The blood of the man who had become my captor.
Everyone in the room stopped moving as I sank my dagger deeper into Titus’s throat. As I rotated the weapon, the second blade pierced his skin and sliced diagonally across his neck.
Titus gargled on his blood, the choking bouncing off the walls. I shoved him forward, and he collapsed into the crimson puddle, looking up at me from his back.
Malakai stared at me with his eyelids drooping, trying to lift himself off the ground but his hands slipped in his blood, an awed look on his half-conscious face. The woman I didn’t know who had helped pry me from my session stood resolute at my side.
I stared down at Titus. It was odd, how he seemed so small now. So…powerless after holding my leash for so many years.
And I stood above him, holding the power of endless Fates in the palm of my hands.
And as I panted over the body of my impounder, a deep, roaring satisfaction spread along my bones. The Fates sangwithin me, all of their ruthless hearts cheering for the death of the man who had ruined me.
My chest seized, an ache budding in my shoulder, but all I could focus on was the revenge simmering within me as Titus bled out. Crimson stained the hem of my gown; his stare burned with betrayal.
I did it, I nearly sighed in disbelief, clutching the item in my hand to my chest. I had written the downfall of Titus. After years of isolation and manipulation, months of abandonment and torment, I had become his breaker.
It was only when his eyes stopped searching and limbs ceased twitching that I gasped.
The small inhale was loud in the seeing chamber—or perhaps that was merely the echo in my ears.
The echo that turned into a roar of starfire.
And then, I was screaming, a long keen echoing with the power of my Fate ties.
Something inside of me was shredding.
It wasn’t the pain of a knife wound or the discordant readings. It wasn’t the ache of all those times Cypherion pushed me away and I let him go.
This was something much more intrinsic, like roots were wrapped around my heart, and they were being grossly ripped from my spirit. A wrenching, world-shattering type of pain that began in my shoulder and spread through my entire body.
My careening cries fractured everyone else’s stillness, and they sprang into action. Weapons clashed and fresh blood poured. I collapsed, bones crashing to the cold marble.
The same gentle hands that had roused me moments ago were on either side of my face, swiping away the tears and calmly asking me what was wrong.
But I couldn’t find the words for the vacancy in my soul.
Chapter Thirty
Ophelia
Lancaster pickedup his sister and charged deeper into the chamber.
“Go!” I said to Rina, pushing her in front of me. She had a dagger in each hand, more strapped to her person.
I took off after her, diving into the abyss beyond the corridor. My breath sawed through my chest as I skidded through the darkness. I cast one glance over my shoulder—afforded only one second—and a wave of deadly soldiers met it.
Ten at the most, but they charged as fast as any living warrior. All in that same state of decay, all with dust swirling around them. Crumbs of stone fell from their tattered clothing as if they’d burst from the walls in some other part of the catacombs.
They screeched as their brethren had. Hollow, aching, wanting sounds that wrenched through me.
I sped into the dark.
Mystlight flared to life as we ran through the heart of the catacombs. Rows upon rows of wooden shelves stretched through the long cavern, ceilings low and rimmed with weakly fluttering sconces.
Artifacts laid scattered about their surfaces, bones trimming the base of the walls.
“Gods be damned,” Santorina called. “Any of these could be the emblem.”
