Page 16 of The Cruel Dawn (Vallendor #2)

A woman with copper skin and bronze hair pulled into a bun stands on the other side of the double doors with her hands folded before her.

She’s tall and radiant with silver light.

She bows her head and says, “Kaivara Megidrail, Grand Defender, Lady of the Verdant Realm, Blood of All.” Her voice sounds like the low call of whales, so lovely and round.

Blood of All. I’ve always loved that title.

She sounds and looks so calm.

Does she see me? Does she see the mess that I’ve made?

“For what purpose are you here?” the woman asks.

“To see my uncle, Agon the Kindness,” I say, my voice now rich and smoky with confidence.

The woman narrows her stormy-gray eyes and offers a stiff bob of the head. “I will take you to him. Please follow me.” She turns away and starts to walk.

I take a step and grimace. “Could you slow down? I’m…” I sweep my hand over the mess of me. “Hurt.”

Understatement of the ages.

She nods, and once I catch up to her, she continues on, walking slower now.

“You know who I am,” I say, limping, resisting the urge to look back at my bloody footprints. “Please tell me who you are.”

“Nimith Findaye,” she says without turning around. “My clan of Eserime left the first realm of Linione aeons ago, and we’ve served as stewards of the abbeys across the Aetherium ever since.”

Breathing heavy, I bite my lower lip and follow Nimith through a great hall. Like the corridor, light here doesn’t come from a torch or candelabra. The light just is.

A mural shines on the hall’s ceiling.

The first realm of Linione. The dwelling place of Supreme. The origin of every realm. Home to the Council of High Orders, the esteemed nobles who govern and represent their orders. The same nobles who demanded that Sybel no longer counsel me—though they’ve now restored my ability to travel fast.

Not that Spryte is helping me right now.

I want to ask if there’s an easier way to reach my uncle—I’m slowing down as the pain courses through my body.

Nimith makes no sound as we cross the halls. She wears soft folds of mauve cloth that gather and separate, and could be a gown, a jumpsuit or a simple sheet.

This vast space holds countless benches made of that strong wood, each seat with a scarlet pillow.

Like a chapel, the benches—including the ones on both sides—face a raised dais made of glazed wood.

No one stands at the podium or sits on the benches.

This part of the great hall shines with firelight from wall sconces, candelabras, and torches.

Nimith leads me into a dark alcove, illuminating that space.

Behind us, the area we just crossed is now dark. She is the light.

Nimith and I head toward another large space.

The scent of sugar and baking bread drifts from the hall up ahead.

My stomach growls—I want to follow that aroma and eat whatever is roasting and simmering in pans over the hearths.

We enter a room like the chapel, but this area is bigger and has multiple hearths, comfortable-looking chairs, and overstuffed couches.

The drapes on the walls and windows are warm browns and oranges.

Oh, no. People.

And they will see me like this.

Fuck all.

The gods present are a tapestry of colors and hues, from fair-skinned with rosy cheeks to darker tones and sharper features. Some gasp when they see me, sweeping their gazes across my bloody body. Some smile, but their eyes shine with agitation or sadness.

I try to lift my chin and pretend that all is well, but that’s a lie, and they all see right through it. I sneak a peek behind me. No blood. I sigh, thankful for that small mercy.

Why are they here today?

Why did they come during a time like this?

Who needs resources from Vallendor?

Malik Sindire—he told me that he had come here to collect artifacts.

Is my realm now a hub for tragic tourism by more fortunate gods?

“Is there a convocation happening?” I ask Nimith.

“The convocation just ended,” she says.

Unlike the Renrians’ meetings every fifty seasons, our convocations occur only if there is an urgent issue that demands the immediate consensus of as many realms as possible.

I tilt my head. “There’s a threat about?”

She waits a beat before saying, “Yes.”

Nimith guides me to another room decorated with vases filled with pearl-blue kastat roses and ruby-red pinepart lilies. I’d brought these long-living flowers from Linione as gifts to Vallendor after its creation. But these flowers no longer grow here.

I limp away from Nimith to peek out the windows. I see my realm slowly turning as Selenova, the nightstar, brings nighttime, and as Lumis, the daystar, several paces behind his partner, brings dawn. They never tire. They never dim. They will only abandon this realm moments before its destruction.

I spot Caburh, still wrecked from that fight between Gileon Wake’s army, Jadon Wake, and me. Maford sits in nighttime. In the north, Gasho shines as a restored city. Much of Caerno Woods, the site of Veril Bairnell’s murder, still burns with my fire.

The towns I’ve destroyed—Chesterby, Steedale, Trony… I avoid looking at their devastation. I vow I will restore those cities—I just need time.

Nimith is waiting patiently for me with her slender hands folded over her gown.

Onward.

Gritting my teeth, I take one step at a time.

Soon, we pass an ornate door encrusted with every gem brought from the first realm.

Two Raqiel sentinels—guards of both the Adjudicators and the abbeys of the realms and descendants of the Mera and Onama—watch over this door.

Their startling pale faces shift from lion to hawk, bear to owl.

Their bright red breastplates look dull compared to this door’s grandeur.

Up, up, up, Nimith and I go. I’m sweating, my wounds aching as I follow her up the stone steps of a spiraling staircase.

Nimith slows as we reach the landing, and a plain wooden door greets us. “Agon the Kindness is here,” she says, nodding.

“Wonderful.” I groan and swipe my blood-crusted hand across my sweaty forehead. “I really want to—”

She’s descended the stairs before I can say, “Thank you.”