Page 71 of A Dawn of Gods & Fury

And I will deserve it. “You’re right, he most likely wants me dead. But Romeria saved my life only days ago, despite that betrayal. The only reason I can think of is that my brother insists on delivering my punishment himself. If that is the case, he will come looking for me. If he discovers you stole his opportunity for vengeance …” I let the words hang for a few beats. “Imagine what those winged beasts could do to this beautiful palace and your lovely family.”

My attention drifts over the pillars and painted ceiling. “On second thought, with your vast army in Islor and his ability to fly here, he could claim Ostros as his own. There wouldn’t be much of a defense.” I meet King Cheral’s gaze in challenge.

He studies me through shrewd eyes. “Surely, something to ponder,” he says, waving his guards over. “Return the prisoner to his cell.”

I can’t help my smile as I’m escorted back to my cage, though it's empty. The realm is in shambles and, if there is anything King Cheral just taught me, it’s that I know nothing at all.

20

Sofie

“Your Highness.” The greeting is a constant chorus as I stroll along the corridor of gilded pillars and candelabras, the lords and ladies bobbing and bowing like bleating imbeciles while the mortals scurry out of my path.

But it’s the whispers trailing that charge my spirits.

“She’s a key caster.”

“The first we’ve had in two thousand years.”

“She must have ended the blood curse.”

How thrilling it is to be in a world where my power is revered, not hidden from weak mortals who cannot wrap their tiny brains around its existence. I will gladly accept at least some credit for their recent fortunes. It was me, after all, who sent Romeria to this realm. It was me who suffered for three centuries in the dark as part of Malachi’s game.

It is I who suffers still, sitting idly by while my beloved husband is trapped in yet another hell.

But these fools had a key caster in their midst for months and hadn’t the first clue. Then again, that silly girl lived twenty-one years with no clue what great power waited inside her either.

I march through the grand entrance doors of the castle. The dress I’ve chosen today—a wine-colored silk gown with ebony boning—squeezes my rib cage. This will take time to adjust to. I’ve grown too accustomed to modern fashion.

“Your Highness.” Two guards slap their heels together in a stiff stance and bow.

“Which way to the sanctum?” I ask without preamble.

“Through those gates.” The one on the left nods toward the twisted metal. A team of blacksmiths have been working to repair them since the morning. It will likely take them weeks. “We will escort you for your safety.”

“My safety?” I snort. “I could kill you both with nary a thought.” And no one would dare say a word to me about it.

Fear pumps through his lanky frame while the other guard pales. “But His Highness insisted.”

My hands clench. “Very well. I would not wish you to be punished for not following his orders. But you will remain outside the doors.” I will not tolerate spies and tattletales.

They bow again, and spinning on their heels lead me down a path.

Fools.

All of them.

What I would have done to have such a place to worship in.

I pause to admire the splendor of Cirilea’s sanctum. The exterior is a sight to behold—a Gothic vestige built to honor the Fate of Fire, its obsidian walls dominating the gleaming gold, silver, and bronze trim—nods to the other fates but, in their eyes, likely a dismissal. Bold on the part of these Islorians. It isn’t a wonder Malachi pined for this throne. These people have already deigned to grovel at his feet.

But inside is equally splendid, the gold mosaic ceiling glittering in the sunlight that peeks through the many small windows, highlighting how much dust has collected over the mahogany pews. From what information I have gleaned so far, I imagine the sanctum was pristinely kept before the last ruler slaughtered the priestesses.

Save for one.

Bowed heads line the first six rows of pews. I’m sure if I closed the distance, the stench of unwashed bodies would assault my senses. It’s difficult to decipher the common mortals from the exceptionally destitute in this world—the luxury of running water and soap seemingly nonexistent. Thankfully, the ones living in the castle have better grooming habits.

The person I am looking for—the reason I am here—sits in a chair within the sanctum’s circle, the grand sculptures of the fates towering over her. Gone is her tattered dress, replaced with a white robe trimmed in gold. I suppose she has an abundant supply hanging in closets of empty rooms now, her sisters all gone. Her neck is bent forward in prayer, her injured hand cradled within her lap.

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