Like draining the milk from a coconut. That’s what Seneca had said in the preparation room.
“It is all I seem to be able to do now,” Anathrasa said tightly.
“There are others like me?” Madoc’s stare locked on Anathrasa, hope surging through him at the prospect of not carrying this burden alone.
“There were, in the past.” She batted a hand at him. “I could not put all my hope in one fragile mortal. They crack like eggs. One slip, and their skull is broken. Weak bones are truly the flaw of human design. Weak bones and saggy skin.” She pinched the wobbling flesh beneath one arm. “Soul energy is not so easily released. It matures over time. It builds by feeding on emotions.”
Madoc’s stomach turned as he recalled the beatings he’d taken in his childhood—how Petros had tried to force the power out of him at a young age. Pain or not, there was a strange satisfaction in knowing his father had been wrong.
“Some died as their powers came to be. Weak constitutions,”Anathrasa continued. “I used to think absorbing the soul energy of the stronger ones would bring my powers back, but alas. They, too, eventually faded. But you, Madoc, have matured nicely. You will be a true champion.”
“You killed your own children,” Ash breathed, horrified.
Madoc could see why the gods had turned against the Mother Goddess in the old stories. She was a monster.
But so was Geoxus.
He didn’t want Madoc to make Deimos equal. He wanted to build an indestructible country.
Geoxus. Petros. Anathrasa. They all wanted the same thing: power.
Ash’s words returned, streamlining the chaos in his brain into one singular thought.
Seneca was there. She took Cassia’s divinity.
Cassia was dead because of Anathrasa.
Pain wrenched Madoc’s muscles around his bones. He saw Cassia lying in the indentation of earth, the boulder beside her. Had she been trying to lift it when it had fallen? Had it been flung her way by Petros, or one of his guards, and she’d found herself unable to stop it?
Anathrasa had made her powerless, but Petros and Geoxus were just as guilty of her death.
Madoc stalked forward, fury raking through him, but was stopped by Ash. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her chest drew flush against his back.
Her anger flooded him, potent and scalding and edged with ferocity.
She meant to protect him. He could feel her intention, truer thanany words. He grasped it with all he had, his anchor in the storm.
“Enough of this!” Geoxus growled, still driven by a frantic energy that scraped Madoc’s paper-thin resolve. “Take Ignitus’s gladiator to the jail—we may find use for her in the future. The rest of us will return to the palace. There’s much to do, Madoc. Much we must prepare.”
“No.”
Geoxus, heading toward the door, froze. He turned toward Madoc. Behind him, Petros’s face was red with fury.
“No?” Geoxus asked.
Madoc felt as if his bones would shake apart. His breath came in rapid pulls. Fear burst inside him, hotter than his anger, more desperate than his will to survive.
He might be the son of Anathrasa, but he would not be a weapon. He would not tear souls away like she had done to Cassia and Stavos. He would not fill gods with energeia just so they would turn and invade countries like Ash’s.
Determination quieted the raging of his soul. For the first time since Cassia had been taken, he knew what he had to do.
He had to fight for Deimos. Not Geoxus’s power-hungry ideal. Not Petros’s corrupt reality. The Deimos that had raised him, that pressed gemstones into its doorways, and always smelled of olives and fresh earth, and stained his clothes with gray mortar and his heart with laughter.
The Deimos that had given him the Metaxas.
“No?” Geoxus asked again, incredulous. “Perhaps you have misunderstood, Madoc. This isn’t a choice. You are my champion. You belong tome.”
The floor began to shake with Geoxus’s temper. Sand sifted from the ceiling above.
