Page 152 of Heirs of the Cursed

“It’s Dav’s funeral.”

“Do you think that matters to him?” Sirio snorted.

It had been months since their older brother and Crown Prince of Lên Rajya, Killian Allencort, had been sent to Bellmare to hunt the cursed princesses. A mission that had seemed simple, but which he’d failed terribly. The news had arrived in Camdenn that same morning. Both the Chaser and the Commander of Death would be back in the capital to arrange a plan of capture against Meissa and Amira Boreaalinen.

A plan that had to be successful before Gideon and Ginebra died.

Before Sirio and Annemarie fell ill.

Beforeallof Laivalon was doomed.

Annemarie gestured to their mother. “Should we join her?”

“She doesn’t deserve it,” the prince answered.

“She’s our mother, Sir.”

She was, and at the same time she wasn’t. She hadn’t raised them as such, for it had been maids and servants who had cared for them since the moment they could crawl. The ones who had seen their first steps, who had dressed them and played with them . . . Those who had helped them with the tasks imposed by the tutors and priests and celebrated their birthdays.

None of the heirs owed anything to their parents.

The sound of footsteps made Annemarie and Sirio turn on their heels, toward the monastery’s entrance. The servants opened the doors for the Crown Prince, lowering their heads in respect for his loss. Or perhaps, in fear of what he might do if they met his eyes.

Killian still wore his battle gear, covered in leathers that should be stained with the blood of his enemy. But he’d failed, and his father would remind him of that for the rest of his days unless he put an end to the threat before it was too late. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders straight and his hard gaze fixed on the limp body of his younger sister.

Not even his mother’s sobs unsettled him. All Killian could think about was that death followed him closer now.

“You came,” Annemarie said with surprise.

“She was my sister, too.”

“You never acted like it,” Sirio sputtered.

“Sirio . . .” his sister warned him.

But he didn’t listen. Instead, he braced his feet against the ground and looked at Killian without a hint of fear in his expression.

“Tell me, brother. Is it worth it to be who you are?”

“Don’t go there,” Killian replied.

“Why should I care?” He shrugged. “We’re doomed anyway.”

Sirio took a step forward to get away from him, yet Killian was faster. His hand closed around his brother’s arm and stopped him at his side. His midnight-blue eyes stared at him with an uncharacteristic humanity, one he had lost years ago.

“I’m trying,” he whispered.

Sirio looked at him blankly. Without saying a word, he pulled out of his grip and walked to the other end of the room. Away from the Crown Prince, away from the Commander of Death . . .

Away from his brother.

Annemarie stole one final glance at Killian, the brother she tried to love, yet who lacked a heart. There was sadness and disappointment on her face as she followed Sirio with hundreds of words trapped in her mouth.

The funeral began. The priestesses prayed aloud, consecrating the fire that would soon cremate the body of the sweet princess.Killian walked through the monastery to the most secluded and empty spot, leaning against the marble column. His hands clenched into fists to repress the tears that burned his eyes, even when his brother moved forward to grant their sister the peace she deserved.

Sirio took the torch that the High Priestess offered him, the sobs Annemarie repressed with her hand almost making him falter. But the prince moved forward with a sweeping regret in his body and soul. He looked at Davinia one last time, brushing her dark hair back to whisper in her ear and kiss her forehead.

And then, Sirio lowered the torch to the casket.

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