Page 41 of A Bond so Fierce and Fragile (Compelling Fates Saga #3)

“Why not?” he snarled, the rage that burned hotter with each nonanswer making his fingers twitch, and he wondered for a second what would happen if he plunged his sword into the silver beneath him.

I wouldn’t advise trying that.

The laughing reflection threw its head back in a silent cackle, appearing almost frenzied, while another shook its head, waving a finger toward the identical ruby-lined sword on its back.

“Answer my fucking questions, then!” Merrick could feel this was not the way to speak to the gods—his race’s creators—but there wasn’t time for damned pleasantries.

Besides, he’d never been particularly polite.

The gods could take it or leave it.

A laugh trilled through him—the feeling almost similar to Raine’s liquor’s first warming licks—and Merrick shook his body, forcing out a sharp breath not to let it affect him.

She must die, Merrick. It’s what’s been prophesied. It’s what must happen.

“No!” He didn’t care that he screamed like a damned teenager who hadn’t learned to control his temper. He wouldn’t accept it.

“How can I save her?” Merrick snarled, his voice reverberating around him, almost mocking him when the echo only picked up the last two words.

Save her.

Save her.

I wouldn’t advise trying that, either, Guardian of Death.

Guardian of… Merrick ignored the name when he realized the gods might not have answered his question exactly, but had given him an answer all the same.

“So there is a way?” Merrick began pacing back and forth, his mind racing through different scenarios.

I wouldn’t advise it.

His feet moved faster.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

“Answer me. Yes or no?”

It was quiet for a while, his harsh breaths mingling with the thuds of his feet hitting the mirrored ground the only things breaking it. But then…

Yes.

But there will be consequences. Severe consequences that you’ll most certainly regret. Consequences that will harm both you and her, Guardian of Death.

“I don’t care!” Merrick growled. “As long as she is alive, that’s all that matters! As long as she’s breathing and fucking living, I don’t care about anything else.”

Really?

Something stilled in the air. Anticipation, maybe, he thought, as his muscles stiffened in response.

Then the wall before him melted, and when Merrick caught a glimpse of Lessia’s golden-brown hair, he sprinted toward it.

But there must still have been a barrier between them, as he slammed into something solid—something that had his nose crunching as it forced him to a stop.

Even as hot blood flooded his face, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Lessia.

It wasn’t the Lessia he’d sailed here with. This one was clean—her hair longer and sparkling in what seemed like summer sun shining down on her.

Her skin had a shimmering hint to it, and she was clad in a dress, a golden one that reminded him too much of the one Loche had once given her.

It was as if he had conjured the regent.

Merrick could only watch as Lessia noticed the dark-haired man, and when a wide smile spread across her face, a mirroring one softened Loche’s features.

A shaky huff left Merrick when Loche opened his arms and Lessia ran right into them, winding her tan arms around his neck, and despite that it shouldn’t have been possible for him to hear them, all the loving words Loche whispered into her ear, the promises of a future, of a throne, of a position by his side, ruling Havlands together with kindness instead of fear, pierced Merrick’s heart like an arrow.

One of his hands flew to his chest, and he pressed against the quickening beats there as that voice sounded again.

If this is the price… if in the end she chooses him… is it still worth it?

Merrick swallowed against the pain, but he didn’t hesitate as he declared, “Without a fucking doubt.”

The voice was quiet, but he could feel the flickers of curiosity in the air.

“He is a good man,” Merrick forced out. “And if… if she chooses him but that means she’s still alive… I will be grateful for it every day of what is left of my wretched life.”

The image of Loche and Lessia embracing disappeared.

Just evaporated as if it had never been there at all.

They call you the Death Whisperer here, don’t they?

Merrick was about to snap that he didn’t give a shit and that wasn’t what he was here to talk about, when something—that feeling he couldn’t explain—warned him against it.

He remained quiet instead, just watching the empty whiteness ahead.

Such a cruel nickname for someone sensitive enough to connect with all souls. Even the ones who have passed on. You truly are one of my sons.

So he was talking to Preysaih, the god of death, then.

Great. He was apparently the most vindictive of them all.

I see you think us evil, Guardian of Death. But we are merely trying to teach our children the lessons they require in life, giving them the tools they need to survive, like any parent would do. Like you’ve taught the Rantzier girl how to survive this far.

“What the fuck are we going to learn from Lessia dying?” Merrick growled, whipping his gaze around but only meeting the eyes of his own strange reflections.

You shall see.

But Merrick barely heard him as the real Lessia, the one with the reddened wrist, with the tangled hair and pale skin, stumbled into his line of vision.

He started banging against whatever was before him—what kept them apart.

But it was useless, and he could only watch as she sat down, crossing her thin legs and somehow appearing to understand more quickly than he had done that the gods wanted them there to listen—wanted to test them.