Chapter 28

Rapid pounding on the bedchamber door sends my pulse leaping from my neck and my legs tumbling out of bed.

Fuck.I rub my hand across my nape, rolling my shoulders forward and back, having strained it during my violent jolt awake.

"Be outside in five. Make it six, and I'm throwing you over my shoulder again and hauling your ass out of there."

"Uh-huh," I call just loud enough for Sin to hear the annoyance in my tone.

I pull on a tunic the color of a cream dipped persimmon and off-white leggings, and secure a tan leather bodice over my clothing. My fingers make haste to secure my hair into its mohawk braid, and a quick glance at my reflection confirms I look as exhausted as I feel. The nightly terrors plaguing my sleep are taking its toll on my body—the undersides of my eyes darkened with iris shadows like day old cosmetics.

Slinging my satchel over my shoulder, I trudge downstairs and plow through the heavy set of double doors at the castle's entrance. Two ebony horses saddled and ready for riders fidget at the bottom of the stairs, while the Black Art tsks softly to the one nearest him, scratching the underside of its chin.

I stuff my satchel into one of the saddle bags and ignore Sin's outstretched hand as I grip the horn of the saddle and heave my leg over the horse. Sin mounts the other with impressive speed, and we make our way past the watchtowers that I note are as heavily guarded in this hour as they are during times of peak traffic.

We ride through Blackreach and find ourselves on the single road that leads to the bridge. Neither of us speaks until we're nearly at the Malachite, him apparently accepting I am not going to be the one to initiate conversation after the ridiculous stunt he pulled a few days prior.

"You aren't going to ask where we're going?" he prods, breaking the silence.

Not missing a beat, I say, "I didn't think a filthy bloodwitch would have the right to know."

Sin shoots me a lingering glance. "Still mad about that, are you?"

I don't bother turning my head to look at him and instead, ignore him entirely. I see him purse his lips in my periphery, obviously deliberating with himself, and then his shoulders rise and fall in a quick shrug as if he answered some unspoken question he had asked himself.

"I spoke ill of you to rile you up, and surely you know that. Now whether you're too stubborn to admit it or not, my plan did work. You demonstrated great capacity for control. Think about that, Wren. You could wipe out every one of those pricks that imprisoned you with half a thought if you let yourself have it."

I shift in my saddle and sweep my eyes to his. "Careful, or you'll make an argument against yourself, Blackheart."

If he's right and I truly possess enough control to wield my magic and render Legion extinct, what is to stop me from blowing the kingdom to smithereens when I'm done?

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I don't know how bloodwitches do it, but in the civilized world, we don't thank our allies by killing them."

"Right, because in the civilized world, you just slaughter everyone. An impartial killer—quite admirable really, Your Grace."

The glare he shoots me is sharp enough to slice through bone as if it were a heap of melted butter.

Brushing off his look, I continue, "And is that what we are—allies?"

He doesn't answer for a while, leaving me to tune in to the crunching of red ochre dirt beneath hooves and delighting in the spring wind grazing my flushed cheeks. By the time Sin does speak again, I've forgotten I was waiting for an answer at all.

"There are much worse things we could be, little witch."

His tone is softer, and for a fleeting moment, it almost dislodges an agreement out of me before I think better of it. I press my knees into the horse, and we take off in a thunderous gallop, the beating of its mighty hooves against the dirt drowning out the voices arguing amongst themselves in my head.

We stop to rest in the outskirts of Emberbourne and snack on some of the dried meat and large, round blood oranges he packed in his saddle bag. After watering ourselves and our horses, we continue riding south as the sun blooms into golden petals that stretch across the afternoon sky, and eventually fade into a deeper, harmonious blend of orange and scarlet as the last hours of daylight hovers around us. The rolling peaks of The Red Tops rear up in the distance, their sky-punching tips disappearing behind the clouds.

We ride closer to the mountains, their namesake peaks impossibly tall above our heads. The Red Tops are a natural border separating the wealthier cities of Aegidale from the dry, famished pits that are Baregrove and Lostgarde. Legends say Lostgarde was once lovely, vibrant with tangled trees and blooming flora, before the kingdom scorched the city. Because bordering Lostgarde is the heavily forested abyss known as The Feral Vale, home to another type of magic it"s believed the kingdom fears.

The inhabitants of the vale can't emerge in sunlight, so the kingdom burned everything outside of its verdant borders, forcing the monsters to stay hidden beyond the woods. Lostgarde suffered the heaviest loss of infrastructure, but the western parts of Baregrove were also devastated, leaving once thriving cities to despair in the wake of the kingdom's destruction.

Curiosity piques my interest as to what business the Black Art has this far south, and why he wanted my company for the trip.The towering, craggy peaks grow taller as we near them, their red tips staining the clouds with their blood-soaked teeth.

And then I see it.

Settled on an outcropping of rock is a comically small temple. And carved into its front-facing surface, her chiseled features partially shadowed beneath the setting sun, is Elysande.

* * *

The temple is square shaped with four walls constructed entirely of red sandstone and brick. Carvings of sentries wrap around the three visible sides, protecting their idol from those brave or dumb enough to try to harm the goddess of war and vengeance.

Sin and I dismount at the base of the temple and tether our horses to nearby trees before hiking the remaining way up to Elysande's tiny house of worship. There is no opening in the front, the walls solidly constructed of russet stone shimmering in the final beams of daylight—stone that has been made smooth with wear.

I press my palm to one of the sentries—a winged woman with a drawn bow—and drag my hand across her dress, the chiseled beading of her bodice bumpy and textured under my fingers. Next to her, an overgrown man stands with a sword raised high above his head, both of his disproportionately sized hands clenched around the hilt. More sentries adorn the east and western sides, and I'm pleased at the number of female soldiers carved into the stone, so unlike the all-male army the kingdom has at its disposal.

And above them all, watching over her quaint dwelling, is Elysande. Long hair with waves like the ocean coil around her bare, feminine frame. Elysande stands with her arms above her head, her left hip slightly higher than her right, as if the artist carved her mid ceremonial dance. Tentatively, I reach a hand towards her, and I can't quite explain it, but a part of me swears there is life inside those smooth, vermilion stone eyes.

I glance behind myself and find Sin watching me closely, seemingly more interested in my reaction than in the temple itself. I almost ask him why he has brought me here but tuck the question away for now, too mesmerized by the beauty of the temple to disrupt the moment.

I walk to the rear side of the construct. The fourth wall is mostly open—an invitation for those brave enough to enter. The room is small, big enough to pack six bodies in at most, and only three comfortably. And standing against the most interior wall, taking up much of the space, is a statue of the idol herself. Elysande's stone hands are neatly folded against her skirt, her head tilted down as if ready to hear the prayers of those who have come to pay their respects.

I glance back at Sin again, who hovers just outside the temple. I'm not sure if he is trying to give me space, or if the goddess of war really does make him uncomfortable, as he alluded to yesterday. I raise my eyebrows, daring him to answer the silent question on my face.

"It is part of my duties to oversee the upkeep of the shrines. This is certainly the smallest of them." He hesitates for a moment, then continues, "I thought you might feel closer to her here, to your patron, if you wanted to pray and ask for strength in controlling your… abilities."

A kind gesture. One likely made out of remorse for deceiving me into hurting him. I turn back towards Elysande, vowing to consider the Black Art's attempt at an apology later, refusing to let it spoil this moment with her.

I kneel on the ground and lean my head against my left shoulder, exposing my neck to the goddess, a shared symbol of respect amongst many of the deities. After a moment, I right my head and tuck my chin towards my chest, and when Sin excuses himself, I begin to pray.

I ask Elysande to protect Cosmina and grant her strength to endure what she must until I can save her. Thoughts of Eldridge roll in like storm clouds, and I pray for my friend to find comfort as he struggles to tame his own demons, and to provide him clarity in times of stress. I ask her to protect the rest of my family—Zorina, Morrinne, Theon, and baby Galen—from all harm. To keep them safe if I should meet an untimely end.

And lastly, I think about my parents, allowing myself to relive the memory I keep locked up tight. The night my mother shooed me from our home upon learning what I was, like I was a wild animal riddled with disease. I cried—no, I begged—her to let me stay, to allow me the chance to prove I would never harm anyone. My begging only strengthened her shoves until my backside landed in a sludge of wet mud. She slammed the front door shut behind me, and the sound of that slam still jostles me awake some nights.

Tears prick my eyes, and for once, it feels good to feel. I unsheathe the athame at my thigh, the carving on the hilt now less impressive compared to the grand statue looming above me.

I dig the blade into my expecting palm and let the blood pool into the nestling of her skirts where they brush against the stone flooring. Leaning forward, I rest my forehead against the ground and ask the goddess of war, vengeance, and femininity to grant me strength. To grant me control of my power so I may call on it when I need it most. So that I may wield it for good.

When the tears have dried from my eyes and my breathing steadied, I heal the wound on my hand and ignite the blood on her skirts with a wave of magic, the smoke escorting my offering to the heavens. Paying her a final farewell, I exit the temple, leaving no trace I was there except for the weight of the promise I bid to her.