Page 158 of Kissed By the Gods
“Aldros Vin'Tharak,” he shouts, raising his glass. All for honor.
The Aishans all raise their glasses with him, and Altor and civilians alike shout Aldros Vin'Tharak back to him.
But I’m frozen. Rendered mute and dumb by a toast. My ears are buzzing, so that I barely hear the surge of excited chatter that fills the room or the merry tune the band starts to play. My vision tunnels, narrowing on the only other person in this room—in the godsdamn world—who matters. And she’s frozen, too. Leina’s pale, her eyes are glassy. She looks like someone who witnessed a death.
There’s the sound of glass breaking, and the distant pain of it slicing through my palm. I look down to see I’ve crushed the ornate glass cup I’d grabbed for the toast, and the jeweled fragments are sticking out of my palm. My blood drips onto the table. The smell of it, acrid and sharp, yanks me back. I drop what’s left of the cup and scan the room. The Aishan men andwomen are all staring at me, their expressions varying levels of distaste and concern. My Stormriven family, though, all look as shaken as I am. Even Rissa—a trained stoic through and through—is staring at Aruveth with open-mouthed horror.
I push my chair back from the table, standing with slow precision. The music stops, the merriment dies down to nothing.
“What did you say?” I whisper. My voice is hoarse.
Aruveth is wary. The Aishan Altor around him finger their weapons, like I’m about to attack because I’m offended by something he said. They don’t understand.
I open my mouth to try again, but Faelon beats me to it.
“What are you talking about? Massacre? Selencian Altor?” Faelon scoffs. “Selencia doesn’t have Altor. That’s why they’re our protectorate.”
But the horror that’s already on Rissa’s face—she’s always been the smartest person in the room—spreads first to Thalric and then to Nyrica, then Caius and Leif, all before Faelon even finishes speaking. The Elder suddenly looks ravaged. His shoulders hunch and he covers his mouth with an old, trembling hand.
Aruveth hardly spares Faelon a glance. He’s considering me, looking at me with something very close to pity.
“Anyone born of Aish—clear the room,” he says, his voice that of a commander. Chairs scrape back immediately, and the hall empties through four sets of wide, double doors—one at each end of the rectangular space—in seconds. Only Aruveth, Rissa, the Prime, the Elder, and our cast remain. It’s too large a chamber for only twelve people. Our voices echo.
“You didn’t know,” Aruveth says, and his eyes travel from me to the other men, then to Rissa. Finally, he looks at Leina. “None of you knew. But …” For the first time since we met him, he looks truly flustered. His hands flutter, his confusion evident.
“How could you not know?” he finally asks. “When the Selencian boys are rounded up every year before maturity like cattle for the slaughter in … what’s it called? The Collection? What did you think that was?”
The blood drains from my face, and I’m so dizzy that I stagger, gripping the back of my chair for balance. But Leina … Leina slaps a hand over her mouth to cover a keening cry. She comes out of her chair, too, but I don’t even know if she sees. She stumbles around, lost.
She’s crying out names. Levvi. Alden. Over and over again, she says their names, her voice breaking with each repetition, until her legs give out and she falls to her knees on the cold stone floor. I’m moving before I realize it.
I vault across the room, reaching for her, desperate to pull her into my arms, desperate to anchor her back to herself. But she jerks away from me with a gasp, stumbling backward across the ground. Her hands scrape against the stone, but she keeps crawling, trying to put distance between us.
“Don't touch me!” she shouts, her voice raw and terrified.
I freeze, hand half-extended toward her. It’s plain in her eyes, which are wide and wet with horror. It’s clear what I am.
I always thought I was the hero. The one standing at the precipice, holding back the tide of evil threatening to consume humanity.
But that was never the truth, not in this ugly, terrible—true—version of history.
The final missing puzzle piece clicks into place, cold and sharp as a blade sliding home.
The picture is complete now. There’s no room left for pretty lies.
I’m not the hero.
I’m the villain.
“If the Selencians will not stand with us, they will kneel before us. And if their Altor defy us, then they shall have no Altor at all. It is that simple.”
King of Faraengard in Year 32 of the Eternal Wars
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
