Page 90 of Reaper's Ruin
I felt the clock ticking faster now.
But then that new information came spiraling back into my mind.
Elira’s door had appearedafterher scheduled day for reaping. It flew in the face of everything I’d been taught. How could she move on after weeks as a ghost, when I’d been told that was impossible? How many souls had I reaped who might have found peace if given more time? Not that I cared about those fae I’d sent into oblivion. They were fae after all, and no fae deserved the happiness of an afterlife. Though Elira had been nice, I supposed. Or did she only move on because of our meddling in her afterlife, helping her find peace she wouldn’t have achieved without us?
The questions and pressures and realities of our situation crushed me like the jaws of a Voltmauler had gotten ahold of me.
She was half-fae. Her door might come. And perhaps the worst fear of all... what if it didn’t? What if...
I glanced down at my arm where I knew my scythe still lingered even though I couldn’t claim it in this mortal form.
What if she didn’t get her door? What happened to her then?
***
As evening fell, the castle buzzed with excited activity. Servants rushed through corridors carrying trays of delicacies and bottles of storm wine. Nobles dressed in their finest attire made their way toward the grand balconies and gardens, eager to secure the best viewing spots for the display.
As Soraya and I headed toward the night’s celebration, I adjusted the collar of my jacket, grumbling beneath my breath at how much I hated this outfit. The fine fabric felt restrictive, nothing like the soft, form-fitting leather that I’d worn for centuries.
“You’re fine. Stop fidgeting,” Soraya whispered then grinned widely, greeting a Storm Court noble walking past.
“If I never have to put on another flouncy outfit it will be too soon. We are getting that list tonight.”
I’d spent long enough playing this role—pretending to be a visiting noble, smiling and nodding at people I would have gladly reaped given the chance. I was ready for this charade to end.
We made our way to the main courtyard nestled inside the gardens where tables laden with food and drink had been arranged around a central dance floor. We wound our way past the intricately shaped hedges and glowing storm flowers toward the crowd gathering in anticipation of the night’s main event. Music filled the open air—a quartet of string instruments playing a lively tune that had several couples already spinning across the polished stone. Thenever-ending lightning high above streaked across the moonlit sky, one bolt racing after another like an endless game of tag.
Soraya took it all in with that same wonder she’d shown since our arrival, her eyes bright with excitement despite the seriousness of our true mission. I found myself watching her more than our surroundings, captivated by her genuine joy in each new experience.
My attention snapped away from her when I caught sight of Prince Alaric approaching with two older men flanking him. The moment I saw them, every muscle in my body coiled tight, ready to strike.
There he was. Tall with that severe jawline and cold, calculating eyes.
Lord Cassius.
The man who had murdered Soraya and her mother. The man who had stolen her future.
The man I was going to kill.
Bloodlust surged through me like wildfire, a primal rage I hadn’t felt since watching the fae slaughter the last of humanity. My hand twitched, instinctively calling for my scythe, but it wasn’t there. But even if it was, my scythe would be too quick. Too clean. I imagined wrapping my fingers around his throat, watching the light drain from his eyes slowly as I whispered who I was, what he had done.
“Rhyker,” Soraya breathed, her voice barely audible. I felt her stiffen beside me, her entire body going rigid.
I slid my hand to the small of her back, both a steadying gesture and a reminder of my presence.I’m here. He won’t hurt you again. Not while I draw breath.
“Steady,” I murmured. “Remember who we’re pretending to be.”
I watched her gather herself, a deep breath expanding her chest as she forced her features into a mask of polite interest. The transformation was remarkable—from terrified to composed in seconds. Pride surged through me, briefly displacing the murderous rage.
“Lady Soraya! Lord Rhyker!” Prince Alaric called, gesturing them forward with a warm smile. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
We moved toward them, my hand never leaving Soraya’s back. I watched his face for any indication he recognized her but saw none. And why would he expect a soul he murdered in the Mortal Realm to be standing before him in the Stormspire Keep? Each step closer to her killer required every ounce of control I’d learned in eight centuries. I arranged my features into what I hoped was a neutral expression, though it felt more like a grimace.
“Your Highness,” Soraya curtsied elegantly, her voice betraying none of the turmoil I knew she must be feeling.
“Allow me to introduce my uncles,” Alaric said. “Lord Marwyn and Lord Cassius, my most trusted advisors. They were called away on business these last days and missed all the excitement.”
Lord Cassius bowed slightly, those cold eyes sweeping over us both. “A pleasure,” he said, his voice like silk over steel. “I apologize for my absence for what sounds like a lively few days. I hear you slew a Voltmauler, Lord Rhyker? With nothing but a hunting knife?”
