Page 71 of Legacy of the Heirs (The Lost Kingdom Saga #2)

Sadira

S adira liked to associate her emotions with plants.

Joy was a pale daffodil, and devotion was lavender.

Melancholy was violets. But jealousy was an ivy that climbed and festered the longer you left it unattended.

She felt it twisting now, suffocating and driving her apart from the man standing on the opposite side of the room while she drained blood from his first love.

Sadira and Caellum had barely spoken during the nine days since the welcome ball. One moment, they were dancing, and the next, they were arguing. She wished she had said nothing, but Sadira had spent all her adult life biting her tongue around Soren. She refused to diminish herself for another.

She replayed Caellum’s reaction to Elisara’s celestial tie, which spoke of a love that still existed and the pain upon realising Elisara was well and truly gone, belonging to another.

Sadira had tried to forget it by reminding herself you never truly lost the love of your first. But when she thought about her reunion with Rodik, that had been enough for Sadira to know Caellum was her future.

Sadira had bathed in his warmth when they danced at the ball, besotted with one another.

Then Caellum had spun her yet failed to catch her when she twirled back.

Instead, Sadira stood, waiting for his other hand while Caellum’s eyes followed Kazaar and Elisara, who swiftly left the hall.

Every reminder of growing up in Soren’s shadow had crawled across her skin then.

She was the spare heir, and now, in Elisara’s shadow, Sadira felt like a consolation prize again.

She did not see the look in his eyes, though a gut feeling filled the blanks with one of longing.

Perhaps trusting her gut reaction over logic had been her mistake.

Dropping his hand, Sadira walked away. It took Caellum four seconds to follow.

Four whole seconds, which she knew because she counted in the hopes he would follow and prove her wrong.

His hand clasped hers before he spun Sadira to ask what was wrong.

She wanted him to know and realise without having to tell him, though it felt foolish now to expect someone to read her mind.

“Is there space for me?” she had asked him, and silence followed.

“Is there space for me in your heart when she still occupies it?”

“What?” Caellum stumbled over his word. “No, it’s…” She left, and he did not follow that time. Their bed felt empty every night, with Sadira facing the terrace and Caellum facing the wall, leaving enough room for the ivy to grow between them.

“Ouch,” Elisara gasped.

“I’m so sorry,” Sadira mumbled, realising she held the knife too deep, distracted by her emotions. Sadira had lost count, but looking at the glass jar of silvery blood, it had been long enough. Sadira removed the blade and wiped the wound, mesmerised as it stitched itself back together.

“All done,” Sadira said, as Kazaar helped Elisara from the stool, who was always slightly lightheaded after the collection.

“Same time tomorrow?” asked Elisara, and Sadira nodded, catching Caellum’s eye. “You do not need to collect us,” Elisara said to him. “We know when to be here.”

Caellum opened and then closed his mouth, nodding stiffly as they left. Sadira rolled her eyes and busied herself by cleaning knives and wiping the table, moving jars before placing a plain sword on the table. Caellum did not leave.

“She is right, you know,” said Sadira. Caellum finally met her eye. “You do not need to escort them here.” Sadira pulled out the chair, readying to sit and work for the afternoon.

“Do you know why I escort them every day?” he asked .

“Yes,” she sighed, taking a seat.

“I do not think you do,” Caellum said firmly, crossing the room with his hands behind his back.

“Is it not so you can see the woman who occupies your heart?” Sadira pulled the Wiccan clan book towards her and feigned scanning the words on the page through her blurred vision. Caellum sighed.

“Yes,” he said, and Sadira looked up, the pain like nettles wrapping around her heart.

“I force myself to endure awkward civility as I collect and escort them here because if I did not, then the only time I have the opportunity to lay my eyes on you is when I stare at the back of your head once you have fallen asleep. We have not talked in days, Sadira, and it pains me. Escorting them here gives me fifteen minutes to watch you.” Sadira swallowed back tears, trying to detect the sincerity in his words.

“And watch how you furrow your brow as you precisely use your knife, and breathe in the scent of you that fills this room, and smile at the way the sunlight makes your curls glow. I stand in a room with two people I know dislike me because I would rather that than spend an entire day thinking only of you while you are somewhere else.” Caellum stood on the other side of the desk and rested his palms on it, leaning towards Sadira, whose heart pounded.

“I am a man who was raised to be silent while on the receiving end of someone’s anger or disappointment.

I was silent when you voiced your concerns because I had hurt you and was clueless about what to do.

I was silent when I watched Kazaar and Elisara announce their tie because I realised that in seeing the love between them just how much I had failed her when we were together.

” Caellum leaned further in. “I do not pretend to be perfect, Sadira. I know how flawed I have been in the last nine days, but please do not judge my distance as a lack of desire for you but a lack of love from when I was raised. Take my confession as a promise. A promise I will learn to use my mouth for not just words but for your lips, but only if you promise to tell me when I am wrong. Because I cannot do this again, Sadira; I cannot be without you or your voice for nine more days and nights. I cannot.”

Caellum’s rambled confession had cut down the ivy twisting between them, allowing for flowers to bloom. Sadira’s chest rose and fell as she took in his words, glancing from his eyes to his lips. She inclined towards him.

“Sadira! I think I have something,” Larelle called, entering from the adjoining room.

Caellum retreated and sat back in the chair opposite Sadira, his eyes still intent on her.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, Sadira swallowed, smiling at Larelle.

“Sorry, I did not realise you had company,” Larelle said with a coy smile.

“It is okay; what have you found?” Sadira asked.

Larelle glanced back at Caellum before walking towards Sadira, carrying the copy of Myths and Lies of Ithyion that Nyzaia had given her to pour over.

Dust rose in the stream of light as Larelle placed the heavy book next to Sadira’s.

Both women were careful when using the books.

Each book seemed as old as the other, bound in a similar dark leather, with scrawled ink and charcoal drawings faded on the worn pages.

The only difference was the copy Larelle leant over was missing several pages, which had been hastily ripped out.

“This page here.” Larelle flipped to one of the book’s last pages and pointed to the top of the page in Myths and Lies of Ithyion , where it read ‘ Sword of So—’.

Sadira pulled it towards her. “It has to be, does it not? Look at the lines.” Sadira opened her own book to the page on magical imbuement, lining it up beside Larelle’s.

“The sword sketches are slightly different; this one is far more smudged.” Sadira tapped Larelle’s. “But the lines look the same until—”

“Halfway down!” Larelle said quickly. Sadira had spent the last nine days trying the incantation.

It was not written in a language she recognised; thus, she had recited it with different inflections and pronunciations, yet none had worked so far.

The stack of papers to her left contained every variation she had tried.

“The book is titled ‘Myths and Lies,’ so how can we be certain?” Sadira peered at Larelle, whose hair was tucked into a bun, messy from hours of reading. Much of Larelle’s research seemed like tales you would tell a child or around a campfire.

“What if the Wiccan copy came from a story or from Myths and Lies of Ithyion ? Words can change and lose context over time. What if the version you have been using has been adapted over time, and this”—Larelle pointed to her page— “is the original.” Sadira frowned, carefully reading the lines on both pages.

They were definitely the same until halfway.

While the second half contained some of the same words, it was significantly different.

“They told me the sword was created with this Wiccan book. I am unsure.” Sadira flicked the page in the clan’s book. Had the clan been misinformed?

“Stories change over time, like possessions. We do not know for certain if it was your specific clan book. They could have recalled it from memory for all we know.” Larelle said.

“It seems a big decision based on a lack of concrete knowledge,” Sadira said, but she was so desperate to be swayed by Larelle’s excitement.

“There is nothing to lose. We could try,” Larelle pressed. Sadira looked at Caellum, who had remained silent throughout the exchange.

“It is your words that wield the power. It is your decision,” he said.

Sadira breathed in and nodded, pushing the books to either side of her and dragging the dagger between them. Sadira reached out her hand, and Caellum handed over the two jars of Kazaar and Elisara’s blood. Carefully pouring one into the other, Sadira stirred, mesmerised again by how it sparkled.

Despite how many times Sadira had read the steps—the only part of the page in her language—she checked again and followed them one by one.

With a brush, she painted each side of the dagger in their blood, using her index finger to draw three symbols from the book onto the blade.

With the blood remaining on her finger, she marked the palm of her other hand and raised it above the weapon.

Sadira looked at Caellum one last time for belief she could do this.

He nodded. Holding the page with her right hand, careful not to move her left.

She had tried so many variations of the first incantation, but with this one, she trusted her natural reading and began.

While she did not understand the language, she knew the incantation would imbue Elisara and Kazaar’s blood into the weapon to mirror the Sword of Sonos, not only paralysing the creatures but killing them.

The foreign words flowed from Sadira’s lips, the language old, beautiful, and eloquent.

Nothing happened at first, but as the words became clearer on her tongue, Sadira felt her hand warm.

Larelle crouched beside her until she was level with the blade.

Sadira continued the words—something felt different.

It was working. She felt metal hit her hand and withdrew her palm as the dagger floated, balancing delicately before the three of them, watching with wide eyes.

The silver blood raised from the knife in droplets before reforming and twisting into glowing threads wrapped around the blade.

“Do we think it worked? Sadira whispered, scared to disrupt the power at play. The door to the room slammed open, and the blade clattered against the desk. All three looked at the disruptor with frustration.

Alvan stood before them, panting, his face flushed and clothes dishevelled. He braced his hands on either side of the door, his eyes instantly finding Larelle, who straightened from her crouch, her face immediately concerned.

“They are here,” Alvan panted. “There is word from Myara.”