Page 32 of Death Will Follow

“And your father?” Siris pressed.

Nova opened her mouth to speak, but her throat tightened. She sensed the impatience in the room growing the longer she stood without producing a response. Panic gathered like storm clouds in her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe.

“Nova is my niece and heir to the Lunar Throne,” Nox declared, rising from his seat and taking her hand firmly in his. “Omen is her father.”

The shock in the Great Hall was palpable, as everyone began talking over one another, several Nobles eyeing Nova as if she were a cunning fox prowling about a henhouse. Lord Arthur rose from his seat, shouting over the others and pointing an accusatory finger in her direction.

Nova’s breath quickened, her composure slipping away like early-morning mist. Nox squeezed her hand tightly, and a sense of calm washed over her just as Lucan rose to stand protectively at their backs. Nova’s eyes flitted across the table to Callan, who had risen from his seat as well and was making his way to where she stood.

Without warning, an icy gale swept through the room. It rattled the doors and empty chairs and deposited a dusting of fine powder on everyone. The shouting stopped immediately with all eyes turning to Thorn, an imposing figure without a single snowflake marring his clothing.

“Listen, all of you,” he bellowed. “I know the betrayal you feel. I tasted it myself when I learned the daughter of the Shadowbringer had been sleeping under my roof. Eating at my table.” He paused and turned his face to Nova, seeming to regain a measure of calm. “But she has a good heart,” he conceded, nodding at her once before turning back to the others. “And she wants to do what’s right. So, I suggest we cease our squabbling and come together to help her do just that.”

Siris and Sienna called upon the sun’s light and had the snow melted in seconds. A quick blast of wind from Samira dried up the small puddles that remained.

“See what we can accomplish when we work together,” Thorn offered optimistically, clinging to the small act of cooperation. “Now, then. Nova, what do you propose?”

Her mind raced, thoughts sprinting through the plan she and Callan had concocted with input from Nox and Lucan. Taking a deep breath, she released her uncle’s hand and stepped forward.

“I’ve never met my father, but in the time since I first arrived in Aemoria, I’ve learned a great deal about his cruelty.”

Her voice wavered, and she bit the inside of her cheek, her initial instinct to detach herself from the feelings that, in the past, made her feel weak. She looked to Callan briefly, then continued, her voice still tinged with emotion.

“I cannot begin to imagine the full extent of the pain my father has caused. But I will see his dark rule ended. And I vow before all those gathered here: If I cannot cure him”—she swallowed hard—“then I will kill him.”

“How do you propose to do that?” Rowan asked, genuine curiosity painting his features.

“If the territories of Aemoria band together, perhaps we can draw Omen and his army of the Enchanted out of Raven’s Isle. If I can get close enough to him, I will try to use the Light to banish the dark magic that has corrupted him. Break the enchantment on all those who have been taken from you.”

“That’s quite an if,” Arthur interjected smugly.

“For the love of the gods, Arthur. Would you let her speak?” It was Arthur’s twin, Riven, who had come to her defense. She met Nova’s eye and extended a hand, urging her to continue.

“Lord Arthur is right.” Nova bowed to him in spite of the complete lack of respect he’d shown her. “It’s not a foolproof plan. In fact, it’s not much of a plan at all. In truth, it may not work. In which case, I propose a fail-safe.”

“Which is?” Siris prodded.

Nova briefly retold the story Bryn had shared about the creation and destruction of the weapon Omen wielded to kill his father and brother.

“I will seek out and reforge the remnants of Kinslayer, and I will end his life myself.”

“Ridiculous,” Arthur sneered. “A reforged sword? Is this a bedtime tale? Do you mistake us for younglings?”

“Omen fervently believes his heir will one day cut him down with the same blade he raised against his own blood,” Bryn declared, pinning the Noble Lord of the Spring Court with a hard stare.

“Now, that is interesting,” Samira remarked.

“As I see it, we have a much simpler solution standing right before us,” Arthur argued, rising from his seat once more. “Omen clearly wants his daughter, which gives the Council a distinct advantage. I propose we approach him and offer what he seeks. We use his daughter as leverage and force him to agree to terms that are favorable to the rest of the Realm.”

“Absolutely not.” A deep voice, steeped in command, barreled through Arthur’s reedy tenor.

It was Callan who had spoken, words measured but laced with disgust. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table before him, staring Arthur down.

“Are you truly such a coward that you would align yourself with evil and condemn an innocent simply to save your own skin?”

“Who are you to speak to me this way?” Arthur spat, glancing around at his fellow Nobles as though he’d been physically attacked.

“Callan Nyhauslen.”