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When she retreats, Kallias doesn’t give me a chance to breathe before he gathers me into his own embrace.
“Gods, I missed you.” I smile shakily as I step back from Nyssa and Kallias.
But as the kin join us, their postures rigid and expressions strained, my smile falters, then crumbles.
“What’s wrong?” Lyxander asks.
“Titaia—” Xerxes grimaces as Silas helps him stay upright. His regal attire is bloodied at his side, and a chill creeps over my skin.
“Titaia is gone.” Cynna’s voice is so flat, so devoid of emotion, I barely recognize it as hers. “Keres took her.”
Chapter 55
Nyssa
I adjust the neckline of the white gown for the hundredth time, the fine fabric strange and stiff beneath my fingers. It’s the sort of garment the Acolytes treat as sacred—something worn only for ceremony—and once, so would I, albeit for entirely different reasons. But now I find myself yearning for the simple comfort of the servant’s attire from the Palace of Sorrows. I hadn’t realized how easily those plain linens settled into my life.
A brittle sigh escapes me, disturbing the heavy silence of the room. The walls seem like they’re slowly but surely closing in, their carved, swirling patterns of wind offering no room to breathe.
After the catastrophic end to the Games, the Acolytes welcomed us to stay. The instant they had laid eyes on Aella, their every action carried a reverence that bordered on desperation, as though she were a god among mortals.
And, well…is she?
Gods—real and angry—returning. Aella transformed and brimming with a power I can’t fully comprehend. It’s too much to grasp, too big to process.
A knock at the door pulls me out of my head. I startle, then straighten, smoothing the gown once more. “Come in,” I call out.
The door creaks open, and Aella steps in. Or, at least she tries to.
Her white feathered wings bump into the doorframe. A scowl turns down her mouth as the wings spread before tucking closer against her back. Claws gleam at the tips of her fingers as she crosses her arms over her chest, still hovering on the threshold, and offers me a soft smile.
“We’re ready,” she says finally.
I nod but can’t hold her gaze for long. Everything about her now overwhelms me. It’s not that I fear her, but her presence reminds me of how small I felt beneath the storm in the arena. A storm she supposedly conjured…
I shake my head to clear the thought. She’s still Aella, and I cling to that.
She turns, and I follow her through the halls and out of the temple.
The walk to the shore is quiet, broken only by the rustle of our clothes and the sigh of the Sarathros nearby. The scent of brine grows sharper with each step, until the shoreline materializes.
A small group waits by the water.
The others—all in the same borrowed white as me—stand solemnly, faces shadowed with sorrow. I still don’t know all their names; they’re strangers who somehow became part of this impossible story. And my chest aches for them. For Titaia.
Whatever it takes, I will help them get her back. We will not lose anyone else.
Kallias stands apart, his silhouette stark against the faint glow of the sun setting beyond him.
A prince of the Sorrows. My Prince of Ruin.
I move toward him, my steps quickening as Aella lingers behind. When I reach him, the tension in his shoulders eases, and he turns slightly, his eyes rimmed with grief, not kohl. Standing at his side, I let my eyes settle on the boat resting in the shallows.
It’s beautiful, sleek, and carefully crafted, its polished wood gleaming in the golden light. My throat tightens as my gaze falls to the figure lying within.
Maxim.
The Acolytes prepared him, smoothing out every trace of pain that took him from us. His hands are folded neatly across his chest, his features soft and peaceful. Fresh linens drape his body, trimmed with shimmering silver thread.
