Chapter 73

Chapter 73

A nniliese Hareth walked amongst the rubble, ragged skirts catching on charred plants and scorched stone.

Khento’s gardens were destroyed. They’d always been lovely in a cold, detached sort of way. But now they were gone, destroyed by nightmares and legend made flesh.

Night had fallen and Anniliese still could not comprehend the past day. When Shawth had ordered them all down to attend another ceremony in the gardens, she’d felt only dread. Dread that was replaced by terror, then sickening, puzzling rage.

A breeze swept through the gardens, bringing with it the smell of burnt flowers, charred flesh, and lingering dragonfire. She tightened her cloak around her shoulders against the chill of the night, shuffling forward. Wisps of her dark hair that had fallen out of her coiled braid brushed her cheeks.

Anniliese stepped over a large piece of stone, once part of the risers lining the garden’s central space, and halted in her tracks.

The temporary wooden platform was still there in the middle. Despite the destruction, it still stood, almost untouched.

And atop it, laying behind that mass of foul black stone, was the body of Lisabel Salis. Forgotten, discarded, abandoned.

Something deep in Anniliese’s chest cracked.

She’d been trained and used and manipulated her entire life. Such was the way for women in her world. She never saw it, never knew anything different. Not until Mariah had snatched her future from her. Anniliese’s eyes were forced open, and the rage of thousands of generations of women rang in her soul.

Lisabel deserved better than this.

With purpose, Anniliese strode to the platform. She fixed her gaze on Lisabel’s white face, her open, unseeing eyes, the brutal gash across her neck as she unclasped her cloak. She swung the thick velvet, draping it across Lisabel’s form. A modicum of dignity; the best she could do.

Anniliese sank to her knees in the burnt, blood-soaked grass, staining her already ruined gown.

“Lord of the stars,” she whispered, tilting her head to the sky, “take this soul. Guide her into the heaven’s sweet embrace. Show her true peace and let her know the Goddess’ light.”

Anniliese hadn’t spoken Priam’s prayer since her mother’s vigil. A rite reserved only for the closest loved ones, a plea to Qhohena’s Consort to carry dear departed souls into eternal rest.

She was far from Lisabel’s loved one, but she hoped her words would suffice.

Bowing her head, she twisted her hands into the ruined fabric of her dress. “I’m sorry,” she said in a choked whisper. Tears burned behind her eyes, so much sorrow and rage and regret wrapping around her, swallowing her.

Beneath the stars, kneeling amidst blood and ruin before the body of the queen’s dead mother, Anniliese cried.

She should have listened to Mariah. Should have fled with her when she had the chance. She’d been lied to and manipulated; everyone in that castle had. Her instincts knew something was wrong, and in her fear, she’d ignored them. She hated— despised —the part she’d played, even unwittingly, in bringing about that day.

She hated herself for not being strong.

The tears ran down her face, mixing with ash and dust and smudged makeup. And as each one fell, something wild stirred awake, deep inside. Something forgotten and bright and burning .

Burning, burning, burning. Heat washed through her, consuming her, tugging at her chest as a caged animal begs to be set free.

Anniliese was too exhausted to hold it in.

That feeling burst from her chest, and light flared against her closed eyelids, splotching her vision with searing gold. Warmth crackled in her hands, along her skin, and her eyes flew open in wild shock.

Her hands … they were on fire.

Sobs caught in her throat as a scream threatened to crawl its way out. Fear—anticipation of the pain, of the searing of her flesh—heaved through her chest. But before her terror could consume her, she realized something.

That fire … it wasn’t burning. It danced on her skin, wrapped around her fingers, but caused no pain. Nothing but glorious, freeing warmth bubbled all around her.

“What …” she whispered breathlessly, horror dying in her chest as she watched those glowing golden flames dancing in the moonlight.

These flames were hers.

This was magic.

Which was impossible. Anniliese did not have magic. That’s why she’d attended the Choosing, why she was eligible to marry, why she wasn’t garbed in a priestess’s golden robes.

A ringing started in her ears. Her chest heaved as her hands began to shake. “I can’t be. I can’t be. I can’t?—”

The flames twinkled at her, as if in laughter.

They were … they were beautiful. Wild and dangerous and terrifying, certainly. But they were hers. And as Anniliese watched them, she felt a piece of herself shift, clicking into place.

She’d been taught to be meek and quiet and perfect. But that was not who she was, not really. She was fire and light and rage, and she would not be contained again.

The night breeze shifted around her, catching sparks from her skin. They illuminated Lisabel’s dark, covered form, still there on the wooden platform.

And Anniliese knew what she needed to do.

On shaky legs she stood, hand still wreathed in flames. She reached out, holding her breath, her golden flames shimmering.

Anniliese touched her palm to the dried wood of the platform. Go , she whispered to her magic.

Burn. Cleanse. Free.

Her flames obeyed.

They hungrily leaped from her hand, gobbling up the wood. Within seconds the platform was ablaze, a great torch ignited against the quiet night. Lisabel’s body lay within the flames, Anniliese’s cloak burned to nothing, the horror of the day swallowed by the cleansing fire.

A makeshift pyre. One last, small thing Anniliese could do. She would never earn true forgiveness, but she knew, in her heart, that this was right.

Perhaps the first truly good thing she’d ever done.

“Well, well. Now isn’t this intriguing, Ms. Hareth.”

Anniliese’s stomach bottomed out with panic and fear. Her flames snuffed out, even as the platform kept burning up the night.

Slowly, her feet barely loosening against the ruined grass, she turned to face High Priestess Ksee. The older woman wore a malicious smirk upon her face, white robes splotched with ash and blood.

“I truly did not think you had it in you. I always suspected you of having the gift, but with your station and sautoire , you were of better use to us as breeding stock.” Ksee frowned. “Speaking of … where is your necklace, girl?”

Anniliese trembled. All that newfound power vanished with the breeze. The flames of the pyre were warm behind her but no longer felt like hers. No longer felt connected to her. Returned was the trained and perfect Royal lady, bred for perfection.

Her fingers brushed her neck, the column of her throat, searching for the slender necklace she always wore. Her sautoire, the traditional debutante gift for a high-born or wealthy lady.

But it wasn’t there.

A memory flashed behind her eyes. Of watching the sacrifice of the priestesses, when the first demons had cracked from the earth. Watching her father slit the throat of a girl no older than her.

Of her fingers at her neck, yanking away that necklace with its small black and gold stone. Of the way she’d tossed it at her feet, lost amongst the chaos and death.

Her panic consumed her. “I-I don’t know,” she whispered softly, voice wavering.

Ksee shrugged. “Shame. We had such high hopes for you.” The darkness behind Ksee rustled, and more white-robed priestesses melted from the shadows, heads bowed.

“But it is no matter,” Ksee continued, frown tilting up into a sinister smile. “Replaceable is all you ever were. And replace you at court is what we will do.”

Cold, scaled hands wrapped around Anniliese’s arms. Hands tipped with sharp, serrated claws, still coated in dark, cracked blood. Voices hissed in her ears.

She screamed, a sharp pierce against the night.

Ksee’s smile broadened, the light of the fire carving her with shadow.

“And now you, dear Anniliese—you are mine. ”