Chapter Twelve

Sébastien would have preferred to get to the planning part with the route and other details. It was a bit too early. That night, they had little to do besides join the feast. The werewolves remained spread out, and Remus picked a spot by a fire to sit. Someone had taken their things to their temporary home, and Whisper wandered about. Everyone seemed smart about not touching him in case he didn't want that.

It took a while before they could eat. Meat was the majority of their diet, and they ate other things too, so some got to work on peeling, chopping, and cooking vegetables. They had decent stores of food in case they needed it, and that included barrels of salted fish. During winter, hunting wouldn't be as plentiful, and if they all constantly ate nothing but meat, the wildlife would grow too scanty.

One came to Remus to ask what they were going to do for food later.

"When we go, I imagine you'll want to travel like any army, and that means we won't be stopping to hunt. Since some will go with you and Sébastien to Soleil, we can't bring enough food to keep everyone fed. If we do, the ones staying behind will have to hunt more to keep the elderly and children fed, and it'll mess up our stores for winter. The werewolf folded his furry arms and cast Sébastien a faintly disgusted look like it was all his fault.

Remus thought for a second. "Do you have carts?"

"We have a few that were left here, and most are in decent shape. We don't have horses, although a few werewolves could pull them. We usually use them if anyone is injured or too old to walk long distances."

"When we go, leave most of the food. Take a few days' worth for the group because we'll be heading to Leraph first. I can claim that town, and we'll take supplies from there. I'm not going to suck food from your stores and potentially cause anyone to go hungry this winter."

The werewolf cocked his ears. "I thought we'd head straight for the capital and war. Go for the heart, and take it all. If there's trouble with the lords, you've already got your Palace and a city for defense."

"I can't expect your people to ration themselves out all winter or possibly run out. Leraph is far enough from Norraco, and if we're smart, we can take the whole city and keep the news down. We'll get supplies there because they're a hub for wheat and fish. We'll have enough to eat on the way to Norraco, and once that's dealt with, Norraco has stores we can use for those who will come to Soleil."

"All right. That works."

The food wasn't all ready at once. Werewolves didn't mind eating at various times. Sébastien was used to court where everyone started the meal at the same time. A fight broke out over a fork and involved a lot of snarling. Someone got their arm twisted. Plenty ate with their fingers, and Sébastien and Remus sat together as they ate roasted lamb with potatoes, and tomato and cucumber salad by a fire.

It was good since while werewolves are capable of making do with little, they knew what spices were.

"Do they grow the spices somewhere?" Sébastien asked once they'd finished.

"Only a couple of things. They buy most of it. Some do odd jobs and things for fairies, and they can use their money for whatever. Did you see that one who's all dressed up?"

"Yes."

"He's probably done a lot of work wherever to get that silk. Maybe he can sew himself."

"We'll need fine clothes for Norraco," said Sébastien. "Maybe he can help. In Leraph, we can get silk."

"True. For tonight, we can rest. You must be tired, right?"

"Yeah. It feels late." Some of the werewolves were still eating, and others were dancing as a few played violins and drums. Sébastien wasn't into dancing, and sleep sounded like the best thing.

Remus asked someone where their spot was so they could be sure. The tiny stone house had a ram's skull on a post outside. The stones didn't match, so random ones from wherever had been taken as material when the home was built.

"What's the skull for?" Sébastien asked when they entered. "Is it to wish death on me?"

"No, it's for luck. If you have one and move into a house, you put it on a post outside. I'm not sure where that came from. They might use a goat's head too. It's not something done in Rowland, and I don't remember why it's supposed to bring luck."

The space for them was rather…intimate. A basin and water for basic washing had been left so they didn't have to dunk themselves in the creek or go all the way to the bathing house. A bed of blankets and furs had been placed in the center, and with the crystal lanterns, their packs, one tiny window, the low ceiling, and Remus's bulk, the room felt even smaller. Perhaps whoever set up the room guessed they were together in a fashion. Or they figured the pair simply wouldn't mind sleeping next to each other since werewolves often did that with little issue.

They gave each other privacy for a few minutes to wash and change. Afterward, they sat on the pile of bedding in their sleep clothes. The noise from outside wasn't so loud.

"This is better," said Sébastien.

"I figured you'd want peace and quiet by now," said Remus.

"I think I've seen enough hairy balls and dicks to last me a lifetime too."

Remus chuckled. "Get ready to see a whole lot more because most aren't going to put on clothes for you."

"I figured. I don't see how they can stand all that fur there. I'd never stop scratching."

Remus laughed. "Their balls and dicks would be a lot more noticeable if they shaved them."

Once they got comfortable on the makeshift bed, Remus fell asleep pretty fast. Sébastien stared at the nearly dark ceiling. A window with no covering allowed a little light. The bed was comfortable, and he was tired. Sleep still refused to come even when the noise further faded outside.

Part of him wanted to nestle closer to Remus too, although he couldn't quite do it. He couldn't even think of a specific reason. He wanted to not be touched while at the same time wanting to be hugged so he could be comforted in their private space.

With every step they completed, they drew closer to their goal. It seemed impossibly far away. A lot could go wrong, and he held back a frustrated noise as he turned over yet again. The last thing he wanted was to be up for half the night, running over things in his head.

The noise had died down before he finally gave up on sleeping. His body was tired, but his mind wouldn't stop.

When he stepped outside with his cloak secured and his hood up, he wondered if it was a good idea to be out. Not everyone hated him or even disliked him that much. Plenty weren't keen on his presence. A few did hate him.

They wouldn't risk attacking him, right? Remus would be furious if they killed or even injured Sébastien, and he was the guest they liked better. He'd likely be fine.

He headed south. A few crystal lanterns were on the ground, and some hung from trees. The fires were fewer, and werewolves snored by them. Five were drinking as they played with dice on a board.

A couple of other little homes and shacks were spread around. A baby wailed from under a cover strung between branches as a feminine voice crooned to it. A voice yelled from somewhere.

"Your asses better be in bed soon."

A couple of giggling pups ran by Sébastien.

The tomb was easy to spot in the distance since crystal lanterns had been set all over, and light came from the open mouth of the rectangular building. A bigger wooden house quite close to him was dark, and a voice spoke from the porch.

"You can go in if you want."

Sébastien jumped and eyed the dark space.

"If you mess up anything, I'll rip off your arms and eat them for breakfast."

Sébastien lifted his chin even though he couldn't see the werewolf. "Why would I try to ruin or destroy the tomb?"

A light suddenly appeared from a crystal lantern. A werewolf in a flowery dress made her chair scrape as she shifted, reached into her pocket, and pulled out a cig case. "The main family tombs in the southwest are sealed off. We've found fairies trying to get inside. They'd also scratched obscenities on the outside and pissed on it."

Sébastien squinted against the light. "What the fuck?"

"You'd think, considering the South Sea fairies have been gone for a long time, or mostly gone, the hate would stop too. I guess fools will always exist in the realm, and hate doesn't die too easily." She eyed him as she pulled a cig from the case. "What about you? Did you try to feed us a load of lies?"

"I don't hate werewolves. I was fourteen, living with a court of people who hated them, and my Mother and oldest brother had been killed by one. I'm not fourteen anymore."

However, so much from that year had shaped and changed him. And not for the best.

She lit a cig with a match. After tossing the spent stick aside, she took a drag. Sébastien had never seen a werewolf smoke, and it almost made him want to crack a smile as she inserted it in one side of her closed mouth and inhaled. The cig was comically small since she was much bigger than Remus.

"You know what? I used to hate fairies. I cursed every single bleeding one of you and swore that if I ever saw one again, I'd gut the bastard. I was a pup, and a tree fell on my Father in Midland one morning while we were still sleeping. It just missed me. He was trapped under it. To make a long story short, I could lift it or drag him out, and he was dying. Some fairies with an accent I didn't recognize happened to come by with carts and saw us. I begged them to do something. Instead of helping, they laughed at me and kept going."

Even at fourteen, with the hate and everything so fresh, he wasn't sure if he would have been able to leave a crying pup like that. Children were innocent and shouldn't be put in such situations, abused, or harmed. A child shouldn't have to watch their parent slowly die either.

"Father told me to go. It took me two days to find a pack, and they came to help. Father was dead by then. He might have lived despite the broken ribs and internal damage if those fairies had all tried to lift the tree just a little and drag him out. We'll never know now."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't hate fairies anymore because feeling like that wears you down, and not all fairies are those shitheads who laughed at me. You have to cast off that anger or you'll be like a prisoner forever. I won't be coming to fight because I'd rather look after little ones, but good luck." She got up and headed for the door after flicking the cig over the porch railing and into the dirt. "Go see the tomb if you like."

"Thanks."

The door shut, and he looked at the speck of light from the burning cig. Without grass or shrubbery, it wouldn't catch anything and start a huge fire. Sébastien still ground it into the dirt with his boot before he continued.

The hate and anger he felt for Uncle wasn't something he could simply cast off. How would he? Uncle had taken his innocence and brutally destroyed it over and over again. When it was gone, he'd tried to destroy Sébastien.

Mother had said hate and anger only hurt the wielder. She'd never been the sort to snap or grow angry. She also hadn't known what sort of man her brother-in-law was.

Perhaps that werewolf was far stronger than him.

Old symbols marked the smooth walls of the tomb, and the rectangular, recessed doorway was painted a faded blue. The werewolves had no reason to care much about Prince Angelo. They must have still respected him since little piles of flowers and tiny shapes made of twisted grass had been piled along the walls. He spotted a dried grass doll with leaves for wings. To one sight, sat a statue. In the light of a nearly dead candle at the base, he couldn't properly make out the features. He was sure it was Elira.

When he entered, a narrow hall with stone steps led further down, and to his right, someone had carved the Prince himself and written his name underneath. Over the years, someone must have ensured the tombs' upkeep. After so long, the colors were faded, but he could make it out enough.

The angel Prince had brown skin, and his long hair had been curly and light. Even though it wasn't the best drawing, he could imagine the Prince well enough. He'd had feathery wings and worn some sort of robe. Clothes in the olden days had been different, and perhaps the robe had been to differentiate him from commoners.

More drawings decorated the sides as he went down the steps. Squiggles, shapes, and symbols. Such decoration was unusual in fairy tombs because that meant little to the dead.

A poor drawing of Prince Angelo showed him with his arms outstretched. Opposite him was a black square with the ink faded to grey. Sébastien touched the rough, scratched surface and frowned. It was almost like someone had tried to hide another drawing. The square was bigger than the Prince, and he seemed to be looking up. Perhaps it was meant to represent a mass of enemies coming to take over the area, and the artist hadn't felt like doing a bunch of poorly drawn enemy fairies.

Another carving with faded paint showed a group of fairies following Prince Angelo who wielded an odd stick. Sébastien couldn't tell if it was a short spear, a sword, or a walking stick. The fairies also seemed to be holding weapons, although the details weren't good.

The main room beyond another entrance was lit with a few lanterns. The walls were blank except for one that bore a poem carved deep into the stone. In the center stood a stone tomb that came to his waist, and inside, he knew the bones of Prince Angelo lay, undisturbed for ages. Perhaps he was in a wooden box, or possibly just a shroud, although he imagined it was long rotted.

Sébastien laid his hand on the smooth stone top. Toward the head, something had been carved in, although he couldn't properly make it out. He read the poem, although part of it didn't make sense. He understood a little since after Angelo had died, his Mother had birthed a third son. Angelo's twin had been given another brother.

Angelo had died for his people, likely fighting invaders and not some terrible devil. He'd done it because a Prince should protect others. Like how Sébastien should protect others by not allowing his Uncle to start yet another war to take Rowland and wipe out the werewolves.

He would have wept to see his people nearly erased centuries later all because of lies, hatred, and greed. Maybe something would happen to Soleil one day in the far future long after Sébastien and Remus were memories. Or to Rowland. Everyone fought for the current time and the future, and nothing was ever truly guaranteed.

He noticed something about the lid, and his eyes slid along the edge before he touched it. Mages were always careful with stone tombs. After the body was placed inside, they made sure the lid was on properly. The edges had to be perfectly aligned because it was respectful. While the body was merely an empty shell, no one wanted the stone box to look as if the body had been tossed in and the lid shoved into place.

The lid wasn't perfectly aligned. It was almost like someone had slid aside the heavy top and closed it without an eye to the detail. Sébastien backed up a step and slowly walked around. When he came to the head, he noticed a tiny hole in the flat stone like a nail had once been pounded in.

He retrieved one of the lanterns and crouched by the head to squint at the hole. It didn't go all of the way through. The stone had been paler once and darkened with age. The remaining light color showed the shape of whatever had been hung there.

The pale shape was that of a pentacle.

His heart started to pound. If he had Uncle's wooden pentacle, he was sure it would perfectly fit. The wood had felt so old and brittle in Sébastien's fingers, and he'd always imagined it hanging on a commoner's sitting room wall as a symbol of protection or luck.

His mouth went dry as he looked at the imperfection of the lid.

Uncle had bought the pentacle from a collector. He'd said the cuffs were from South Sea too, and he'd never said if it came from the same seller. He'd given them to Sébastien as a present. He still remembered opening the box on his fifteenth birthday, seeing the gold cuffs on the bed of crushed velvet, and tacking on a smile before thanking Uncle.

Sébastien hadn't tried them on yet. His stomach had turned over when Corentin had later said it was for being good, and he expected a proper thank you later for such an exquisite present. Father and Remere hadn't been close enough to hear Uncle.

That night had been particularly long and vile.

He stood, took a shuddery breath, tried not to remember, and imagined a faceless man sneaking into the tomb one day before the werewolves decided to live around there. He'd heard that collectors often wore gloves since oils from the fingers could ruin certain things, and they wanted to keep whatever they took in good condition to be sold. The dead were rarely buried with anything because they couldn't take materialistic possessions with them. Since the tomb was so decorated, customs had varied over the centuries, and Angelo had been loved, his people might have left something with him.

The cuffs would have been around the bony remains of his forearms or perhaps left beside him. He could imagine the collector hurriedly putting on gloves and carefully removing each one to wrap in cloth and tuck into a bag before replacing the lid.

What a treasure. Anyone would buy such a fine item as long as they didn't know where it came from.

It was bad enough to take something left in a tomb.

One of the worst crimes imaginable was to open a stone coffin and mess with the body or take anything from it. Elira said anyone guilty of the crime was to be put to death. All of her children were to be laid to rest in Ymir's Dirt and never disturbed unless there was an absolute need to transfer the body to another resting place.

Sébastien's stomach tightened. To think he'd been wearing something that should still be in the tomb with its original owner. Had Uncle known? Had the collector dared to allow the truth to slip?

He'd been awfully obsessed with the pentacle.

He leaned over, trying to make out what was carved on top. A pentacle with…He went to the side and boosted himself up to lean over again.

A goat's head lay over the pentacle. Horns came from the side, and a pentagram marked its forehead. Why would they carve such a thing? It wasn't a skull and wasn't that a werewolf idea for luck? Sébastien squinted before he touched it with a finger, intending to wipe away a little dust and make the details clearer.

Curious, little fairy?

Sébastien was faintly aware of leaning against the box for a second. It faded, and he saw a massive fire with fairies dressed in furs, leathers, and loose robes tied at the shoulders and waist. A massive figure stood just beyond the light to watch as the people suddenly turned on each other. Sébastien caught sight of a bone knife in one fairy's hand before it entered the chest of another.

They all shouted, fought, and killed as if caught in a rabid frenzy. Even a child jumped on an adult, although he didn't last long. Another man continuously stabbed a body after it stopped moving, and a woman threw an older woman into the fire. Her clothes and wings went up in flames as she screamed and tried to get up. The hideous figure twisted in agony, and no one stopped to help or even seemed to hear her shrieks. A man grabbed a small child and bashed its head against the ground.

Sébastien watched in horror as he continued even after the head was no longer recognizable.

Blood soaked into the ground, and Sébastien caught a glimpse of its face. A goat's head. Black horns that jutted out to the side. Its forehead bore a pentagram which should have been a symbol for protection. Its dark, massive body was far bigger than Remus or any werewolf. Black fur covered his powerful limbs, and instead of feet, he had hooves like a goat.

Prince Angelo stood near the edge of a forest with a short spear. A group of roughly two hundred fairies clustered behind him. Many had wrapped wounds, bruises, and torn clothes. A boy of about twelve was carrying a girl who couldn't have been more than three and didn't appear conscious. Several around the edges of the group held spears, and a few had bows.

Angelo was arguing with another man who looked like him, except his curls were cut short, and he wore a wrap that was knotted at his hips.

"If you take them with you, I'll never speak to you again. Lilith's children are not our brothers and sisters, and I don't care if Elira adopted the werewolves. They will never be like us."

Angelo spread his white wings as if to shield the others. "They're still fairies."

"Then why doesn't Elira help them?"

"I don't know, and I wouldn't ask the Goddess what she does. I'll give protection to anyone who asks it of me. Even against you. If any others come to me in South Sea, I'll accept them too." Angelo lifted one arm, and his sleeve slid back to reveal a gold filigree cuff as fire blossomed in his hand. "Don't fight me, brother."

The twin said nothing. Angelo turned to walk away, and the group followed while maintaining their formation.

Angelo stood in front of a hut as several fairies approached. A weeping one wiped her face with the back of her hand. "We can't find her anymore. She's abandoned us."

"You'll always have a Mother in Elira," said Angelo.

Sébastien's room at Arquous was hazy. His eyes were swollen from crying, and his head was so sluggish, sitting up felt like too much effort. Uncle pushed another glass of wine into his hands.

"Drink."

Sébastien glanced at the empty bottle on the table in front of the couch. "I already had-"

"It's fine for tonight. Drink it. Nobody will mind. Your Father's probably drinking himself into oblivion in his room, and he won't know anything. You won't tell him, right?"

"No, Uncle."

Corentin stroked his hair. "It's fine if we have little secrets."

Sitting against him and sipping the sweet, pink liquid, he hoped it would put him into a sleep where he wouldn't feel anything. More than that, he wanted to wake up and find it was all a dream. The wine was making his body and head heavy, but he could still feel.

He'd never been allowed to have more than a glass at dinner. If Uncle said it was all right, he wouldn't get in trouble. It would soothe him, and he said he'd stay with Sébastien since Father and Remere had locked themselves away in their respective rooms to hide their grief.

The glass was nearly empty. Uncle was getting him up and off the couch. He was light and heavy at the same time, and he couldn't seem to remember how to make his legs work. The sitting room was spinning, and he was sure he'd fall over if Corentin wasn't holding him up.

"You'd best lay down."

You know what hate feels like.

Through the smothering fog of wine, the breathing sounded like Uncle. Why was he in the bed too? Sébastien's arms weighed too much as he tried to push off the weight, and a hand suddenly locked around his throat to hold him down.

"Ssh. You can't keep teasing a man like that and pretending you don't want it."

He could barely draw in air, and panic further tightened his chest.

I know how much you hate him.

"No!"

The hit to Sébastien's stomach tore his breath away, and he couldn't quite get it back when Uncle bent him over the short chest of drawers and twisted his arm behind his back.

"Don't ever tell me no. Who's been staying with you more since your Father can barely handle himself? Who held your hand at the funeral?"

Corentin grabbed a handful of Sébastien's hair so hard, his scalp stung as his head was forced up. In the looking glass mounted behind the chest of drawers, his tear-streaked face stared back.

"Look at yourself. You're a brat. I don't ask for much and this is how you act after I've been the one to take care of you these past weeks?"

See what he did to you? Don't you wish he was dead?

"Uncle, please!"

Don't you want to punish him for that?

Uncle clamped a hand over Sébastien's mouth when he tried to scream because it hurt. "Don't you dare ever do that again."

Doesn't he deserve to be burned to ash for what he did? He gave you over since I needed more time to build, and he'd already been using you. I could feel it in his mind. He knew what was in those cuffs. The fool thought the pentacle was something important that would help me grow stronger.

The night he'd last had a fit. Something in his head wasn't right when he woke up on the couch with an open book on his chest. He didn't remember falling asleep. His first thought was to get Maxime although he had no idea if he'd been poisoned or if it was something else. He hadn't eaten or drank after dinner.

He almost expected the guards in the hall to stab him in the back when he stepped out. He made it to the physician, and Maxime was asking him a question.

You will let me in at some point because there's no other option. I'm already a part of you, and I've had years to grow stronger. They were right when they said waiting is better, and I should try patience. You'll be entirely mine whether you like it or not, and you were so easy to manipulate into wrath. You even nearly killed an innocent man.

Sébastien couldn't feel the tomb. The void and lack of anything solid around him should have terrified him more, but it was better than the hands all over him. Hands that should have protected him but didn't.

Do you want him to die?

Yes. Because Uncle had ground filth into him nearly every day until abandoning him.

Answer me!

A hand bigger than anything he'd felt grabbed his neck so hard, he thought it would snap, and he was too afraid to not speak.

"Y-yes."

"I owe you nothing, and you're only a vessel so I can be physical and leave this place. I'll allow you this. You'll leave your weapons and take a ship to Soleil without him."

Remus. Sébastien couldn't see anything. The hand around his throat was real and far larger than Uncle's. If it squeezed a little harder…his mind might snap before his neck. He could sense the bulk of the thing holding him.

"You'll have fire unlike anything you've ever seen, and no army will have a chance against you. You can watch your Uncle suffer and burn. Use all of that anger to make him pay. Afterward, your body is mine. Once you're dead, I can finally go home.

No. Hot breath hit his cheek.

" Or should I take you now? I don't have to let you kill your Uncle? The fairies destroyed my physical form afterward, and I will have another no matter what you pick. Choose. Death now or later. Either way, I'm going home, and I will kill you to do it."

Now or later. He knew in his very bones that he had two choices and nothing else. His death was rapidly approaching, and if that was so, he wanted to kill Uncle himself.

"L-later."

"Once your Uncle is dead, and I kill you, you won't have to remember anything. You can blame your Uncle for attaching me to you and burn him for that too. The only way to make me go away is to die. You will never get rid of me. If the Angel Prince could sacrifice himself and still not truly defeat me, you have no hope. With your death, I'll return home instead of remaining trapped in this vile realm. All things must return to where they belong."

The hand tightened.

"If you try to stay with him, I'll kill him. Afterward, I'll make you relive everything before you die."

The ropes kept his legs apart. He knew better than to scream, but Uncle had still gagged him. He'd promised they'd spend the whole afternoon alone, and the bed shifted as he got on.

Sébastien suddenly found himself collapsed against the side of the tomb. The rough stone was real under his fingers as he tried to grab onto it, desperate for something to support him. His neck wasn't sore, and nobody was touching him. He wasn't naked or tied down. No massive beast lurked. Uncle wasn't there.

He crumpled to the floor as a sob threatened to rip itself from him. He could still almost feel the rope around his wrists and the absolute terror of knowing that he was trapped in place for Uncle to use him at his leisure. He could even feel the beast's hands on his throat, the void. Everything.

He drew up his knees, gripped his hair, and clamped his jaw shut as his breath sawed in and out. It wasn't real. It wasn't real. That was years ago. He was in South Sea, not the lodge. It had all been a hallucination. The stress had cracked him, and if he went to Remus and curled up against him, he'd feel better.

He couldn't quite make himself move, and he had to rub his wrists to convince himself he wasn't tied up in any way. Nobody was holding his throat, and he was alone in the tomb.

If he got Remus up, he could tell him everything, unload it, and let himself be held.

A faint growl made him jerk and lift his head. The room was empty. No animal, werewolf, or fairy had wandered in.

I'll kill him. You have a week if you take Rowland to get on a boat and leave. Your Uncle thought to control me. He was wrong, and you won't control me either. You won't keep me in this vile realm.

The voice, almost like his own thoughts, didn't sound quite right with the harsh, rumbling undertone that was faintly distorted too. Silence reigned except for his shaky breathing, and he kept expecting to feel it grab him or be at Uncle's mercy.

Nothing. It was just him and a stone box with a body hidden inside.

He remembered taking the cuffs, slipping one on in his room, and thinking that he could use his sick Uncle's gift against him. He'd wear them at night, and if Uncle came into his room, he wouldn't see them under his nephew's sleeves. Sébastien would bash him in the face and bust his nose. He'd go for his sword afterward and-

It had been a fantasy since he'd been far too scared to fight back. He couldn't even utter the word no anymore. Forget hitting him. Uncle had wrung all of that out of him months ago. After he'd put the second cuff on, he vaguely remembered not feeling "right."

He'd awoken on the floor of his bedroom with Maxime over him and a couple of dithering servants in the background. Maxime said the one who cleaned his room had found him convulsing on the floor and completely unaware of anything.

Sébastien had rested in bed that day, and Father had demanded to know if he'd be fine. Maxime said if he seemed well for a few days, he'd likely be fine. Some had one and never dealt with another in their life. It was odd but harmless.

He hadn't had another for years.

The cuffs had held the beast that Angelo had fought. Sébastien glanced up at the poem. Devil. It was another word for a beast or even a person who did bad things, although it was common.

Perhaps it had pretended to be harmless and tricked them when it came to South Sea before turning fairies against each other in rage. Angelo had used a forgotten South Sea magic to trap him in the cuffs. The body had been destroyed, and everyone thought it was over for good.

Sébastien let himself sag against the side of the tomb as his eyes stung. Uncle had been sick long before he got those items, and he'd eventually decided to hand his nephew over, seeking to gain control of that thing. That's why he'd always been giving Sébastien the pentacle. He thought that would do something and bring it forth more. The beast must have spoken to him once by then, and hadn't told him enough or…his head ached as he tried to stuff down the memories.

Had it given Corentin a fit? Why hadn't the collector noticed anything?

They often wore gloves. Of course. After the item had been stored in something, he'd had no reason to touch it with his bare hands. He would risk any imperfection before it was sold. Uncle had likely assumed the items to be harmless, brought them home, and unpacked them in his rooms.

He'd tried on the cuffs and had a fit in his bedroom, except no one had come in at the right time and realized anything. The thing had spoken to him, sensed the foulness inside, and wanted Sébastien. Perhaps that beast needed a younger, fresher body with an easily angered mind. It had been growing stronger for over seven years.

His eyes drifted to the poem. Two Princes. One of Wrath, and one of Sacrifice. It fed from his anger and knew that with such a sick man abusing a boy, he'd have the perfect host to feed from.

Since Uncle had handed him over by gifting the cuffs, it likely hadn't been to murder him. Not like that. He wanted the beast inside of a vessel where he could control it. The beast could have lied and said anything. Sébastien would probably never know.

If it could give Sébastien fire magic unlike a typical fairy, Uncle could use him as a weapon to do whatever he wanted. Had the devil promised him to serve him if he was given the young Prince? Except the beast wasn't going to stay. He wanted to leave, and if wrath fed his magic like sex fed the magic of those living in the Fallen realm.

With so many years of being quietly latched onto Sébastien, it must have grown a lot in power. Uncle, impatient with his unexpected results, decided to go ahead, kill him, and be done with it. It wasn't like he truly needed some beast on his side to at least rule Soleil and take over Rowland. If the beast couldn't take over, Corentin couldn't wait until his nephew was ready to sit on the throne and attempt to slap together a plan to kill him.

Sébastien couldn't quite stop the trembling in his limbs when he stood to eye the tomb and the goat mark. He'd worn the cuffs for protection, afraid of others coming onto him when he grew older and more attractive as his childish appearance matured into that of a man. He wished he'd thrown them into a fire or anywhere.

Elira had surely known what Angelo had done later. If the Goddess couldn't truly finish the job and ensure it was entirely destroyed and gone forever, what hope did Sébastien or anyone else have?

Fairies had already proven themselves no match for the beast, and Sébastien was just that when broken down to the basics: a fairy. Not a Prince, not royal, not a phoenix like Remus once said. Just a fairy.

It would allow him to kill his Uncle, and after that…he'd be dead. A last bit of rage to feed from, and that was it. Somehow, its foul magic would kill him, and it would go back to wherever it came from since its main goal seemed to be to return home , wherever that was. What it did to achieve that goal meant little because fairies were nothing.

It had even called this realm vile.

He'd found a man he could trust to go on a ride with the promise of nothing bad and a promise of more. Things he'd never imagined having with anyone.

The room grew blurry as he struggled to think of a way to fight this and stay with Remus. To see if they could have more with both Kingdoms secure and safe.

He couldn't fight it because it would punish him, make him relive it all, and still kill him. The prospect of reliving his teen years was enough to make his breath hitch. Why had he allowed himself to hope? Nobody was ever going to truly save him. If anything good came, it would be ripped away. Hadn't he already learned his lesson?

Why had he dared to allow himself to hope?