Page 44 of Heirs of the Cursed (A Curse for Two Souls #1)
Camdenn
The capital was in mourning.
Priestesses from the four cities of Laivalon stood in the monastery of the castle, fuming with holy sticks and praying for the goddesses to welcome the departed soul of Davinia Allencort, the last heiress of Lên Rājya’s throne.
Loved by the people, some said she was the most beautiful of the family. All her siblings had adored her from the moment she was born, and continued to do so as the world carried on without the thirteen-year-old. She was dressed in her finest garments; green and floral colors decorated every part of her body to represent her magic, her kindness.
The queen had stood in front of the open casket, caressing the diamond earrings Davinia wore—the only good memory her daughter would ever have of her. She shed bitter tears at her loss, embracing herself at the absence of her husband to comfort her. To the king, his daughter’s corpse wasn’t the heiress she’d once been.
She no longer had any value . . .
And even less so after she was turned to ashes.
The cries and sobs reached Annemarie and Sirio Allencort’s ears as they entered the monastery. Icy pain pierced their chests as they mourned their sister. Annemarie had taught Davinia to sew and prepared her herbal teas when she was unwell, while Sirio had planted rose bushes in the royal gardens alongside her and had played hide-and-seek with her in the vastness of the castle that didn’t feel like home.
They’d been present from the moment she was born, until her unfortunate death.
The heirs to the throne were dressed in black. Annemarie wore her brown hair combed back in a modest bun, revealing the delicacy of her features and the subdued gleam of her gray eyes. Sirio, on the other hand, wore his shoulder-length hair loose and the white locks blended in the shadows of the monastery. His eyes, the same shade as his sister’s, were tired and framed by dark circles.
“Is he not back yet?” Annemarie asked in a whisper.
“Are you surprised?” he questioned.
“It’s Dav’s funeral.”
“Do you think that matters to him?” Sirio snorted.
It had been months since their older brother and Crown Prince of Lên Rājya, Killian Allencort, had been sent to Bellmare to hunt the cursed princesses. A mission that had seemed simple, but which he’d failed terribly. The news had arrived in Camdenn that same morning. Both the Chaser and the Commander of Death would be back in the capital to arrange a plan of capture against Meissa and Amira Boreaalinen.
A plan that had to be successful before Gideon and Ginebra died.
Before Sirio and Annemarie fell ill.
Before all of Laivalon was doomed.
Annemarie gestured to their mother. “Should we join her?”
“She doesn’t deserve it,” the prince answered.
“She’s our mother, Sir.”
She was, and at the same time she wasn’t. She hadn’t raised them as such, for it had been maids and servants who had cared for them since the moment they could crawl. The ones who had seen their first steps, who had dressed them and played with them . . . Those who had helped them with the tasks imposed by the tutors and priests and celebrated their birthdays.
None of the heirs owed anything to their parents.
The sound of footsteps made Annemarie and Sirio turn on their heels, toward the monastery’s entrance. The servants opened the doors for the Crown Prince, lowering their heads in respect for his loss. Or perhaps, in fear of what he might do if they met his eyes.
Killian still wore his battle gear, covered in leathers that should be stained with the blood of his enemy. But he’d failed, and his father would remind him of that for the rest of his days unless he put an end to the threat before it was too late. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders straight and his hard gaze fixed on the limp body of his younger sister.
Not even his mother’s sobs unsettled him. All Killian could think about was that death followed him closer now.
“You came,” Annemarie said with surprise.
“She was my sister, too.”
“You never acted like it,” Sirio sputtered.
“Sirio . . .” his sister warned him.
But he didn’t listen. Instead, he braced his feet against the ground and looked at Killian without a hint of fear in his expression.
“Tell me, brother. Is it worth it to be who you are?”
“Don’t go there,” Killian replied.
“Why should I care?” He shrugged. “We’re doomed anyway.”
Sirio took a step forward to get away from him, yet Killian was faster. His hand closed around his brother’s arm and stopped him at his side. His midnight-blue eyes stared at him with an uncharacteristic humanity, one he had lost years ago.
“I’m trying,” he whispered.
Sirio looked at him blankly. Without saying a word, he pulled out of his grip and walked to the other end of the room. Away from the Crown Prince, away from the Commander of Death . . .
Away from his brother.
Annemarie stole one final glance at Killian, the brother she tried to love, yet who lacked a heart. There was sadness and disappointment on her face as she followed Sirio with hundreds of words trapped in her mouth.
The funeral began. The priestesses prayed aloud, consecrating the fire that would soon cremate the body of the sweet princess. Killian walked through the monastery to the most secluded and empty spot, leaning against the marble column. His hands clenched into fists to repress the tears that burned his eyes, even when his brother moved forward to grant their sister the peace she deserved.
Sirio took the torch that the High Priestess offered him, the sobs Annemarie repressed with her hand almost making him falter. But the prince moved forward with a sweeping regret in his body and soul. He looked at Davinia one last time, brushing her dark hair back to whisper in her ear and kiss her forehead.
And then, Sirio lowered the torch to the casket.
The world cracked as the flames embraced the young princess—another victim of greed, hatred and power. But no one stayed to see her ascend to the Seraphic Plain. The queen was the first to depart, followed by her many ladies-in-waiting. Sirio and Annemarie were next, holding each other as they had since they were kids.
It was only when the priestesses left the monastery that Killian dared to take the first step forward.
Walking to what was left of Davinia took all his strength, even that which he didn’t have. He was so consumed with anger and shame that he couldn’t let himself mourn her—he had lost that right a long time ago. The heat of the flames devouring his sister caressed his face, but not even the warmth of the fire brought him comfort.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the monastery. Killian didn’t have to turn around to know to whom they belonged. Those were the footsteps of his brother. One to whom he was bound not by blood, but by something deeper: friendship.
Harg Koller had taken one of the horses to ride to the capital as fast as he could. To be there, next to his commander. He hadn’t made it in time, but for Killian, it was enough.
“Long ride?” Killian asked.
Harg stood beside him. “And too slow a horse. I’m sorry for being late, brother.”
“It’s alright. There’s not much we can do anyway.”
The Chaser said nothing. He understood his prince better than anyone else, and he understood that those words were not born out of the deepest apathy, but out of the feeling of not being enough.
Killian didn’t look away from the fire as he said, “We have failed.”
“We still have time.”
“Death is at our heels and the Dark Twins are still on the loose.”
“Not for long,” Harg reassured him.
“I won’t let my siblings die. The curse is advancing fast, and if we don’t find them soon, it will be the end of everything we know.”
“I’ll do everything in my power to fulfill your wish, Commander.”
The fire turned Davinia Allencort’s body to ashes, ending her existence completely. The whisper of the flames echoed through the monastery, as if the goddesses had finally come to take the princess to safety and listen to the promises they had both made as a serenade of death.
“I will find them, Harg,” Killian swore. “And, when I do, I’ll rip their bloody hearts out of their chests and expose them for weeks for the world to know who their future king is.”