Page 52 of Wild Reverence

They must have fallen asleep during the wedding feast last night.

Perhaps it had been something in the food, or a new poison in the wine.

Perhaps it was the work of an Underling disgruntled with Enva’s arrival, or a human vassal keen for vengeance.

But I soon saw the mortals had likewise collapsed in sleep.

Even the shades slumbered, serving trays and wine spilled around them.

That theory also failed to explain why Bade and Adria, far from the hall, had been stricken as well, and I cast it aside, remaining on guard.

I thought nothing else could shock me until I saw the heave of a wing and I froze.

Two of the eithrals had been brought up from below, bloodied chains like yokes around their necks.

They slept just like the gods, their scales catching the light as they breathed, their wings stretched out in rest. They were terrifying, beautiful.

I had to tear my gaze from them only for my eyes to rivet on five hounds who were likewise here.

Dacre only brought his creatures to the hall when he wanted to display his power and might over them, to remind us what fear tasted like.

And just like the pup in the den I had stumbled upon, these five snored, curled up around the dais where our lord sat on his throne, slumbering like all the rest of his court.

I could not fathom what I was seeing. The vulnerability on raw display.

Slowly, as if I walked through flood waters, I made my way through the lower court, the middle court, the high court.

My plans to find and berate Alva crumbled when I found she also slept, her long golden hair spread like a spiderweb across the table, into her plate of food. And there, at her side, was Phelyra.

I halted abruptly, staring at my mother’s killer.

The goddess of coin, revelry, winter, fire, and cunning also slumbered. The chain of pearls woven into her hair winked in the light. Her cheek was pressed into her arm, her translucent dress a shade of lavender that complemented her fair skin.

Fury welled in my throat, hard as a stone.

I could not breathe. Stars danced at the corners of my sight.

With one hand, I wove my fingers into her pearl-studded hair, yanking her head back, exposing the slender column of her neck.

With my other, I recalled from my belt the very weapon she had once created.

The eithral scale, bound to the arrow shaft.

It fit in my hand perfectly. Trembling, I held the point of the scale to her throat, her fault line.

Even if I assumed wrong and her weakness was her heart, I would have the chance to strike both.

How easily I could kill her, snuffing out her immortality like candleflame. How easily I could send her to the wasteland to grovel before the Gatekeeper, disgraced, stripped bare of power and magic. How easily I could enact my revenge.

And yet… I hesitated.

I stared down at her face—smooth and peaceful, completely unaware that I was one breath away from ending her. She would never know it; she would never feel the sting of my ire. She had fallen asleep, only to never wake.

I could kill any of them, I thought, my gaze roaming the hall.

If I had wanted more power, I could have stolen it without struggle.

I could have feasted upon it, until this hall ran knee-deep in golden ichor.

I could have slit the very throat of Dacre, claiming his magic for my own.

I could have pushed his corpse off the throne and sat there myself.

But these thoughts did not stir my blood. They did not excite my heart or quench the aching thirst I felt. Instead, they left me feeling hollow and parched, as if I were doomed to never feel satisfied or full again.

I loosened my hold on Phelyra’s hair.

Her head plopped back down to rest upon her arm.

I would not kill her, but nor would I leave her as I had found her.

Swallowing, I took hold of my own hair. I cut a portion of it off, the eithral scale so sharp that the trim was effortless. Only then did I return the weapon to my belt, where I would store it for another day.

I knotted the crimson threads around Phelyra’s wrist. They gleamed like a copper bracelet, like a ring of mortal blood around her skin. It was one thing to wake with a lock of your hair shorn. It was another entirely to stir and discover someone else’s bound to your wrist.

When she finally woke, she would see it and know. She would know that I had been here when she was at her most vulnerable, when her death could have been wrought by my hand, and yet I had spared her.

I had let her live.

And now she owed me a debt.

I did not waste any more time below. I left the grand hall, deciding I should travel Skyward, desperate to secure at least one ally before the conflict with Grimald unfolded on the bridge. And who knew when Bade would wake? When any of them would stir?

But just before I quit the hall, I noticed someone was missing from the slumbering horde of Underlings. Someone whose throne was empty on the dais, who had abandoned their own wedding feast.

Enva.