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“What was your request?” I whispered. What had he asked for? What was worth an eternity in the underworld?

His silence was his answer.

“Why won’t you tell me?” It wasn’t the first time I’d asked, and I suspected it wouldn’t be the last.

His eyes were past me on the ceiling, a haze over his gaze like his thoughts were somewhere else. “Because it’s too painful for me to speak of.”

“Even after all this time?” I whispered.

“It will always be too painful to speak of.”

“Well…you could show me.” He’d shown me my father in the past, when he’d challenged a tyrant for his kingdom and his revenge. There was no reason Wrath couldn’t do the same with his own past.

His eyes shifted to me and remained steady.

I waited, hopeful.

But he gave me nothing. “I took out my resentment on you, and that was wrong. I apologize.”

It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was something. “It’s forgiven.”

His eyes finally shifted to me once more. His hand moved deep into my hair and lightly felt the strands with his touch.

“Do you hate my father?”

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s hard to hate the man who raised you. It’s hard to hate a man I respect. It’s hard to hate a man who loves the woman I…” His fingers paused on my hair and his eyes remained somber, but something had halted his words. “…I care so deeply for.”

“Why were you there?” I asked. “When he was training me?”

“Because I want you to succeed just as much as he does. You’re great with the sword and your reflexes are sharp, but there’s always room for improvement. You focus so much on your hands and generating strength with your arms that you forget your feet—and your body will follow your steps.”

My hand moved to his chest, and I gently grazed his skin, feeling muscles so hard they were more like stone. “What duties kept you from me?” They had kept him away from me for an entire week when he was usually with me every day.

“I was collecting payment.”

“From people who made a deal like my father did?”

“Yes.”

“And you make a deal with anybody?”

“No,” he said. “Many men have sought my audience, but few have received my cooperation.”

“Why some and not others?”

“It depends on the quality of their soul.”

“Quality of their soul?” I repeated.

“Yes,” he said. “Not everyone is equal in that regard. Bahamut granted your father command of the dead because his soul was more valuable than almost any other. It was worth the investment. The same applies to everyone else. I won’t make a trade if I feel that trade is not worthy.”

“And what makes a soul valuable?”

“The person who wields it. A soul is like a garden, and the height of its vines and the fruit it bears depend on the person who tills the soil. It’s not about being good or evil. It’s about strength and purpose, about accomplishment and power. Your father was not only of noble blood, but he was ambitious and powerful and one of the greatest swordsmen who’s ever lived. That made his soul potent.”

“And how does the potency benefit you?”

That was where he hesitated, shifted his gaze away for a moment. “The specifics don’t matter. I just want you to understand that not every person who steps before me earns my aid. I’ve turned down more men and women than I’ve accepted. And this week, I had to collect payment from dozens of people.”