57. Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Seven

My heart pounded in my ears.

Taft’s eyes burned with desperation as he reached for me, his fingers clawing at my leathers. “Hyacinth, please. You must understand, I only wanted to protect you. Landers is using you, keeping you under his control. I wanted to free you from him!”

I stared down at the man I had loved, the one I had called friend for so many years.

How could he? How could he betray me like this?

Betray us like this.

Shadows swirled inside me, begging for release.

Fury unlike anything I’d ever experienced burned through my veins at Dukovich’s words. Taft had not only betrayed us to The Silliands—to Ammord—but he had done so with the intent of manipulating me into turning against my family, my people.

“You lying, traitorous snake!” I roared, whirling on him. Taft shrank back, hands raised in supplication. “You traded me . . . for what? Safety? Power? Love?”

“The Silliands offered us sanctuary—safety from Landers’ war. With you by my side, we could have built a new life, away from the bloodshed.” Taft scrambled for the words, cowering at my feet.

My stomach churned with disgust at his twisted justification.

So much destruction, so many lives lost— Ardan’s life lost—all because of his jealousy, his arrogance.

“At what cost?” I spat. “Betraying our allies? Our family?”

“Open your eyes, Hyacinth! He’s the one who can’t be trusted.” He pointed a shaking finger at Landers, his eyes fixed on mine. “Landers got to the High Priest and poisoned his mind like he’s poisoned yours! He only wants power and conquest. The Silliands want peace! They don’t want this war, they want to bring the realms together as one kingdom—”

“Enough!” I snarled, as the shadows leapt from me, wrapping around Taft’s wrists and ankles, slamming him back against the ground.

He cried out in pain as his kneecaps connected with the marble.

“You,” I seethed. “You are the reason Ardan is dead. You are the reason hundreds of innocent men, women, and children in Ithia are dead.”

Ata flew down the throne steps, shoving past Asrai and Dukovich and pushing her dagger into Taft’s throat. A bead of blood welled up and dripped down his golden neck, staining the collar of his muddied tunic.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t open your lying throat right here,” Ata hissed, pressing her dagger deeper into his skin.

I forced myself to pause, taking deep breaths to rein in the rage that burned within me.

Taft licked his lips in nervous anticipation as I crouched down to meet him on the floor, before lifting his chin to meet my gaze.

The eyes in the room seared into my back as I began to speak.

“The only version of me that has ever loved you—that will ever love you—is the girl that you beat. The girl that you bruised and battered. The girl that you controlled and manipulated into thinking that is what I deserved.” I brushed my thumb over his trembling lips. “That girl is dead. You killed her too.” The words were gentle as they left my mouth. I pushed back the strands of auburn hair that had fallen over his forehead and brought my eyes back to his pleading stare.

“The woman before you now, she is a force to be reckoned with. She stands tall, unflinching, and unafraid of your violence. No longer will I cower from your fists or back down in fear. Instead, I will meet your fists with my own; each blow as fierce and unforgiving as the last. And when I’m done, I’ll dance on your beaten and bloodied body.”

Taft jerked his head, trying to release his jaw from my grasp. I tightened my grip and pointed to where Landers stood by his throne, keeping my eyes locked on Taft’s. “He will kill you, and I will not mourn you. I will not even remember you. I will let your memory, your legacy, your essence die right here, right now, beside your lifeless body.” I stood then, letting my words hit their mark as I turned and slowly made my way up the steps to the throne.

Ata kept her knife tight to his neck as my footsteps reverberated through the silent room.

“You are not a killer, Hyacinth.” Taft’s voice was low as he said the words to my back, wavering at the edges with fear.

I met Landers’s stare as he reached his hand out with a nod of approval, of reassurance, as he guided me back into his throne. I turned, sitting with slow, calculated movements as I refocused my eyes on Taft’s and leaned back into the chair.

“You have no idea what I am, or the depths to which I will descend in order to protect what little family I have left. The family you have already wounded. I will die before I let innocent people of the realms suffer at the hands of men like you. If I must become a killer or a monstrous entity, if I must become the very God of Hell itself, then so be it.” My eyes blazed with unholy fire, my magic casting a silver glow around me as I uttered this vow, this promise to Taft. “You once told me I would be the death of you, and I intend to grant that wish.”

Nithra released a roar on the tail of my words. A roar that shook through the realms, an echo of my promise.

“Elric,” I said, finally pulling my eyes from Taft, “please escort our guests to their cells.”

The High Priest’s eyes shot to me, his face crinkled in confusion.

“I am sorry, your grace . . . But it sounds as if you mean to put me in the dungeons . . . with him.”

I smiled at him sweetly, propping my chin on the palm of my hand and crossing my legs. “Did you not go along with his plans to betray us? Did you not subject Ata to torture when you could have warned us from the beginning?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then yes, High Priest,” I interrupted, keeping my voice calm, steady, “the dungeons will be your residence until I have found use for you.”

He opened his mouth and I held my hand up, stopping him before he could say another word.

Anger seeped into Taft’s face at the realization that the last thread of control he had on me had just violently snapped.

For one fleeting moment, I felt completely free, as if the weight of him—all the pain he caused—had disintegrated from my shoulders. We watched in the silence as Elric’s men pulled Taft to his feet, and tethered them both from the room.

Digging my nails into the arms of the throne, I sucked in a deep breath, grounding myself, regaining the oxygen that had just been sucked from my lungs as my hands shook. I stifled a sob as the anxiety I had been holding back flooded my chest. The heads in the room turned, as gaze after gaze fell to my face—watching me. Landers stepped from around the throne to face me, taking a knee on the solid marble floor at my feet and grinned, his emerald eyes glittering up at me in the candle light.

I watched as every head in the room lowered. Each one of my family, my friends, bowed toward the golden throne I sat upon. Ata smiled up at me, a smile so full of love and respect as Asrai placed her hands over her heart and the necklace that lay atop it—a single tear sliding down her soft skin. I could almost feel it then, the mother I never knew, the mother that had sacrificed everything so I could live, wrapping her arms around me with overwhelming love and pride—lifting my chin a little higher.

Landers spoke, his deep, unwavering voice melting away the silence. “ The Stories will remember this day,” he said with unrelenting clarity. “The day a queen was born. The day a God returned to the realms. The day the first words in The Book of Cin were written.”

I stood then, letting my magic flow out of me, giving it the freedom it so desperately craved. I would not hide it any longer. I would not suffocate my power—I would not fear it.

Wings of shadow rustled my curls as they cascaded over my chest, and as I looked over the people that I would die for—the people I would live for—my power flared, readying itself for what would come next.

If it was war they wanted, then let them come.