Page 129 of The Oracle of Dusk

“Get them back! The princess is injured!” Theron ordered.

He wrapped her in his magic, healing broken bones and deep gashes, a punctured lung and a fractured face. When he was done, he turned his magic to healing his own wounds. Only when he was surrounded by the armed soldiers of Aureum, their backs to him as they kept the surging crowd at bay, did he relax a fraction.

“Should have let me die,” Epicasta spat at him, tears running down her blood-stained face.

“Maybe, if you’re very well-behaved, I’ll indulge you—after our wedding,” he hissed quietly so that only she could hear.

“I shouldn’t have hoped. I’ve only sealed my fate,” she sobbed.

And he his. Theron closed his eyes and sighed.

“If you tell me where your mother is holding your lover, I’ll free him for you. You may even keep him by your side, if you swear to stay out of my way and keep your mother on a leash.”

Epicasta laughed bitterly.

“It’s too late for that now.”

“The princess is here! The dualist attacked Princess Epicasta! Guards, to me! Get the princess back to the palace safely!” Stentor cried, riling up the crowd.

Epicasta closed her eyes and sighed, wiping the tears from her face, resignation and resentment turning her grey eyes flinty. Theron held out his hand to help her stand but she slapped it away. She struggled to her feet, glaring at any who dared meet her gaze or offer assistance.

When Stentor’s ragtag band of bloodthirsty soldiers saw Epicasta emerge from the huddle of Theron’s people, their eyes widened at the state of her—hair in disarray, her clothes torn and gory, her skin marred by dirt and blood, the evidence of horrific wounds painted in crimson across her gown. It ignited a frenzy. They turned from her to the body of the dualist and screamed, falling on it as they tore it apart. Only a few kept their heads and surrounded the princess, keeping the people at bay with sharp bronze and barked orders.

As the soldiers turned to wolves, hungry for the flesh of their enemy, Theron’s people retreated from the carnage.

“Report,” Theron ordered.

The nearest Aurean soldier got to his knee and bent his head.

“Greetings to the sun of Aureum. We travelled from Altanus in the company of High Priestess Myrina and a contingent of her paladins the moment word of your predicament reached us. We were attacked twice on the road, once by bandits, once by monstrosities, leading to our unpardonable delay. Her Holiness is just behind us, outside the city, and has come to purify you as well as chastise Queen Flora for keeping you, Your Majesty.”

If people could explode from a combination of self-hatred and rage, Theron would have decorated the cobbled streets of Boreas in a grisly splatter.

He’d been a matter of days from his complete freedom. If he’d had the patience and resolve, he’d have avoided this detestable marriage, Orithyia’s meddling—everything. He could have fucked Aurora to within an inch of her sanity and finally—finally—wrapped her around his finger for good. He’d have had an oracle begging for his touch, his to control, no complications in sight.

Now, because his fairy had a bloody conscience and deep-rooted need for total monogamy, his odds of controlling her were slim at best. Instead, he’d made deals with the two women he despised most in Trisia and was marrying the third on that ignominious list. Theron released a hissed breath through clenched teeth as his magic burst from him.

No, not because of Aurora, because he’d been afraid. He cursed himself. Cursed his cowardice.

And vowed to make Orithyia and Flora pay.

Because he should have received numerous letters announcing that his people would soon arrive, Myrina in tow. They would have had runners delivering the mail a week in advance of their coming, at the least. He should have received word the moment the gates opened, but the letters had no doubt been intercepted. And those two conniving snakes had known—they must have. All her bluster about the fate of Trisia and still Orithyia was Flora’s creature through and through.

He’d been played for a fool.

Theron laughed, a bitter sound with an edge of hysteria. His soldier looked at him with concern.

“Your orders, Your Majesty?”

“To the temple of Passion for an audience with High Priestess Myrina.”

By the time they arrived in the temple plaza once more, his people had helped him change out of his soiled temple robes and into something finally befitting his station. Boots polished to a high shine and decorated with gold fittings, loose linen pants in a deep blue, a belt encrusted with gold and jewels, an open robe that sparkled as if spun from pure gold, sapphires glinting in the swirling decorations. He donned a thickly braided gold and sapphire necklace accented with pearls. They tamed his long hair and adorned him with a matching set of gold and sapphire earrings and a headband of the same that cut across his forehead. The look was completed with golden cuffs and rings. Theron felt more himself than he had in weeks. It would have to do for now.

Myrina had taken charge of the chaos, ordering priestesses and paladins alike to recover the people buried in the rubble, treat the wounded, and ensure order throughout the city. She was in her element amongst the chaos. It suited her.

When she caught sight of his approach, her amber eyes glittered with pleasure. She barked out a few more orders, getting the whole relief effort organised in a matter of moments before she approached him.

Myrina wrapped thick, welcoming arms around him and kissed his cheeks.

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