Page 152 of A Reign of Roses
Whatever the thrum of power had been, it hadn’t touched any of us.
Not from a mercenary but…
Mari.
Standing within the now-quiet remains of the tent, chest heaving, hands outstretched, wind around her rippling.
“Invisibility,” she panted. “More useful than I thought.”
The words were playful, but that look—such unwavering courage—uncertain, and all the more powerful because of it. Because of the fear I knew swirled inside her, and hope that had overcome it and forced her after us. Pride and genuine gratitude nearly bowed me to her.
Mari called down to Arwen, who was still cradling Briar.“Run.”
Arwen didn’t hesitate. She carried Briar out with that Fae strength and sprinted through the encampment, arrows and lighte that rained down on them pinging softly, uselessly, off her shield.
“After them,” my father cried from his motionless position, surrounded by shredded books and furs, and one now very extinguished hearth, still steaming into the frigid air. “No mercy. Take the keep!”
The blade sang in my hands. Sang for his death, for the kill. My power funneled through it, turning the silver steel of the weapon poison-black.
I did not falter.
I stalked forward and drove the Blade of the Sun into his heart.
My father shuddered, red blood spilling from his chest. Glory—relief—sang in my bones.
Even as I waited for death to drown me.
Even as Mari cast more spells that drenched the encampment in destruction like rageful, rampant storm clouds.
Even as I watched him twitch and morph…his face, altering.Blowing away.His phantom eyes—
The man I’d stabbed was not my father.
He was not anything at all.
An illusion.
“A Delusion, actually,” my father said, from across the encampment.
I darted through the silver bodies, slashing and blasting my obsidian lighte—for him. For his lethal gaze. Drove my sword into his chest.
And watched in horror as he faded into shadow right before my eyes again.
“How many more do you think you’ll slay before one of my men strikes you down?”
Octavia’s last spell. A fail-safe for her king. One she’d cast before her death at Dagan’s hand.
“Kane,” Griffin bit out, shaking me from my acute fury. My confusion. “It’s a dirty spell. We need togo.”
He was right. Some soldiers were clearing out. Splitting for Shadowhold. Their roars, their steeds, their armor jangling. And some taking off after Arwen and Briar and Eardley, who had run off, away from the keep, deeper into the snow-drenched forest.
And Griffin and Mari were sprinting now, too. Taking out soldiers with magic and lighte like darts through a board. Each shot a bull’s-eye.
I looked once more at my father. At the hatred in his eyes. The promise buried there.
It likely wasn’t even him.
So I offered a promise of my own upward. To wherever I knew he could hear my thoughts.
