Page 41 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Her resolve from during the massacre returned. Even as a temporary solution to locating her sister, Emmeline couldn’t agree to this. She’d find some other way.

“I won’t do it. If you’re so intent on turning them into monsters, I won’t be the pawn you use to motivate them. You can find some other prize—you can expel me from the city—but I will not be used to destroy them.”

“You’re more than a pawn, Emmeline. This is where you belong.” That haunting, fanatic gleam returned to his eye, shivering down her spine. “See, you have this effect on them. It’s truly fascinating if you think about it, the lengths your blessing of the Fates causes others to go to. And if that is how they are willingly acting now, what will they do outside the tournament? What will your existence drive them to do? That sort of power belongs here.”

Each accusation—each truth—was a pin prick in her armor, poking holes for her will to leak out.

Her magic was destructive. It had already taken so many lives, everyone close to her had suffered because of it. Her sister, her mother.

Roremar.

Perhaps there was truth to what Rocarri was saying. Perhaps the best place for her was here. Where she was used, yes, but where it kept her from exposing anyone else she cared about. Maybe it would even give her the potential to fix the problems her magic caused.

Perhaps, after all she’d been through, this really was where she belonged.

How long had she sought belonging, spending endless nights asking the stars for a place to call her own, where she was safe and cherished? She hated that despite the twisted means, there was a part of her Rocarri’s words appealed to. A childhood desire to fit in that she’d never been able to overcome.

Was there a way she could belong here? Or would Valyn only bleed her dry?

Coveted.

Desired.

Kept.

Belonged.

As much as she craved that last one, fear crawled through her. “I may belong here, but my magic is not a tool to use to your advantage.”

“It will be.” Threats layered those three words, the facade of the alliance he was pretending to build crumbling. “You will participate because I know the entire story of what happened on Lyra. The constellations aligning, the explosion within the seeing chamber.”

“Everyone does.” The entire capital had heard the rumors, saw the twelve constellations rearranged in the skies, but they didn’t care to acknowledge Lyra the way they did her.

A smile curved Rocarri’s lips. “But I know why you went into that chamber. Whom you were trying to save.”

A rock sank in her stomach. That was it. The reason Rocarri was so certain Emmeline would agree to his plan. The bargaining chip he’d been withholding until the right moment.

Roremar.

Emmeline hadn’t thought it was a coincidence he was in the arena today, but perhaps a game of the Fates. Dryvius’s doing, somehow.

This? Rocarri using him as incentive to control her?

This was so much worse. Emmeline’s heart broke off bit by bit as realization sank in.

“What are you going to do to him if I don’t agree?”

“I won’t do anything.” Casually, Rocarri strode back to his spot before the fire, picking up his cigar once again. The scent of tobacco cloyed in Emmeline’s lungs, thicker with every second he made her wait. “The District Governors are reluctant to execute Mr. Silventa given his sole alignment to the Fate of Chaos and Revelry. They fear what repercussions could be dealt—both intentional punishment from deities and curses from a warrior slaying the lone man tied to a Fate we all thought was dead. No one wants to be the one to call the ax to fall.”

Horror thickened her throat. “So, your plan is to let him die in the arena instead?”

“That is up to you.”

“What?” She could barely breathe the word.

“Now that the other competitors saw you favoring Roremar? If they think he is what stands in the way of them claiming their prize or think he’s the one you truly want?” Rocarri’s head tilted back and forth as he tapped clumps of ash from the end of his cigar. Each lodged in Emmeline’s throat. “Roremar may disappear in his sleep one night. Living in the barracks with the rest of the men, he could wake to a blade across his own throat like all those lives he took.”

Emmeline’s mouth opened and closed, panic stealing her voice.