Page 46 of Awakened Ash and Alchemy

And that alone was against the Accords, making it impossible for both of them. They may have been granted a reprieve for bringing her to Paradox, but not for being with her—and that was just catastrophically cruel.

“Tell our captain that Bellus will research it,” Gellar said, with urgency as he nodded at their historian. “Find out if there’s a way to temper it. Or end it.” He then glanced at Martar heading for the door. “And Martar, it might be best if Zarek doesn’t tell the female about the Claiming, in case she rejects him. But tell her we can protect her.”

Everyone understood. Even Condorr released an indistinct sound of unease as he raked his fingers through his blond hair to leave it a mess.

Which is what this was.

One big, potentially bloody, mess.

A rejected Claiming wouldn’t just wound Zarek, it would destabilize him, and that risk was too great to gamble with. The protection wasn’t just about this Angela Duboise, it was about protecting the realm from Zarek.

Martar would do anything and everything to protect his brother who had always protected him from day one.

“I’ll just have to give the man a few lessons on how to sweet-talk a woman.” Although Martar suspected stone walls might prove more responsive than their captain.

“Bellus. Assemble a team.” As Gellar stood, his palms slapped hard on the table. “Use every resource at your disposal. Find us a cure.”

With books piled in his arms, Bellus nodded as he headed for the Hidden Hall of Histories. “I’ll search everywhere, Commander.”

“Good,” Martar said. “Zarek will want an exit strategy.”

Gellar placed a steady hand on Martar’s shoulder. “But watch him. You are his ice to that fire.” His gaze lifted, sweeping the chamber to the shifting air humming uneasily. “And if this female is what the Seer—and Katarra—believe is the new power… then the war has found a fault line. So, let’s do this right. Tread carefully, brothers, as this might become a volcano none of us will be able to control.”

TWENTY

Angela pulled into the gravel car park of the old church, with its simple gardens and patchy lawn mowed within an inch of its life.

The doors stood open on the small weatherboard building, even though the Sunday service had long finished. For a moment, she sat in the car with the engine ticking, staring at the stained-glass windows depicting angels that caught the afternoon sun.

She rolled her shoulders, as if resetting into the version of herself who used to handle messy things for a living.

Sadly, that woman didn’t exist anymore.

Not properly. But maybe this would help her get back on track.

Angela got out of the car and headed inside.

The cathedral smelled the same of old wood, candle wax, and that particular polish that fought against the dust that never quite learned to behave.

Her boots echoed too loudly in the vast space she hadn’t visited since her mother’s funeral. The day her faith had quietly packed its bags and left the building.

Amazing how the rest of her beliefs followed, one by one. Some quickly. Others slowly. Like dominoes, she’d pretend were still standing until they were stripped back so badly that she hardly believed in anything anymore—let alone herself.

She slid into a pew near the front and propped a boot on the bench ahead of her.

As a kid, she’d never been able to reach the floor from these seats. Swinging her legs, until her mother’s hand landed on her shoulder, to whisper shh while smiling like she wasn’t really annoyed.

Now Angela’s feet rested easily.

The realization hit in the strangest way that…

She was a grown-up. A capable adult, meant to have a handle on her life.

Yeah, right?

Instead, she was sitting in a church with a pouch of kitchen salt in her handbag and an athame she no longer left home without.

She looked down at herself: jeans, scuffed black boots, her favorite belt—now bearing unmistakable teeth marks—a white singlet and shirt. Very holy, her mother would’ve said of her devout couture. But she was here.