Page 90 of The Heart of Nym (The Twisted Roots Duology #1)

It was the perfect time to perform a search. Ever since that night in Fairnam, Oran could not rid his mind of the burning questions that lingered—echoing in the darkest parts of his thoughts like stagnant plumes of smoke that clung to thick air long after a fire had gone out.

The mother he knew would have never taken off a ring that he’d gifted her. The mother he knew loved him and was good and kind. For years, he’d tried to ignore the darkness that surrounded her, but it became a thorn under his skin. It kept him awake long into the night.

He’d seen the way this imposter looked at Nymiria.

He’d seen the not-so-sly touches she placed upon his brother’s body.

It was sickening. Oran’s mother was not that sort of person.

He knew her in the only way a son could know their mother.

He’d recognize the beat of her heart, for he’d been lulled to sleep by the sound of it from conception until he was old enough to leave the nursery.

She was a mother that tried to give love to all children, not just him. She took Aziel as her own when Lilith died, despite Aziel’s initial rejection of her affections.

The Camalia that sat upon the throne now was not his mother. And that ring was proof.

After seeing Nymiria and Aziel disappear with one another, Oran left his betrothed breathless and blushing at his party—passing her off to the next dance partner before he decided that it was the perfect moment to plan his hunt.

With all of the servants and grounds workers drunk and oblivious, he began.

He started it Camalia’s dressing room, searching through jewelry boxes and drawers until every item was discarded and strewn across the once-spotless surface of her vanity. He tore through the wardrobe, flipped over the bed, and checked every nook and corner that the ring could have been placed.

Oran looked at the mess he made, at the overturned furniture and clutter before moving to her sleeping chambers.

It was the same in this room and, still, he found nothing.

His features twisted with disgust when he approached Dorid’s door to his personal rooms, shaking his head at the loud moans coming from the other side of the door before he turned and started back down the steps.

He checked his mother’s favorite parlor, her library, her office—ripping through papers and parchment until he stumbled across a letter stuffed into the back of the roll-top desk that hadn’t been used in years.

Upon seeing the unfamiliar runes written on the back, his interest was piqued.

He took the letter into his hands, smoothing it out as much as possible before flipping it open.

Camalia,

I know that he is there. The boy you are protecting holds dark power that would be a curse upon the earth if unleashed.

I warned you about this. You wanted to know what your son’s fate would be, and while I had no answers for you at the time, I now know that Aziel Haze is a plague amongst the lives of those in your kingdom.

He will release his death into those who live under your reign.

He will darken the skies of your beautiful kingdom and pillage it until there is nothing but bones left.

He will do the same to the Kingdom of Nym. To your son. To everything you love.

Whether or not you choose to believe me, that is entirely your decision. But I will not raise my daughter in a world that is threatened by such untamed darkness.

If you would only let me have the boy, I could ensure that he would not be able to harm you, nor the ones you love with his evil rot. I could ensure a world in which Aziel Haze would never lift a single finger in your direction again.

He is a child who is wholly unfit to take his place as Death, but I can help him. Give him to me and I will take this problem from your hands immediately, saving you and your family from this harbinger of hell.

You know what I can do. It is either this or suffer great consequences.

The Witch Queen

Oran’s brow furrowed, eyes darting around the contents of the desk for something more, something that could give any inclination as to what this letter meant.

The parchment was yellowed, the ink having bled deep into the paper to signify that it was a number of years old.

This witch queen had known of Aziel’s powers and so had his mother.

It wasn’t so much of a surprise that his mother had known, she had always told him that he and Aziel were born different.

The thing that struck him as odd was that the handwriting on this letter looked oddly familiar.

Too familiar.

With a swift and languid stride, he was across the room again, sifting through various documents until he reached one of Camalia’s latest letters.

The sinking feeling in his stomach had grown so much that he was now feeling nauseous, bile building in the back of his throat and hands trembling.

Identical.

From the lettering to the slight swirl used when printing I in both names, it was an exact match.

Camalia was not his mother.

His hands curled around both parchments and with a pounding heart, Oran fled.

He darted through the halls of the palace, a deep, dark feeling in his chest. His stomach had hollowed out, guts churning as he ran.

It was a faint knowing that screamed at him louder and louder in the recesses of his mind, guiding him to the vault that was hidden in the shadowy depths of the palace.

When he reached the door and let his fingers smooth over the cold metal of the puzzle lock located on the front, he drew in a deep breath. His mind did not want to be silent, but he willed it—forcing the flurry of a thousand thoughts away so that he could focus.

He knelt in front of the lock, digging into his pocket to retrieve the key to his room. Though it would not unlock this specific door, it could be used to move the tiles to the correct location.

He’d seen Dorid use this lock when he was a boy, and remembered that the first tile was moved to the right. Oran stuck the point of the key into the hole and dragged it across the top. Upon hearing the single, metallic click coming from inside, he moved the key to the next tile.

Up, left. Up, right. Up, center. Left. Right. Center. Left. Center. Right.

Click after click, he shifted the tiles around until he heard the mechanical whirring of the cogs and gears coming from within the thick frame of the door. He pushed himself backwards when the door popped open, air pushing from the crack as if it’d been begging for release from whatever lay inside.

He rose upon unsteady feet, knees feeling as if they could buckle at any moment as he pushed the door the rest of the way open. Inside, there was nothing but thick darkness.

The air, the energy, was so thick and charged with that negative presence that it forced the hair along his arms and the back of his neck to raise.

Still, with his determination, he commanded himself to continue forward to where the first torch was hanging from the wall.

There was enough light spilling in from the entrance for him to see that the end of the torch was covered in cobwebs and layers of dust—certainly, it had not been used in years.

Even Dorid rarely entered this vault. He always said that it was better if everyone forgot that it existed. Even himself.

Oran pulled his lighter from his pocket and flicked it open, striking the metal with his thumb to light the rope wrapped around the torch. It blazed to life within seconds, burning away egg sacks from spiders embedded in the cracks.

He jerked it off the wall with a huff, rolling his eyes at the darkness beyond.

I swear to the gods, he thought. If I die, I will make it my Otherworldly mission to come back and haunt these fuckers every day until Aziel drags them all to the pits.

The prince rolled his shoulders.

He was a large man. Tall, muscular, with broad shoulders and legs structured like tree trunks. But he’d never quite gotten over his fear of the dark. Or this fucking vault.

Dorid told him, years ago, that the vault housed secrets the world was not ready to be reckoned with. As a boy, Oran believed it to be vicious monsters that would rip out his throat or devour him in one large gulp. At the ripe age of twenty-five…

Well, he still believed monsters existed. He’d seen enough of them to know they were real. And he knew that when they were angry, they did not care about a good heart or intentions. They only cared about revenge.

So, yes. He was scared of the dark. Specifically this sort of darkness that promised nothing but imminent death.

Steeling himself, he pressed on. This was not about his fear. This was not about monsters. His fear was not specifically about monsters, it was about what he believed he would find.

He’d heard rumors of cells being in the vault. Cells that housed the kingdoms most dangerous criminals.

If his mother was still alive, he was sure that he would find her—

His boot collided with something, sending the unseen object clattering across the rough stone flooring and into one of the domed stone walls to his left.

Oran’s eyes followed the orange glow of firelight to where the object now rested. If not for its color, he would have known what it was without seeing its shape.

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself before he looked down at where the object had come from.

He prayed that it was just the skeletal remains of an animal or an unlucky guard.

He prayed it was anything other than what he was searching for.

But by the sinking feeling he felt in his chest and stomach, Oran had an inclination as to what he would find when he opened his eyes.

He could already see it gleaming in the orange light he held above his head. Without even having to look, he knew he would see his ring on his mother’s finger. And she would be dead.

Drawing in a deep breath that did nothing to settle the anger and ache inside of him, Oran looked down at the pile of bones that was being swallowed by a dirtied rag that was once a very fine gown.

The mice and time had made a meal of her feeble body, but he knew her bones the same way he’d known her heart.

The real Queen Camalia Yaarborough of Yaar lay at his feet. And there, on her middle finger, was the most beautiful ring for the most beautiful creature that ever walked the earth. Tears welled up in his eyes as he knelt by her decayed form, his hands shaking as he reached for her hand.

"I told you to never come down here." His father's voice echoed through the dark chamber. The hairs along Oran's arms prickled, his back going erect as he pushed himself to his feet. "We warned her that the plague would come for her if she did not relent."

Oran's knuckles tightened around the base of his torch. He used every ounce of strength in his body to not launch himself across the floor and kill his father on the spot. "What the fuck are you talking about?" He sneered.

Dorid took a step closer, hands clasped firmly behind his back as he did.

"Your mother was warned, multiple times, of what would happen if she tried to get in the way of what I wanted.

While I loved her dearly, she had too good of a heart to be a powerful queen.

And since I do not believe in divorce, there were arrangements made so that I could finally have a queen worthy of the Yaar throne. "

The reigns on his control snapped. Oran lurched forward, prepared to drive his fist right into his father's fat little face, but it was as if an invisible wall had been placed in front of him.

Oran slammed into it over and over until he deflated onto the ground in front of the king, his body spent and shaking with angry sobs.

"Who is she?" The prince yelled. "Who is the Mimic bitch that killed my mother? "

With the flap of his cape, Dorid turned on his heel and started back towards the vault entrance.

"Someone like me," he said simply. "Someone who isn't afraid to kill anyone to get what they want.

Not even their own child." He paused for a moment as he turned to look at Oran in the darkness, his jeweled hand resting on the vault door.

"I wanted you to be like me, son. I wished you would have seen the world the way I did.

But you have too much of your mother in you.

Too much Mystic, not enough Yaarborough. It's a shame."

And with that, Dorid closed the vault door, sealing Oran in its dark depths.