Page 249 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

No.

Emmeline wouldn’t let this be tainted by his hand, too. He had no control over it.

The irony was, the Fatesworn bond didn’t matter to her. Not when it came down to their core. Roremar had become her safety in a world so cruel, not because of a bond, but because he’d cared for her on Lyra and heard her when she screamed. The Fatesworn bond meant nothing to her without any of that.

“Correct, Emmeline. This has all been a show, as you say,” Rocarri confirmed. “And no, Roremar, I was not lying when I said I wanted you to live. I needed to push you into being your most reckless self.”

“Congratulations,” Roremar growled. “You’ve reminded me exactly how much I can gain from it.”

On the altar, Lola had her head resting on Desmond’s chest, eyes closed as his hand coasted up and down her back. Fates, they really needed to get her out of here.

Roremar must have heard the thought because he stood taller, addressing the Chancellor with the same professional stoicism Emmeline had heard the very first day she met him. Back when he was accepting terms from the Lyra Temple Master in order to provide for his siblings.

“Your problem here is with me and Emmeline. Stop the torment of the other competitors in the third trial. Declare me the winner, and you get the bond you want. We’ll go back to the manor with you tonight so you can conduct whatever inquisition you have, but we need to get my sister out of these tunnels right now.”

Rocarri looked from Roremar to Lola. Falliare said nothing.

At their prolonged silence, Roremar growled, “I’m not asking, Chancellor.”

“You assume I can stop the trial when you two saw to it being set in motion, but okay.” He jerked his head toward the exit, dismissing them.

Emmeline remained frozen, fortunes screaming down her veins in warning. What was in motion? What was Rocarri unable to stop thanks to her and Roremar?

Her Fatesworn bond strained, fighting.

Oblivious to her racing thoughts, Perry blew out a breath, saying to Roremar, “I still can’t believe you had us allying with you, and all this time, you knew you were the only person who could truly win.”

A dark chuckle rumbled through the room, and Roremar stiffened beside her.

All eleven of Emmeline’s Fate ties reared their heads.

“Come on,” Khasson said, reclined against the altar, looking for all the realms like he wasn’t leaving. “You can’t really be surprised, can you? These two? That draw between them was evident the moment Roremar stepped into the arena. I felt it as soon as he saw her.”

Slowly, with the calm lethality of a panther lying in wait, Roremar tilted his head and asked, “And how are you so familiar with it?”

Khasson’s hum purred along the stone. Cirre prowled silently to Emmeline’s side.

“I have seen a few Fatesworn bonds in my years.”

Emmeline’s breath lodged in her throat, a Fate screaming through her mind. “What’s that mean?”

Khasson flashed a curling smile, rolling his sleeves to the elbow and crossing his arms leisurely. Emmeline’s attention dropped to his wrists⁠—

To the long scars marring his skin. As if clawed by fingernails.

Her fingernails, during an attack on the night before the opening ceremonies.

Khasson, who had allied with Roremar with no explanation as to why.

Khasson, who meddled just enough to go unnoticed.

Khasson, who looked over them all with the cruel amusement befitting someone who’d planned out this exact moment.

And Roremar’s voice was pure venom when he said, “She asked you a question, Dryvius.”

Chapter Eighty-Three

Roremar