Page 240 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Roremar could be two things. He could, if he chose to.

He could fight his way through his grief and still be strong.

He could break but still forgive himself.

He could hold sorrow for Nico and still save Lola.

He could be ruin and still love Emmeline.

In his mind, a weight settled against his hand, and Roremar looked down to see a phantom ring. The blackened-steel Fatalium band. A defense against the Fates.

Two things at once.

It slipped around his finger, and from its cool metal, Roremar summoned all the strength he wasn’t sure he had.

The vitriolic thoughts poured down on him, but between them, ebbing out as if this ring slid armor around his skin and reoriented his perspective⁠—

There was light. Sun dappling the surface of the water. He only had to swim for it.

And he did.

“Get out!” Roremar roared into the abyss Dryvius had turned his mind into. “Get out of my fucking head!”

And with laborious strokes, the voices of those he loved, and the memory of his father’s ring leading him, he clawed through it all.

He wrapped all the pain around himself but shoved away the blame. He let it be real, absorbed it in the depths of his being. The icy chill of grief, the watery tears of sorrow. The unending warmth of relief for the people he loved.

And then he dragged himself above it.

Roremar came up gasping, the piercing sound still blaring through the tunnel.

His vision was blurry, tears streaming from his eyes, but Khasson’s form wavered into view. He held one hand out, pointing to the candelabras with the other.

The wax.

The part of Roremar that revolted against the idea of forgiveness said he shouldn’t be saved. But a much larger part acknowledged he needed to fight. He deserved to.

Roremar took the still-hot wax from Khasson and shoved it in his ears, sighing when the wailing was drowned out. His entire body collapsed, even more exhausted than it had been from the duels, but he forced himself upright.

“Thanks,” he panted to Khasson. The sound of his own voice was garbled with his ears clogged, like he was underwater. His chest tightened at the compression.

Khasson nodded.

One step of this torment was conquered, but Valyrie had used this trial to select her Fates and delineate what spectrum they would master—they thought Rocarri was possibly doing the same to create his own.

Roremar had a sick feeling the mental torture was only beginning.

Perry and Rian didn’t seem to be in any better shape than he was. Scratch marks bled down Perry’s throat, his nails cracked, like he’d been trying to claw his way out of the stone walls, and Rian’s curls were a sweat-matted mess, face ghostly and body still trembling. But they both nodded wordlessly to tell him they were ready to continue.

Khasson jerked his chin, indicating which direction he thought they should head. Rian looked around hesitantly, but the three of them obliged.

As they walked, the piercing sound eventually dimming, Roremar’s mind scrambled even more than before. If Khasson hadn’t suggested the wax, Roremar could have seen himself succumbing to that mental torture again and again until he took a blade to his own throat. At least Khasson’s fear was untouchable.

Chapter Eighty

Emmeline

Emmeline’s magic became her compass as they walked. She did her best not to let it fully consume her, especially not with Myrella tucked into her side, but all eleven of her Fates were excited, their heads lifted and voices pulling her in directions she relayed to Desmond.