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CHAPTER

THIRTY-FIVE

Oralia

A gush of water spilled from my nose and mouth.

I tried to take small sips of air, but my lungs were already full. As I choked, my fingers grappled at the slick stones beneath me, my vision so coated in blackness I was sure I was on the bottom of the ocean. But slowly, my lungs cleared, and my breaths came in raw gasps whistling through my throat.

Not on the bottom. As I blinked, I traced the edge of the wide stones beneath me, green grass grew between them in perfect lines before meeting tall walls of the same material. But the sun shone overhead, casting carvings on the walls into relief.

I was alone.

“Drystan?” I cleared my throat. “Aelestor? Caston?”

Their names echoed off the stone, reflected back as if taunting me. I pushed to my feet, limbs aching and tired, wincing at the squelch of my boots and the heavy leather clinging to my skin.

“Samarah?”

It was a courtyard of sorts, the center inlaid with an olive tree heavy with fruit. I could not make out an entrance or exit, merely four looming walls of stone inlaid with incredible detail. The closest wall depicted a group of people gathered within a circle with a woman standing in the center, her eyes closed and arms raised. She was beautiful, even within the stone, hair swirling around her shoulders, full lips soft in an expression of contentment. This woman radiated an intensity in whatever it was she was doing, surrounded by what appeared to be other women protecting her. I thought I recognized a few of them—including one who was now my companion on this journey.

The next was a forest, a few trees on their sides, in the process of decay. A fallen fawn lay beside the trunk, fur peeled back to expose its ribs. And there, kneeling next to it, was a god I knew all too well.

His wings were relaxed within the carving. Even in stone, his hair appeared soft, waving around his shoulders, brushing the shoulders of the robes that pooled at his feet where he knelt. It was an impeccable rendering of Ren’s face, down to the furrow between his brow, fingertips outstretched to brush against the fawn’s head in the perfect expression of grief.

I could not help but reach out to trace the curve of his jaw, anguish burning in the back of my throat and across the bridge of my nose. The image was so real. For a moment, I thought he might turn to me, the torn expression bleeding into one of joy. But this god before me was young. I could see it in the smoothness of his brow—the clarity of his eyes. He had yet to see the horrors in store for us all, to carry the weight of so much death upon his shoulders.

This moment was merely the beginning: the first death.

More and more scenes, some with gods I recognized like Horace and Morana and Samarah, all depicting what I thought might be the beginning of time, the cycle of the seasons, and all centered around the largest carving of them all. A woman dragged toward a great tree by two faceless gods, her face contorted in fear and pain, reaching out toward the viewer in panic.

Asteria and the creation of the first kratus tree.

“She did not scream, not even once.” The voice was mild as if the comment was not heart-wrenching but merely a fact.

I whirled, my wet braid slapping against my neck. A man stood a few feet away, arms clasped behind his back, staring at the image of Asteria, mouth soft beneath his thick black beard.

“How would you know that?” I could not help but ask.

The man did not look at me, but he did step closer, the sunlight gleaming upon his deep olive skin. His robes were similar to the ones depicted within the stone, but a deep red, fluttering around his sandaled feet with each step he took.

“Asteria fought bravely, without pleading or tears, and to be honest…she almost won.”

Somehow, it made the story all the worse—to know she had almost gotten away. The man suddenly appeared beside me, taller than Horace or Ren, but he might as well have been alone within the courtyard for all the attention he gave me or my question. His thick black hair flowed down his back like a waterfall as he tipped his chin up toward the carving, hands twitching behind his back.

“Where are my companions?”

After another long silence, he turned, ruby-flecked eyes impassive in their stare. “This is what you ask? Not ‘ Where am I? Who are you? What do you want from me?’”

My power sparked, reacting to my frustration, but I quelled it with a breath. “I know where I am, and from your musings, I am sure you will eventually tell me who you are and what you want from me. Therefore, I ask what is important to me in this moment: where are my companions?”

The corner of his beard twitched with amusement, head tilting ever so slightly to the side. “You are quite the latska lathira , are you not?”

Little queen . The name had been affectionate on Samarah’s lips, but on his, it rankled. So, I merely raised an imperious brow in imitation of the title he bestowed.

“And you are quite high-handed for a coward.”

The words were met with a ringing silence, the ruby of his irises brightening a fraction before he gave a bark of laughter. I did not join in as he turned, wandering toward the center of the courtyard where an olive tree overflowed with blossoms. He stopped before it, weighing one between two fingers.

“You call me a coward and yet you bent your knee for centuries to a tyrant?”

It was my turn to laugh, though I did not follow him. “There is a difference between ignorance and cowardice. It comes down to the choices one makes once they understand the game. You ran from a tyrant while I turn and fight him.”

With a click of his tongue, he nodded before plucking the olive from the tree and smashing it between his fingers. A breeze ghosted across my face, the drying strands of my hair lifting to itch my cheeks.

“You know, when I first learned Renwick had found a mate, I wondered if you were strong enough to withstand his volatile displays.” He sighed, the branch snapping back when he plucked another olive from the tree. “Ren had so much emotion and so little control. Or at least…that was how he used to be. I’ve heard in recent years he lost much of his fire.”

My jaw tensed, vision narrowing onto the god as he turned on the grind of a heel to look at me.

“That magic cunt of yours must have been a relief for him after centuries of feeling nothing. No wonder he bonded you.”

Shadows slithered from my chest, over my shoulders, and down my arms in reaction. But I did not send them forward, only stared at him with an approximation of the look I’d seen on Ren’s face when we first met. I did not allow this god a moment of my ire or my pain—both of which he was looking for with such a hollow jab.

“Are you the God of Bastards, then?” I asked, ice dripping from each word.

His head tipped back toward the sky with his laughter, arms spread wide as if he could embrace his humor. I blinked, and we were suddenly nose to nose, a silver-tipped dagger pressed to my throat.

“I quite like the look of his head upon my mantel. Shall I add yours too?”

A small smile curled my lips, shadows sliding from my arms to his. I ducked beneath his hand, shadows and fingers twisting around his wrist to jab the blade to his own throat, my lips at his ear.

“No, but I quite like the idea of yours upon my own.”

Kratus resin gleamed on the edge of the blade—heavy enough I could scent the earthy tang of it. My gloves had been lost within the ocean, and my palm pressed to his skin without damage. Timeless, then, as I’d figured he would be. He laughed again, patting me on the hand as if we were merely playing.

“All right, little one, peace now between us.”

But I did not release him, I only tightened my grip and my magic. “Where are my companions?”

“You are wiser than you appear. Release me and I will tell you.”

My shadows curled tighter around him, the blade pressing into his skin, though it did not break the surface. Something like pride shimmered around us, his approval a tangible being in the space as if it were stroking my cheeks.

“Very good, Oralia, Lathira na Thurath . They are waiting for you within the great hall, alive and well.”

“Take me to them,” I commanded.

He nodded. “You might be his true match after all. My name is Gunthar, little one. You would do well to remember it.”

Before I could respond or push him forward, the god made a slash through the air with his arm. My shadows and the knife in my hand disappeared as if they were merely smoke. He twisted in my hold, pushing me back with a slap to my chest and forcing the air out of my lungs with an oof . Suddenly, I found myself on the pitch-black ocean floor, choking on water.

And then my heart stopped.