Page 56 of Prisoner of Darkness and Dreams (Fated to the Sun and Stars #3)

Sophos

T he blood has barely been washed from the cobblestones of Mariste Avenue when I make my way to the high temple.

I don’t know why I take that route—grim curiosity maybe.

Or perhaps I want to see if it’s as bad as the stories claim, to witness with my own eyes the devastation wrought by the heretic princess and her followers.

I wasn’t in that part of the city when the ambush took place. His Grace no longer requires me to respond to calls to combat, not with my hand gone and my magic more suited to subterfuge than skirmishes.

As I pass along the street, I see the buildings still sport the princess’s handiwork. They speak of impressive power. There are huge holes melted through thick stonework, and piles of brick lie beneath buckled walls, having cracked under the pressure of immense heat.

I skirt around the edge of a team of geostri. They’re working to fill in the chasm left by the Filusian prince. Their start was delayed, as they needed to remove the bodies from the pit first.

In truth, I don’t know if my absence from the fight is a sign of the gods blessing or punishing me.

According to the chatter among the clerics, the Filusian prince has been slain by the very scythe I collected for His Grace.

Though the avenue was littered with fallen clerics by the time the battle was done, the Grand Bearer has certainly struck a brutal blow to his enemies.

With each step I climb up to the Temple, my stomach twists itself into a fresh knot. The view from the top of these stairs used to soothe me, but alas, no more. I confess I yearn for those simpler days, when I was sure of my purpose and doubts didn’t keep me up at night.

Even as I walk the celestial hall, the effigies of the gods offer me little peace. Their eyes provide more judgment than comfort.

If I had been at that battle, what choice would I have made?

Would I have revealed myself for the traitor I am, joining the fae and the Hand of Ralus in fighting for their celestial queen?

Would I have struck my fellow clerics down?

Or would I have continued to hide, protecting a man who terrifies and disgusts me?

As I stride down the corridors of the Grand Bearer’s court, my mind cannot help but go to my sister. I’ve heard nothing from Ettia lately, and her silence worries me after the recent raids. I do not yet know if her village was searched and?—

My thoughts are abruptly silenced as I enter the sanctuary, blocked out by a wave of horror.

The man I once idolized—the Grand Bearer, Marek Caledon—stands in the center of the room, examining the mosaic of Ethira. Six bodies lie around him, their small, lifeless limbs positioned haphazardly against the marble, like dolls that have been tossed aside.

I swallow and quickly avert my gaze from their forms, afraid I might vomit at the sight.

But what if Olin is among them?

“Good afternoon, Sophos,” Caledon greets me without turning.

Dread grips me so tightly that for a moment I cannot respond. I find my tongue, fighting to keep my voice even as my mind throws up frantic thoughts.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace. ”

I step between the dead children, forcing myself to examine them, searching for the telltale shock of messy black hair.

By all the holy gods, let him not be here. I beg of you.

“I see you have been busy, Your Grace,” I say, as if my entire body isn’t rebelling at the scene.

Caledon turns toward me, just as I make my final count of the bodies. None of these children are Olin. A sharp relief cuts through me at the realization, allowing me to offer the Grand Bearer a smile as he finally meets my gaze.

“Indeed, Sophos. Today has been a great day for the Temple.” His dark eyes search my face, then he offers me a slow smile in return. “You see, our experiment with the potion has been a success.”

The initial relief that Olin has been spared dies in my chest. How dare I be glad, when any one of these innocents could’ve been my sister’s child? These babies were no thieves or heretics. Only the light of someone’s life, snatched from them by this hateful deceiver.

“That’s excellent news, Your Grace,” I say, hoping he interprets the fire in my eyes as excitement.

“It is,” he agrees, looking back up at Ethira with raw hunger. “At last, the gods have gifted me the power I need to join them in immortality.”

This man doesn’t deserve to look upon Ethira’s face, let alone to walk the celestial halls of the Eternal Realm. He has no respect for the gods or the life they create. The only thing he respects is himself and the power he wields so destructively.

As I join him looking at the mosaic, I trace the lines of Ethira’s bow with my eyes. The Grand Bearer hasn’t attained his goal yet. He still needs to find the rest of the tokens of Ethira.

My eyes drift back down to corpses around us. A tiny hand lays outstretched beside my shoe.

I make a vow to the gods then, swearing on my soul: if it costs me every one of my limbs, I will make sure that doesn’t happen. Marek Caledon will never be immortal.