Page 23 of A Broken Ember

“Did you . . . Eleos . . .”

“Do you truly doubt my loyalty, my Prince?” Ercan asked, once again knowing my thoughts without me fully revealing them. The accusation hurt more than any dagger.

“No,” I whispered. My shoulders sagged.

“May I go?”

I sighed, realizing he wouldn’t leave without my permission. I nodded, releasing him. He stalked off, leaving me alone with my guilt once again raging.

I entered my father's chambers with a lump in my throat. “First the puppet and then his master,” Calian sneered, emerging from the darkness. He was in a state of undress, a robe casually slung around his shoulders. I blinked, startled to find him instead of with Claeg. “And what brings you here this early?”

“I’m here for my father.” I kept my words clipped and to the point. I didn’t really feel like engaging with Calian right now.

“He’s busy with his Chosen,” Calian replied, leaning in the door frame in a way that blocked access inside.

“I don’t care,” I answered, but I actually did. If he were with my mother, then he may be more receptive to my . . . requests. I couldn’t even call them demands. I didn’t have the backbone to make demands. The idea of becoming De Vita upon my father’s death made my heart thunder. All that power and responsibility… I wasn’t ready for it despite training for it my entire life. I didn’t think I ever would be, and yet Father’s days were limited. One day, you won’t have a choice. You won’t get the luxury of defining who you are when your hand is forced, Ercan had said over and over. Today, you could choose to be De Vita on your own terms; tomorrow, it might be thrust upon you. Trust me, I know. I had never understood how Ercan always believed in my ability to lead.

“Son,” Odon boomed, breaking me from my thoughts. I blinked. He loomed behind Calian, wearing a robe and his crown of teeth but nothing else. The scent of sex clung to him. I hadn’t noticed his approach. I let out a steadying breath, refusing to bite my lip like my impulses begged me to.

“Father, I have things I wish to discuss with you,” I said. A meaty hand waved Calian away, and he reluctantly retreated into the room. He opened his arm to beckon me in, and I followed, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. Inside stood pillars of great De Vita men from the past. Each carving was unique and hand-crafted, lining the hallway to the De Vita’s chambers. Father led me past the great leaders, each a permanent fixture and reminder of the path carved before us.

A statue resembling Odon would be erected next to his father upon Odon’s death. The fathers always watched over the sons, but when the sun hit the art, the present De Vita always overshadowed the previous one, never eclipsed by who came before. It was a continual ascension to greatness. Until he arrived, we would not achieve perfection. He was the most powerful draconis, capable of uniting the clans . . . and also destroying them. The latter was what Odon hoped he would accomplish, certain he was the one destiny spoke of. But I . . . I didn’t believe in perfection. And I certainly didn’t believe it would be accomplished by obliterating the only opposing clan. We all had faults: there was no black and white, just shades of gray. Even Claeg was streaked with gray, although I saw more white in him than darkness.

“Well?” Father prompted me out of my thoughts. I looked up at him. Somehow, we had made it into his chambers and stood on the precipice of his balcony. It was even grander than mine, with its decadent, sloping arches framing the dawn. At this time of day it looked like the sun rose simply for those who were here to witness its grand ascent. It was astounding, remarkable to witness as it crested the dunes of the Sand Eye, an overseer of life itself.

I tore my gaze from the spectacular scene. One day, I would show this to Claeg—the simple beauty of watching a star blaze through our lives. It was to watch a god as they shone light into our world, allowing us to see the beauty in the dark. The beautiful colors streaked into the sky, oranges more vibrant than the richest of soil and purples which reminded me of the radiance in Claeg’s eyes. The thought of him centered me, reminding me of my purpose here.

“I don’t think we should be abducting Circulus, Father,” I began. He raised a thick eyebrow, and I rushed on before I lost my nerve. “We have taken many to be Saved, but surely, the gods do not approve of so many souls being used for our pleasure?”

“The gods,” he guffawed. “Their curses are gifts, and their gifts are blessings. Your curse, as you so insist on calling it, is proof. The gods are on our side. I do not fear them, and neither should you, son. We were meant to rule. To Save.”

My heart deflated. Why had I thought he would listen to me? There would be no convincing him, no mercy from him. “No, we were meant to have mercy,” I corrected, thinking of my Eleos. I looked out upon the rising fire, glowing a gorgeous, burning amber. Odon thought himself to be brighter, hotter, more powerful than the sun while we were but discarded, broken embers. Perhaps we were, but we survived beyond the flame.

I looked back at my father. He was eyeing up Amartya like he owned her from where she stood next to their bed. Her expression was hardened, as unflinching as stone. She had been the Selected representing wit, yet she worshiped him, forgave him as if in love, and endured him with a strength I didn’t understand. In return, he granted her his ear. Perhaps that was what made her so witty. She fought and won battles without lifting a sword, but with soft suggestions. I turned toward her for a final plea.

“Eleos is my Selected. We must respect and honor him as if he were my Chosen.”

It was the wrong thing to say. My father stiffened, his hand which cupped my mother’s cheek falling into a fist at his side. Mother was so still, watching silently. I couldn’t read her as I could my father.

“Have I not done so? Is he not living with his wings and the freedom to roam my castle?” Tension coiled around my spine. Father had spoken over his shoulder, not granting me the legitimacy or courtesy of looking me in the eye.

“And yet he nearly died because of your neglect!” I shot back. Another mistake. One I would pay dearly for.

“Enough! I will not be told how to lead,” he snarled, whipping around with fire flashing in his eyes. “I will remind you once: I am De Vita!” he roared, the boom of his voice vibrating through our surroundings and down to my very bones. His tone should have cowed me, but instead I let it flow over me like sparks from a fire. He was De Vita. All-powerful, bright and raging, and I was the broken ember that came after the fire.

I bowed my head. “I understand, De Vita,” I answered, looking at my mother as I bowed. Her face remained unchanged. Neutral and quiet, not roaring or violent like flames but constant and enduring. Waiting. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one biding our time.

Chapter 21: Claeg

By the time I returned to the prince’s room, the sun was steadily climbing, hunting for its release with spiking, bloody tendrils. I felt no less conflicted than when I had left. Anastasius laid in bed with his brows creased and eyes closed. Blankets were strewn to the edges of the bed. Sweat beaded on his forehead. I watched as Anastasius tossed and turned for a while before climbing into bed next to him. I felt the unexplainable urge to comfort him, to touch him. It was almost instinctual when I began lightly tracing his scars with my fingertips. His soft breathing became irregular. Alert. He moaned, leaning in slightly to my touch. “Does it hurt?” I whispered. Anastasius stilled, his breathing stuttering out. He turned toward me, opening his eyes and giving up any pretense of sleep.

“I haven’t felt the pain in a long time.” He yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. I lingered over the gnarly tissue of his shoulder blades.

“Tell me about your scars. You know how I got mine.” I propped myself up onto an elbow. He smelled like spiced lavender from the bath.

He sighed but didn’t speak for a while—so long that I thought he was going to ignore me, but then he spoke, the words so quiet, so intimate. Just for me. “Most of them are self-inflicted.”

I froze. My gut twisted at the thought of the prince harming himself. Why would he weaken himself? Before I could demand answers from him, he continued. “I don’t want to hurt myself, but I just . . . I can’t feel anything. I am numb to everything, Eleos. Everything. But you . . . you are addictive.” He cupped my cheek. “You help remind me how to feel.” The vulnerability in his expression was palpable. He bit his lip, his gaze stuck on his twisting hands. My eyes were heavy under the weight of my eyebrows.

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