Page 78 of House of Dusk

“No great leader. No hero reborn. Only a fool of a man. And soon, not even that.”

He moved faster than her eyes could follow, snatching Letheko from the king. Hierax gaped, only managing to draw a single shocked breath before Lacheron stabbed the blade neatly into his chest.

It was the opportunity Sephre needed. Two of the soldiers let their spears lower, watching in horror as their king toppled, as blood spurted.

She kicked out the knee of one man, grabbing his spear. Then swung it in a sharp, solid arc, slamming the other soldier across the side of his helm. The blow shuddered up into her arms. She leapt past them.

Lacheron had turned away from the dying king. Now, he pointed the bloody tip of the dagger toward the imprisoned Phoenix.

“A shame,” he said. “I would have spared the girl, if I could. Her visions have been most helpful. But you claimed her, as I knew you would. You could not resist one touched as she.”

The Phoenix regarded him steadily from within her prison. You can still choose another path, Ember King. My eldest brother makes sweet promises, but he cares nothing for you. Nothing for this world. He will devour it all.

“Good,” snarled Lacheron, a sudden fury twisting his lips, darkening his eyes.

“This world was broken long before the cataclysm. When the plague came it took half my people. Do you know why they called me the Ember King? Because that was what I ruled. A dying empire. A world turning to ash before my eyes. And I did everything I could to stop it. I cast myself down at your shrines. I begged you to burn away the illness. I begged the Beetle to give succor, for the Sphinx to bless our physicians with the knowledge of a cure, for the Serpent not to take any more innocents. But you did not answer. None of you.” He spat. “You don’t deserve this world.”

Hierax had stopped moving. He had been a large man, but his body looked strangely small now, curled against the stones, a dark pool spreading beneath him.

Ichos knelt beside his father, looking ill.

But at Lacheron’s words he stood and drew his sword.

He leapt from the dais, placing himself between the man and his sister.

“You’ll have to go through me first,” he growled, knuckles pale on the grip.

Lacheron gave a bitter laugh. “This is far beyond you, boy. Learn from your father’s mistakes.”

“I have,” said Ichos. “I learned not to trust you, you traitorous scum-licking pissmouth.”

Oh, well done. If she lived through this, she’d have to remember some of those.

Lacheron, on the other hand, was unimpressed. He merely arched a colorless brow. “I am no traitor. I am humanity’s savior. I will set us free from the callous cruelty of the fickle, so-called gods who rule our lives.”

“And give us over to their brother, instead?” Ichos scoffed. “That’s not freedom. That’s not salvation.”

The prince moved so quickly she barely had time to gasp. A single vicious slash of his sword across Lacheron’s throat. A killing blow.

And yet the man did not fall. Only grimaced, lifting one hand to the bloody wound. Crimson dripped between his fingers. “It will take more than that, boy,” he croaked. He lowered his hand. “Witness what the First One can offer.”

Ichos swore. A stir of startled mutters spun through the uneasy crowd. The gaping slit of raw flesh shivered, knitting itself together. A heartbeat and even the blood was fading.

Lacheron went on, his voice growing stronger with every word.

“Knowledge beyond any common alchemy. Life beyond the limits of our flesh. Yes, this world will fall. But it will be remade. Better. Stronger.” He spread his arms wide, triumphant.

“I have walked this earth for three centuries, thanks to my lord’s gifts. ”

“Ah,” said Ichos. “You know, if he’d let you keep your hair, I might actually be impressed.”

Good. Keep him talking. Sephre was edging sideways, inch by inch, trying to work her way into position to strike.

She would have one chance. The blade of oblivion could end her life as easily as it had Hierax’s.

And yet according to the Maiden—Martigone—it was also the only thing that could kill Lacheron. Which made it worth the risk.

That was when she noticed the girl again. The capable one, who had been creeping toward Hierax earlier. She had coiled herself tight, perfectly positioned so that Lacheron would not see her.

Sephre eyed Lacheron’s dagger. That blade had already destroyed one god and one king. The girl might take Lacheron by surprise, but would she be quick enough to avoid that merciless blade?

The girl seemed to be harboring similar doubts. Then her gaze skimmed past Lacheron, onto Sephre. Brown eyes, deep and warm. Such young eyes, full of fury, and something else. Dedication, devotion, passion. Had her own eyes ever looked so brave and hopeful? Maybe once. Maybe still.

Sephre knew what she had to do. She straightened, abandoning her efforts to sneak up on the Heron. She’d always preferred a face-to-face battle. Today was no different.

“Ember King,” she called out. “Your daughter has a message for you.”

Lacheron jerked toward her, skin paling around the lips. “ You . You remember?”

The girl made her move, swift as a serpent.

Between one blink and the next she was upon Lacheron, knocking aside the dagger of oblivion, sending the weapon skittering away across the stones.

She did not go after it. Instead she tore at the man, pulling something from his other hand: the red amulet he had used earlier to trap the Phoenix.

With a cry of triumph, the girl cracked the thing in two.

A pulse of light burst from the split clay. The dark claws holding Sinoe abruptly shuddered, then splintered, releasing the princess. She straightened slowly, sheathed in pale flame. With a delicate shake of her shoulders, the Phoenix spread her flaming wings once more.

Her eyes blazed silver-blue, pitiless as the noon sun.

Sephre quivered as they settled upon her, feeling all the heaviness of her former vows.

The ones she had turned from. She knew, in the depths of her bones, that it would be no more than a cosmic wink for this terrible, bright creature to smite her then and there.

Thank you . The words resonated in her head, in her chest. The Phoenix dipped her head, speaking to all of them. You have done me a great service. This trial is past.

“You’re very welcome,” said Ichos, with enviable poise. He cleared his throat. “In that case, may we please have my sister back?”

But there will be others.

The uncanny silver-blue eyes of the Phoenix returned to Sephre for one more heartbeat.

Be ready. Then she flared so brightly that it bled all color and shape from the world.

The beat of flaming wings filled Sephre’s ears.

A breath of hot, sweet air washed over her.

And below the dais, the slim, golden princess crumpled to the ground as a great rush of brightness leapt from her into the sky.

Sephre was aware of the other girl, the quick, clever one, crying out. And more voices. Ichos. Beroe. Soldiers and ashdancers. But the roar dimmed, because her own work was not yet done.

The Fates had made that clear enough. She didn’t even need to take a single step. Letheko was right there, at her feet. Waiting for her.

All she had to do was take it. Then she could end this. End Lacheron. She closed her eyes briefly, a lump clotting her throat. Seph. Please, whispered Zander. Swallowing the bitterness, she bent and reached for the dagger.

It seemed to ripple beneath her fingers, jittery, not quite a part of this world. Her flesh recoiled from it. This was a dagger that could shatter souls. She didn’t want to touch it.

Good. This doesn’t make you a hero any more than the last time you snatched up a sword. It’s just what needs to be done. So do it. She forced her fingers to tighten. It was suddenly too hard to breathe.

Lacheron lay another five paces further.

He was only just shoving himself upright when she knelt beside him and pressed the tip of the blade to his throat.

He froze, searching her face. Briefly, she caught something vulnerable in his expression.

A yearning that she ached to look upon, no matter how she despised the man.

Then it fled. He laughed, long and bitter.

“No. You hate me as much as she did. But she still loved me, even when she discovered how I’d used her.

I could see it in her eyes, even as she cursed me and swore she would stop me.

” His throat bobbed as he drew in a long breath.

“My daughter is gone. She burned herself out of this world. Which means that dagger is useless to you.”

A chill rippled through her. She fought to keep her grip on the weapon. “You’re lying. Letheko can kill a god.”

“ Letheko ,” he scoffed. “I thought as much. Only someone who can name that dagger truly can wield it. And that is not her name.”

She wanted to protest. And yet his words woke an echo. The vision in the waters. She had said something similar. It had a different name, once. So much has been forgotten. Cast into the flames and burned away.

“You see?” Lacheron’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “You cannot stop me, captain. Even if it takes another three centuries.”

No. Not again. Never again. She did not accept this. Not everything was lost to the flames. The Maiden might have burned her own memory to ash, her story might be warped and woven into other tales, but something had endured. Remember . Halimede’s dying words. But was she talking about Sephre?

Because there was someone else who now remembered things long lost.

I remember her name. Martigone. Use it well.

“Martigone,” she said, and watched the arrogance bleed out of him, as if the word were itself a blade.

Which, she realized, shivering, it was. Letheko, the blade of oblivion, the forgotten dagger, had been named for the woman who wielded it.

A woman who had burned herself out of the world in penance, and left only echoes.

Sephre felt those echoes, rippling through her own life. Through this moment, staring into the eyes of a man who had used her, too. Sent her to kill, never mind the cost to her own soul.

His gaze flicked to the blade in her hand, then back to her face. All she saw in him now was grim resignation. “Go on, then,” he said. “Better oblivion than endless pain and suffering.”

Yes. He had suffered. Like so many others. Timeus. Dolon. Vyria. Ichos. Sinoe. Even Sephre herself.

And it had twisted him. In all his three centuries, he had learned nothing but how to make others suffer. It had made him cruel and rapacious and merciless.

What had he said, just before he stabbed the dagger into Hierax?

No great leader. No hero reborn. Only a fool of a man. And soon, not even that.

She plunged the dagger of oblivion into the Ember King’s throat, and he was no more.