Page 78 of A Sword of Shadow and Deceit

Sneaking into the north tower isn’t difficult. In fact, it’s all too easy—whereas other Mortal God residences have guards, this one is solely for the Darkhavens and their Terra. The rest of the rooms at the bottom of the tower are used primarily for storage and emergency residences. Now that I know the truth of Mortal God fertility, too, it strikes me as almost too obvious the lower count of students than anticipated. The Gods are curbing their offspring’s chance to make their own spawn. Why? What changed?

I don’t get a chance to think too deeply on it as I ascend the circular staircase to the floor just beneath the top one. Unlocking the door, I slide into the cold darkness of my room and shut myself in. A dull throb has started up in the back of my head. Lack of sleep will do that to a person. It takes me three wide steps to get to the bed—or at least close enough for me to toss myself upon the creaking cot. A groan rumbles up my throat as I snatch the pathetic excuse for a pillow at the top of it, stuff my face into it, and let out a frustrated scream.

Weeks, I’ve been here. Weeks without a clue as to who my target is. What the hell could Ophelia be thinking? And after all of that, she still sends Carcel of all people. My throat burns through another scream before I finally roll to the side and stare up at the rafters.

How much longer will I need to live on the edge of discovery? Risking my life for that denza payout? No, it’s not for the denza. It’s for what that money will provide me. Freedom.

I reach back, touching the invisible mark at the nape of my neck. No one would ever be able to find it even if they stripped me down, shaved my head, and did a thorough search. The mark of a blood servant is something that travels deeper than the skin. It’s inside my very bones, tethering me to Ophelia. It’s why she’s always felt so comfortable letting me travel on my own because ever since it was placed upon me, there was no doubt that she would be able to find me wherever I went.

I am lower than a mortal in this God’s realm. I am a blood servant to her. If she commanded me to kill myself, I would struggle to resist the urge to take my own blade and slice it through my wrists and throat to bring her desire for my demise to life. I’d tried enough already. After ten years, I’ve learned to accept it. I’ve resigned myself to my fate.

But here. The Mortal Gods Academy of Riviere. I’ve struggled not to hope that this place would bring me to my freedom. Even if I have to put up with the Darkhavens, anything is worth the price of my independence.

I shut my eyes and in turn, shut out the image of the room around me. For several long minutes, as the temperature in the room drops in response to the temperature outside doing the same, I just lay here and float. Every once in a while there’s a soft thud or thump above my head. I can just picture Ruen sitting in his chair, book in hand, rocking what should be a heavy piece of furniture up on two legs as he inadvertently swivels the wingback chair he prefers to sit in while reading and then lets it slam back down on the floor.

I’ve never asked him what he reads. I can always figure that out myself when I go through their rooms to clean. He seems to prefer philosophical literature and even a few romances of lore. It’s such a dichotomy of his outward exterior. A warrior labeled in the scars of his youth outside, and inside the comfort of the Darkhaven chambers, a book-obsessed hermit. My lips twitch. It would be even more amusing if it weren’t such a tragedy.

This whole fucking world is a godsdamned tragedy. My story. Theirs. It doesn’t matter who plays the role of hero or villain in it. We’re all puppets at the edges of the strings played by the Divine Beings. I just happen to be the unluckiest bitch of them all to be controlled by more than just them but by mortals themselves.

Some sword I am. All the harnessing and shaping Ophelia did and here I lie, praying to Gods that no longer listen as they sleep alongside their worshippers, that the ones I am meant to kill aren’t those that rest above me.

Pathetic, this sympathy of mine.

Chapter 34

Kiera

Idon’t want to do this. The fear and words spiral in my head, but I know better now than to voice them. My wants don’t matter—not to my Master. Despite that fact, Ophelia must be able to read the emotions on my face.

“We all do things we don’t want to, Kiera.” Her voice is unwavering. Hard. “This is another test on your journey. Once this is complete, you’ll have that much more freedom.”

Freedom. I want it so badly—have dreamed of it. Of returning home, to the Hinterlands. Even if my dad is no longer there, it’s still ripe with memories of what I crave. Peace. The absence of pain and loss and danger. For all the things the Gods have wanted and have taken from this world, my father always told me that they feared the Hinterlands. Perhaps in their gilded castles and manors, they lied to themselves and everyone else about their disinterest in a backwoods, savage land, but my dad had told me the truth. The Hinterlands were the oldest of the lands and the place that held the most secrets. They feared it, though no one could say why. That fear of theirs was going to be my salvation. My home.

As the old memories fade from my mind, I close my eyes and try to recall the little cottage we’d lived in before those bandits had burned it to the ground. The images are foggy, old. Just a simple outline of a doorway and shadows. All around me, there are shadows. They hide my dad’s face and the finer details, and trying to bat them away, even if only mentally, has them pushing back, erasing the whole image at once. I can’t even remember what that small one-room building smelled like. My eyes open in panic, unseeing of what’s around me. Was it always damp? Did it smell of mold and wood or herbs and rain?

Freedom is why I’m here, but I can’t even recall what that feels like. What was it like to choose where I slept? Where or what I ate? My breath rushes into my chest and back out in the same instant. Even if I do this tonight, I may never see the Hinterlands again. Ice fills my veins. Tonight changes things for me. Though I hope this is my first step home, it could very well lead me farther away.

“What if I’m not ready?” I ask, speaking slowly so my words don’t all rush out in one breath. Tipping my head up, I look out from beneath the hood of my cloak to the tall woman standing at my side, slightly in front of me. Her face is unflinching and if I didn’t know better, I’d say she wasn’t a woman at all. Not a mortal at all but a statue made of granite.

I continue to peer at the woman at my side. Ophelia and I, though we don’t look alike, stand as close as two people can without actually touching. In the dim light provided by the low lanterns and the moon peeking through the clouds above, I let my gaze rove over her supple skin. It’s practically a mirror image of the clouds above. Dark and smooth, clouded by nothing—not a singular blemish. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was an immortal Divine Being herself.

Since I met her, she’s seemed that way. Perfect in many ways. Beautiful. Cold. Powerful. She uses her looks as a weapon and she’s told me that I’ll have to do the same. I know that means that, eventually, more than just putting a blade to someone’s throat. It’ll mean undressing and seducing someone. My insides roil at that thought. It’s an inevitability that will come to pass if I want a future within the Underworld, and someday, beyond.

“You’re ready when I say you are,” is Ophelia’s only response. That’s it. No comment on what I’m about to do, about the line I’m about to step over. Once crossed, I know I’ll never be able to come back, and I’m struggling to see this as anything other than me making the final decision to take a life.

This isn’t training. This isn’t practice. This is real.

Even my dad had apologized as he had killed animals for the sake of filling our bellies. She doesn’t. Ophelia apologizes for nothing. How many people has she killed, I wonder, to treat the act of taking a life with such indifference? Almost as soon as that thought crosses my mind, it flies away.

The truth is, I don’t want to know how many people she’s killed because, at the end of the day, the next person is all that matters. Making sure that the next person isn’t me.

The back of my neck twinges. I know it’s not real, the feeling of pain, but I reach back and touch the space where the brand she’d placed on me lies beneath the surface of my skin anyway. The sliver of brimstone that sits under the surface is indiscernible to the naked eye, but I’m still viscerally aware of it sitting there beneath my skin, an ever-present reminder of my ownership. It’s a bad habit to keep touching it. My fingertips are cold whereas the skin above the contract mark is hot.

Remember why you’re still alive, I tell myself. It’s because of what you can do. Only you.

Sure, I know mortals can’t kill Mortal Gods that easily, but if I’ve learned anything at all, it’s that even if Ophelia can’t physically end my existence, she can do so much worse. She can make me take my own life if she so wished, and that frightens me.

So, here and now, I need to make a choice. It’s either them … or me.

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