Page 22 of Each Their Own Devil (Our Lady of Fire #3)

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THE CHAINS

“When the blade is lifted against those we once cherished, let us weep not for the act, but for the burden of obedience.” — The Book of Open Doors , Book VII: The Return to the Threshold

Aleja awoke in a cave. No, in a chamber.

The first thing she saw was an enormous, winged mask, and she whispered, “Val?” before realizing it was actually the Messenger. Beneath the mask, the Messenger’s skin was pale and slightly clammy—something Aleja had never seen before.

“Yes, yes, Knowing One, here. Your wife lives, for now. You’re very welcome,” the Messenger said, her voice bored.

The next thing Aleja noticed was the smell of vanilla and wood smoke, followed by hands in her hair, on her damp forehead, checking her temperature. “What happened?” she choked out. “Where are we?”

“Shh,” Nicolas hushed her, his voice low. “Val and the Messenger rode out while we were in the field. You destroyed the mutineers and, I’d venture, much of the Astraelis realm. But the Authorities are dead—or at least there are so few left that they pose no threat to the Hiding Place.”

“The other Dark Saints…” Aleja’s words hurt as if every syllable scraped against her throat.

“Bonnie and Merit were already at the border. Taddeas and Orla managed to get out of the way before…” He hesitated, as though reluctant to continue. “We haven’t found Amicia, but Orla saw her last. She used the last of her power to enrage the Authorities enough to distract them. She—she saved us all.”

Aleja rolled onto her side to avoid choking on the bile that rose in her throat. Killing Roland, a traitor to the Dark Saints, had been one thing. But Amicia? Amicia had been her friend—not just in this life, but also the last.

“I didn’t mean to— I tried to convince her to run—” Aleja’s voice cracked.

Nicolas pushed her hair back gently. “I know. She made her choice, and her choice was to save those she cared about.”

“Violet?” Aleja asked involuntarily. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to face more heartbreak. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she would have been better off staying with the Third.

“We haven’t seen her yet, but our scouts are still searching the area.”

“And the Avisai?”

“I’ve sent Garm to look for her.”

Aleja managed to push herself up onto her elbows, Nicolas’s firm hand on her back. The warmth of his palm seemed to reach her heart, cutting through the sorrow lodged there. Her gaze fell on a sheet-draped figure in the corner of the chamber. Her stomach twisted at the sight of the First’s body, and she couldn’t look for long. The room still smelled faintly of rich soil, damp green plants, and honeycomb.

Her next thought was the cage. The Throne inside it moved subtly, its ribs expanding and contracting in soft but steady motions.

“The Messenger found us again on the field,” Nicolas explained. “She stabilized you, and Val managed to pull the Third out. We owe them your life.”

Nicolas’s voice was a blend of gratitude and trepidation. A feeling Aleja recognized. She was going to have to kill the Messenger if she wanted to survive. She let her head fall to the side, her eyes scanning the chamber. The Messenger conferred quietly with Val by the Throne’s cage.

There was nothing cold left in Aleja now, except for the freezing blade resting against her thigh.

“The effects of the Third’s magic will linger for some time,” Val said, noticing her movement. His mask flared slightly, feathers shifting to obscure the exposed eye. “You should rest. Your muscles will be weak for a while yet.”

“Thank you,” Aleja gasped. Nicolas’s hand tightened around her wrist, and she could feel her sluggish pulse thudding against his skin.

“Lady of Wrath, I’d like a word,” the Messenger said.

Nicolas rolled his eyes. “Can’t you wait to declare war for another twenty-four hours? You’re still so tedious, Messenger.”

The Messenger cracked her knuckles loudly, the sound echoing through the chamber like a distant thunderstorm. “The Astraelis realm is vast. I could have let you avert the Avaddon, then fled to some distant corner, never to be found. But here I am, offering assistance. So, I’ll ask again: Lady of Wrath, may we speak? Outside. In private. It concerns my prisoner, Violet. Seeing as you know her best, you might have some insight into where she has run off to. I’d rather this information remain classified.”

Aleja knew the Messenger’s subterfuge was unnecessary. Nicolas and Val wouldn’t care about Violet’s whereabouts now that the First was dead, along with most of the Authorities. The Messenger could have left Aleja to die. Yet here she was—a greater threat to the Messenger than the reverse. The blade against Aleja’s thigh pulsed with death magic.

“Fine,” Aleja said, pushing herself to her feet. Val had been right; her legs wobbled beneath her as though her knees were merely suggestions.

It was kill the Messenger or die herself, and Aleja had already seen what the Third’s realm was like.

The Messenger had no husband, not anymore. She had a son terrified of her. No armies left.

Aleja could do this. She had to do this.

“After you,” Aleja said.

Nicolas sent a question through the marriage bond. Aleja answered with something—perhaps despair—raw and jagged. “I’ll be right back,” she told him.

The Messenger filled the tunnel more completely than even Val had. When they finally reached the top, Aleja squinted against the sunlight, her eyes unadjusted. Her right hand hovered over her sash, the cold of the blade radiating through her palm. She should strike while the Messenger’s back was turned. Then she wouldn’t have to see the pain flicker across the Messenger’s face.

But her hand wouldn’t move.

Do it , she screamed silently at herself.

“Don’t worry,” the Messenger said before Aleja could act. “You won’t have to stab me in the back, Lady of Wrath. I’ll be dead soon enough. Let me speak first.”

“What do you mean?” Aleja asked as they stepped into the daylight.

It was, objectively, a beautiful morning. The golden beams of sunlight speared through thin clouds so forcefully, it felt like they could slice them apart. Despite the charred remains of the battlefield—littered with the bodies of soldiers—the air smelled of smoke, dandelions, and tall grass. Aleja hated it. She wanted the landscape to mirror the darkness inside her.

“There is no one to siphon the Third out of me as I did for you, and I refuse to let my son take on this burden. In moments, I will be dead,” the Messenger said.

“What the fuck—” Aleja spat. “You’re insane.”

“I’m telling the truth,” the Messenger said, as if Aleja’s fury were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. “And if it makes you feel better, I’ve heard what the Third offers. I’m looking forward to it. One day, you too will tire, Lady of Wrath. You will crave the peace the Third offers. But first, grant an old woman one last answer. What was your plan after we averted the Avaddon? Were you going to kill me?”

Aleja studied the Messenger’s mouth, searching for any trace of emotion, but her expression was unreadable.

Aleja decided to do what she always did—throw fire at the situation.

“I made a bargain with the Second to bring Nicolas back from the dead,” Aleja said. “The Second would only accept me cutting out your heart and bringing it to him.”

The Messenger brought one of her enormous hands to her chin in a delicate motion, but she did not look entirely surprised. “Ah. I did wonder how you cured the Knowing One’s unfortunate condition. Fine, then. Before I go, I have something to say to you.”

Aleja hadn’t even realized her hand was still hovering over the cold blade, but once she did, she left it there. “What?”

“You may have averted the Avaddon, but you haven’t broken the chains. As much as you criticize our kind, we have still existed far more independently from our leader than you have from the Second. Our flaws are our own. The same cannot be said for the Otherlanders. Don’t use that dagger on me. It is still full of the Third’s magic. Give yourself an option.”

“What do you mean?” Aleja whispered.

“You’ll figure it out.” The Messenger shifted, the motion deliberate and unthreatening, as she drew her sword. It crackled to life with golden flames that cast flickering light across both their faces. “Like your Knowing One’s sword, this weapon was crafted to kill what should be unkillable. Here. Take it.”

She held the hilt out to Aleja. Aleja did not move.

This felt surreal—like a dream that would not let her wake. She imagined herself falling asleep again and again, only to return to this moment, this choice. Her body remained frozen, but her tongue loosened enough to ask the question clawing at her mind. “Where is Violet, really?”

“Oh, who knows?” The Messenger sighed with exasperation. “I don’t want to spend the last moments of my life talking about that little cretin. But understand this: the fig you gave her wasn’t entirely what you thought it was. In a human, a fig from the First Tree grants immortality, but Violet took two Otherlander Trials. She was already changed, even if not completely. Who can say what eating the fig did to her? I’m sure she’ll come crawling back eventually. The Astraelis realm isn’t exactly kind to outsiders.”

Aleja’s throat tightened. “I—I need more information.”

The Messenger tilted her head, her voice softening. “You’ll get more from my son. Please, tell him that I chose this. As much as he despises me, I want him to know I walked into my fate without fear. He’s always been afraid, my dear Val—even of me. If I have any wish for my son, it’s that he, like you, will break his chains.”

Aleja rolled her eyes, bitterness creeping into her tone. “You could just tell him that yourself.”

“No,” the Messenger replied, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. “I can’t. There’s too much distance between us. But he’ll listen to you.” Her voice turned sharp again. “Now, please, Wrath, stab me. This conversation is becoming insufferable.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“You will,” the Messenger said simply. “Sometimes, I think I may know you better than you know yourself. A bit of Astraelis wisdom before I go: if you can’t sympathize with your enemy, you can’t beat them. Are you sure you’re strong enough to push that blade through my sternum? I don’t want this drawn out longer than it needs to be.”

Aleja hesitated, her voice cracking. “If you weren’t already dying, I don’t know if I’d be able to do this.”

The Messenger shrugged. “Yes, you would. You’re the Dark Saint of Wrath. The villain. I don’t pretend this battle will have fixed the rift between our kinds. Nor, frankly, do I want it to, but do try not to let my son be slaughtered any time soon. Go on, then. Do it. We’ve had our sad goodbyes—blah, blah, blah. If you feel guilty, you can do something dignified with my body.”

“I’ll toss you in that weedy garden behind your house,” Aleja muttered.

“That sounds nice. Thank you.”

“Are you ready?”

“And you call me tedious?”

Aleja sighed, gripping the blade tighter. “Any last words?”

“I’ve already said the ones that matter.”

She moved before she could allow herself to hesitate any longer, and the Messenger did not flinch. It was easier, Aleja thought, to do this to someone who was not struggling. The blade sank through bone as if the Messenger’s sternum was soft flesh, and even then, she did not scream. For a moment, Aleja was back in her first Trial, hacking the heart out of her younger self, but the pain of the action this time was different.

As blood poured over her hands, Aleja wasn’t sure she had ever felt an emotion so complicated. She did not love the Messenger, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to hate her either. In the darkest corners of her heart, Aleja could even understand the fear that had driven the Astraelis to isolate themselves, to hoard their knowledge, to shun the very Tree that had granted them power in the first place. It was dangerous to know . It was painful.

If Aleja hadn’t known these fragments of the Messenger’s life—that she loved abstract art; that she drank her tea with honey and lavender; that she still pined for a husband who had betrayed her centuries ago; that she had loved her son so deeply, she had made him hate her so he could survive—it would have been easier. It would have been simpler to crack open the Messenger’s sternum, to look at the knotted, dark pomegranate of her heart, and not understand all that it had contained. Love and pain. Fear and hate. Quiet wonder.

All of it gone now—except for what might linger on the other side of the Third’s realm.