”