Chapter 62

Chapter 62

M ariah hadn’t been to Qhohena’s temple since the day after the parade.

Since the day she’d visited Ryenne, standing vigil over the shrouded corpse of her fallen Armature, Cedoric. When the shadowed glass of the Antechamber of Priam had hidden the sunlight, casting the space in comforting darkness.

Now, she stood in the main temple, pews lined on either side of a narrow aisle. Candles burned around the dais at the front of the room, their wax dripping onto the floor.

The priestesses—now, just Liliane—led weekly services in the temple, the one time when those from the city were welcomed past the palace gates. Mariah had never been; that sort of group worship wasn’t for her.

But she hadn’t had it in her to tell the priestess no. Even with the threats crushing them from all fronts, they still opened the gates once a week. Citizens were allowed through, allowed a chance to stand in the temple and rest lit candles on the altar, hoping to gain Qhohena’s favor.

It was said that if your candle burned all the way down, leaving only a puddle of wax on the floor, then your plea would be answered. But if your candle extinguished before the wax burned out, then the gods had found you unworthy.

For the moment, at least. Just until the next service, when you could try again.

Mariah stepped forward, boots clicking across the polished floor. She knelt before the flickering candles, the sheath on her thigh tightening around her padded leathers.

She dressed for war most days now. The only time when she wasn’t armed was at night, when she hid her dagger beneath her pillow.

And she knew Andrian also had his own blade tucked beneath his own.

It was the only way she was able to fall asleep; curled against his chest, the familiar scent of rain and sandalwood chasing away her nightmares. Her fears for her family hit her hardest at night—where they were, how they might be treated. What they might be enduring.

Because of her.

She held her hand above the dancing flames. The heat burned her palm, but she didn’t draw back.

Was this you? Is this all part of your plan, Qhohena? I was already doing as you asked. I was looking into the Solstice. I was trying to work through what happened. And now … Her throat constricted around a choked sob.

There was no use trying to speak to the goddess. She hadn’t felt even the slightest brush of otherworldly power against her skin—from either Qhohena or Zadione—since that night they’d visited her in her rooms. Even at her coronation, they were silent.

Her magic thrummed in her veins, silver and gold dancing along her fingertips. It steadied her, somehow.

The gods would not answer her, so she would make her own fate.

Become her own god.

Footsteps that wanted to be heard sounded behind her. She lifted her chin and looked over her shoulder. Andrian stood a few paces away, wreathed in shadow, the silver hilt of a longsword peaking over his left shoulder. She turned back to the candles, casting one more glance at the weak golden flames.

How silly they all were, lighting candles to gain the attention of a goddess.

As if the gods controlled this world.

Mariah stood, stepping back from the dais altar and turned towards the hallway to Priam’s Antechamber, Andrian falling silently into step behind her.

The scene before her was too like Cedoric’s vigil. Clouds shielded the summer sun, hazing the room in a layer of darkness, the black and gold marble gleaming.

The difference, of course, was instead of one shrouded body resting on a moveable pedestal, there were seven. Six large frames, all pointing toward the smaller shape in the center of the room.

Even in death, Ryenne’s Armature stood guard around their queen.

Beside the shrouded body of one of Ryenne’s Armature was Delaynie, her black gown harsh against her pale skin, dark auburn hair falling in ringlets down her back. Her mother stood at her side, hair only a few shades darker and beginning to streak with gray. Their faces were solemn, their postures tired, leaning into and on each other as they stood in a silent wake.

Mariah had expected to see them there, saying goodbye to a father and a partner, one last time.

She hadn’t expected to see the man standing behind them, a baldric of knives strapped across his chest, bright red hair pushed back from his face. A face that wore an uncharacteristically open expression, the concern and sympathy on his features clear as day.

Quentin’s bottle green eyes drifted toward Mariah as if sensing his queen. He blinked, almost in surprise, glancing once more at Delaynie before pulling away, walking quietly to Mariah and Andrian. Andrian subtly lifted a brow, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

“Feeling pious, Quentin?”

Quentin shot Andrian a brutal glare. “Fuck you, Andrian. I’m just being a good friend.”

Mariah tilted her head. “Since when were you and Delaynie friends?”

Quentin shifted uncomfortably. “She just lost her dad. I figured she could use some extra support.”

Mariah felt Andrian’s growl begin in his chest—felt his surge of indignant anger down their bond. “And your queen just had her family cap?—”

“It’s okay.” She rested a hand on Andrian’s arm. Turning back to Quentin, she let a gentle smile play across her lips. The movement felt off, uncomfortable, not something that fit against the pieces of her rage.

But she tried.

“I’m glad you’re there for her. Someone should be.”

Quentin blanched, expression softening. “She knows you’re there for her, M. I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty.”

Mariah’s smile turned sad, morphing into something more authentic. “I know you didn’t. And I don’t. I’m just saying—thank you. For being there for her.”

Quentin opened his mouth before closing it, dipping his head. “Of course.”

Mariah’s gaze wandered away from his, trailing until it landed on Delaynie and her mother. Continued until it reached the small body lying prone in the center of the room.

“Stay here,” she commanded softly.

Andrian’s fingers brushed across the back of her hand, a whisper of a caress, as Quentin dipped his head again.

With quiet steps, Mariah walked first to Delaynie and her mother, Briella, silent beside Steven’s shrouded body. Just a few paces from them, Mariah paused. They wore simple yet elegant gowns of black lace and tulle, their skirts hanging in layers around their legs.

She looked so savage when compared to these women, these ladies. In truth, she’d always felt a little savage beside Delaynie, with her moon-white skin and poised demeanor. Mariah had seen that elegant exterior slip more than a few times now, but the Delaynie that now stood before her fallen father was the same one raised to hide her emotions behind a mask so no one in this court of vipers could learn her secrets.

Mariah took another step, letting the heel of her boot scuff across the marble floor. Delaynie slowly lifted her gaze from her father and turned it to Mariah.

That mask was there, to be sure. All her emotions carefully cloistered behind a face of polished beauty. But deep in her blue-gray eyes, Mariah saw the truth—the pain, the heartbreak, the guilt and sadness and rage.

That rage surprised Mariah the most.

Mariah shifted on her feet.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Del. Nothing I could say could make this better, but … I’m here for you. I need you to know that.”

Delaynie blinked. Briella turned, smiling sadly at Mariah and dipping her head, just once, before returning to her silent vigil.

“You are … sorry?” Delaynie said, her brows lifting with muted surprise.

Mariah tensed. “Yes. I’m sorry. I want to know if there’s anything I can do.” Her words felt rigid and forced.

All that had happened—it was too much. She wanted to be there for her friend; a friend who’d fought for her when she hadn’t, who’d reminded her what it meant to be her . But she couldn’t.

No . She could. Mariah gritted her teeth.

And faltered when she found Delaynie looking at her with tears in her eyes, grief and pain written across her face.

“Mariah,” Delaynie whispered, reaching a hand for Mariah’s. Mariah let her take it, blinking once.

“I don’t need you to apologize to me. Especially not now. Okay?” More tears filled Delaynie’s eyes. “Yes, I lost my father. But I always knew that for you to ascend the throne, he would have to leave us. We came to terms with it long before we ever met you. And even then …” A sad smile played across Delaynie’s lips. “Even then, I could never blame you for this. He told me once that he was happy to see his kingdom being left in the hands of a queen who truly deserved it. And he asked me to always be there for you—to help. So, please. Do not apologize.” Delaynie’s stance shifted, her mask of composed grief faltering, revealing a fire burning beneath it.

“But you … Mariah, they have your family . A family that is still very much with you, not one you’ve spent years knowing you would have to part from. I should be the one asking you if there’s anything I can do.” Her gray eyes flashed, more fire peeking through. “If I could burn those lords alive myself, I would.”

Mariah was stunned, lips parting with her shock. Whenever she thought she knew Delaynie, had figured out her quiet friend who clothed herself in perfect facades and tailored dresses, she surprised Mariah. Would say something so painfully true that it felt like a knife driven through Mariah’s chest, a jolt that would wake her from the depths of her anger and pain.

She remembered the name Quentin had called Delaynie no more than a week ago, when her court had gathered on her balcony over wine and companionship. Before she knew her family was taken, before she’d donned the crown of Xara. Before her world had descended into chaos.

Little wolf.

Despite the depthless chasm of her rage, a subtle smirk played its way across Mariah’s lips. Fitting. She hoped Delaynie let Quentin keep using it.

“I know you would, Delaynie. And trust me—I intend to burn them myself for what they’ve done. But I’m still going to apologize to you. And you don’t have to accept it, but let me say it, anyways.”

More blue flames flickered in Delaynie’s eyes before she nodded once, a slight dip of her head.

When she did, Mariah noticed something.

There was a delicate necklace around her friend’s throat. The chain was so thin that Mariah had never noticed it before, especially since her friend so often wore heavier jewelry that masked the simple adornment.

But today, Delaynie’s neck was bare, her collar exposed. Mariah’s gaze lingered on the simple necklace … and then narrowed on the small black stone resting in the hollow of Delaynie’s throat.

“Del,” Mariah whispered, alarm racing through her, magic flooding her limbs. “What is that necklace?”

Delaynie’s hands flew to her throat, her brows furrowing. “What, this little thing? It’s my sautoire . One of the lord’s wives—Lady Cordaro, I think—gave it to me at my first debutante when I was thirteen. It’s a traditional gift for a high-born or wealthy girl.” Delaynie’s voice faltered as Mariah’s expression fell, then twisted into something furious and a little sick.

Her magic writhed and thrashed in her gut, begging to be freed, to wrap around that delicate chain and rip it from her friend’s throat.

“Mariah,” Delaynie said slowly, still running her fingers along the necklace. “What’s wrong?”

Mariah took a slow, shaky step forward. “What is that stone in the center?”

“I don’t know.” Delaynie’s response was slow, hesitant. Her hands dropped from her neck. “It’s just what is in every sautoire . It’s always the same stone.”

“A black and gold stone.” Mariah’s words were a growl. Her bond with Andrian snapped taut, her sudden anger racing through the air between them. She was distantly aware of him pushing off the wall and striding across the Antechamber, Quentin on his heels.

Delaynie’s eyes were blown wide. “I don’t understand, M?—”

Mariah’s hand snapped out, her friend’s words halting in her throat. Faster than a viper, Mariah slid a finger under the delicate silver chain and yanked. With a silent pop, it broke against the back of Delaynie’s neck, masked by her friend’s sharp gasp of shock.

“Mariah! What are you doing?”

Mariah didn’t answer. She could only glare savagely at the necklace in her hand, at the black and gold stone shimmering back at her. It burned where it touched her skin, her magic hissing and recoiling through her veins.

This was the same stone that had cuffed her wrists when she’d been taken. The same stone used to sever a magic user from their gifts.

The same stone now wrapped around the wrists of her baby brother, if that messenger was to be believed.

“Do you know what this is?” Her voice was still and quiet, only a whisper. Andrian appeared by her side with a gentle brush of shadow down her arm and a rumble of fury from his bond. Quentin wasn’t far behind, but he moved around the side, standing between Mariah and Delaynie.

Delaynie blinked. “It’s just … the sautoire stone. Every debutante gift has the same stone in it. It’s just tradition.”

“Tradition,” Mariah spat. She inhaled deeply, desperately trying to rein in her fury.

This wasn’t Delaynie’s fault.

Her friend was yet another victim of her kingdom’s fucking traditions .

“This,” Mariah said, “is something I didn’t know existed until very, very recently, when I was forced to become painfully familiar with it.” She met Delaynie’s stare. “It’s called deistair . It’s Old Onitan for sunstone. It’s the same substance they used to cuff my wrists to lock away my magic when they took me. That’s what it does, Delaynie—it locks away magic. Severs your connection to the gods, to their gifts, to the very earth and allume in the ground around us.”

The room was quiet. Delaynie’s mother stepped forward, standing beside her daughter, her eyes wide.

“I … This is …”

“Impossible. I know. But here it is, and I can promise you—this is deistair . You said every high-born or wealthy girl gets these sautoires on their thirteenth birthday? Their first debutante ?”

Delaynie and her mother nodded, their eyes still wide with shock and confusion.

It settled around Mariah then. The gravity of what that meant. She’d always found it odd how so many boys had magic but hardly any girls. And how when it was a girl, she was always from one of the poorer families, those who wouldn’t have been able to afford a gift like this … or even knew it existed. Mariah wouldn’t be surprised if this was a closely held secret guarded by those who could afford it. A method to suppress the magic in every girl they found worthy of being a wife, to keep them docile and tamed and obedient.

Mariah’s gut twisted, and she feared she might be sick.

“Wearing this … it would mask all magic, if you had any. Especially if you wore it before any gifts manifested. They’ve been suppressing magic in girls—in women—for a long, long time.” Mariah’s voice was hollow and low, the depth of her anger sinking deeper into a never-ending pit, clawing and screaming against the evilness of the world that even after showing her its hand, still surprised her.

Her gaze snapped to Ryenne’s body, shrouded in gold. Mariah gripped Delaynie’s ruined deistair necklace tighter in her palm and stalked toward the raised table. Light shimmered off her skin, coils of silver-gold snapping between her fingers like snakes. The vile stone in her palm was just enough to make her magic hiss and twist, but as a fully ascended queen, it would take much more than a small morsel of it to lock her power away.

It was plenty to unleash the unearthly rage lurking beneath her skin, though.

Mariah stood for a moment beside Ryenne’s corpse. She pinched the end of the shroud, pulling it back just enough to reveal Ryenne’s face, peaceful and still in death. Her eyes were closed, gray hair brushed away from her face. Her skin sagged, but the magic of this room held her in stasis until the vigil was complete.

“Did you know?” Mariah’s whisper was so quiet, she doubted none other than the gods could hear her. “Did you know what they’ve done to their girls to keep them weak and suitable as wives? How many girls could be running through the kingdom with flames in their palms or the winds on their heels, free from either the confines of an unfulfilling marriage or a lifetime of servitude?” A tear streaked down Mariah’s face, her voice breaking as it landed on the golden shroud.

“ How many , Ryenne?” Her last words were raised, almost a shout as she let her tears fall upon her predecessor’s body. A queen who’d had a good heart but was too weak to protect those who needed her most.

Mariah stepped away from Ryenne, glancing down at the burning stone in her palm.

With a growl that morphed into a scream, she funneled all her magic into that stone. It burned against her palm as the black heated to orange, the gold crackling with power before it shattered, vaporizing into thousands of tiny pieces scattered into the air.

Mariah sank to her knees in the antechamber, her shoulders sagging, chin hitting her chest.

Footfalls echoed behind her. A large, familiar shape lowered to his knees before her. Andrian leaned into her space, forehead resting against hers, a hand slipping behind her neck.

“You will end them, nio . You will end them all for this.”

Mariah raised her head, meeting that beloved tanzanite stare. That face that she’d once despised so much, had tried to resist but was drawn to, nevertheless. The tortured soul inside that was still so full of anger and grief and self-loathing but was learning to put it aside for her. A soul she was determined to help mend, with each day he stood by her side.

Which, she hoped, would be a long, long time.

“ We , Andrian. We will end them, and we will scatter their ashes like dust on the wind as we build this world anew.”