Page 136 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

This is the Angel who founded our clan, the one we bow to, the other half tempered.

Emmeline swallowed both of those truths. They warred inside her as she held Valyrie’s gaze. But she only gave herself one moment to pause.

Then, beneath the judgmental stares of council members, governors, and the Chancellor alike, she descended into the heart of the chamber. To the very same floor the Angel, the Prime Starsearcher Warrior, stood upon.

Everyone else stood reverently around the circular room, bodies filed neatly into tiered rows as they gathered to hear what Valyrie would say, but that didn’t stop the murmurs. Each lashed at her skin, clinging to her, but she forced herself not to look at anyone but the Angel.

And despite the part of her that rebelled against what Valyrie had begun with her tournament, as she stopped beneath the domed heart of the meeting chamber, Emmeline couldn’t deny how intrinsically the Angel fit here. Every inch of her was grand and commanding, as glamorous as the riches adorning the halls and as ancient, too. It was as if a wave wafted off her that kept these scheming warriors on their toes.

But there was also an otherness to her that trickled down Emmeline’s spine, teasing the magic she’d stuffed down, tugging at something wrapped around her heart that she had to leave untouched.

As the Angel studied her, Emmeline buried it deeper.

“Prime Warrior,” Rocarri finally said, breaking Emmeline from her trance as he stepped forward, bowing his head slightly to Valyrie.

Rage bubbled through her Fate ties as Emmeline’s stare landed on Rocarri. She swore Arenothos’s giddy laugh ricocheted down their alignment. Valyrie blinked rapidly.

Rocarri said, “This is Emmeline DeLeoste. The esteemed warrior tied to eleven of your Fates.”

Emmeline bristled. As if that was all she was. All she would ever be to these people. A vessel of magic to be paraded about and used at their disposal.

“Prime Warrior,” she said dutifully with a small bow. She bit back her derision as she added, “It is an honor to be in your presence.”

“Eleven Fates you say?” Valyrie asked, head tilting. Her waist-length silver hair rippled like a waterfall of starlight, and all of it—her ease, her falsely soft demeanor, her mere presence—pulled at Emmeline’s fury, like threads about to snap.

Gentle rain picked up over Valyn, splattering the tall windows lining the curved walls above the top tier of seats. Shadows of raindrops sprinkled the marble floor.

“Eleven, yes,” Rocarri responded.

Valyrie said nothing, eyes locked on Emmeline. The soon-to-be Chancellor’s lips pressed flat when she ignored him.

Over the Angel’s shoulder, Emmeline found Cyren in the second row, seated in front of Falliare. The General nodded in encouragement, their relaxed posture more at ease than the rest of the council.

Feeding off that confidence, Emmeline swallowed and said, “Yes. I have eleven Fate ties. All but Dryvius.”

“I hear the Fate of Chaos and Revelry has been true to his name,” Valyrie said.

Emmeline couldn’t tell from her flat tone how the Angel felt about that. Her chest split down the center at the mention, hope and terror on either side of the line. “That is what I wish to discuss.”

Rocarri glowered at her, reverent composure slipping. “We will speak about that⁠—”

“Roremar Silventa did not kill those women,” Emmeline interrupted, propriety be damned. They wanted to revere her in this city? They could damn well listen to her truths. “He is not guilty of any of these murders. Not the ones on Lyra, and not the one that occurred in Valyn days ago.”

Around the room, council members scoffed and muttered to one another, all of them growing bolder despite Valyrie’s presence. Like the Angel would respect them for insulting Roremar and her by extension.

“How dare she talk to the Chancellor like that?”

“She’s fallen for the Reckless’s tricks.”

“He is as unstable as the Fate, and perhaps she is, too.”

Though each claim dug a knife into an open wound, Emmeline tried to ignore them.

“It was proven today that Roremar does not have a tie to Dryvius as he claimed.” Rocarri maintained a frustratingly calm exterior, but the strain in his voice was clear. Emmeline latched onto it, wanting to drive him to snap.

“How are you certain of that?” she pushed. “How can you truly know he does not have the tie he’s claimed?”

“Today’s task targeted Fate ties.” Rocarri’s attention shifted to Valyrie. “Like your ancient Races initially did, Prime Warrior, today was meant to test cunning when under duress.”