Page 102 of A Realm of Fire and Ash

I march towards my enemies, hands outstretched in a white-hot ball of flame. They cower before me in fear and plead for their lives, but I refuse to relent in my onslaught until they are all nothing more than smoldering ash.

This is the price I must pay to keep those I love safe, and by the stars above, I will pay it.

After scanning their remains, my stomach drops as I count them. One, two, three … seven.There are only seven here.

I whirl around, panicked as I look for the eighth member. I find him crawling on his stomach through tall grass, his lower half completely severed from the rest of himself. Charging towards him, I sweep my hand down to grab him by the back of his torn shirt and haul him upright, so he dangles from my grip.

A strangled cry escapes me at the face I see below the glamor, his magic no longer able to keep the façade as his life drains from him. Tears pour from my cheeks as I shriek, “Why?!” They blur my vision and cause me to stagger until I crash to my knees, but there’s no mistaking the tiny features of the boy I now cradle in my hands.

This is no man.

He is a child.

“Why?!” I wail again, trying desperately to heal him. “I thought you were men!” My screeches are animal-like as they tear from my throat.

“We … were starving,” he chokes out, agony marring his little face. “Orphans. I’m sorry,” he breathes, his small chest heaving one more time as I clutch his tiny, battered hand in mine. His eyes, hazy, glossy, and so desperately sad as a sole dark tear glitters like jewels down his pale cheek.

Releasing my wings, I rip feathers from my body, trembling hands pressing the bloodied plumage to this little boy’s skin, begging the gods not to take him, for a frantic, last-ditch miracle. To let him live, like they let me live so many times.

But fae feathers cannot save children from the grips of death, only delay its march.

I gasp for airdesperately, feeling as if I am drowning in an unbearably heavy tide of such an unforgivable act.

Monster.

Wilder finds me on my knees amidst the carnage, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity as the smile slips from his face. He pulls water from the sea to shroud us in a blanket of rain, hidden from view of a group of people rushing down the beach.

He tightly clutches me in a powerful embrace, the musky scent of mint and ocean wafting through the air. His intense gaze pierces into my soul as I tell him every harrowing detail, causing icy dread to crawl down my spine. My throat dries up in terror as my actions replay in my mind.

"Children," I sob. "I killed children."

He cradles my face in his hands, and I feel all the love and determination pour out of him as he speaks. "You didn't know."

"They'll investigate, and they'll find out about the Tolden. What am I going to do?" Raw agony bleeds through my voice.

"I won't let that happen, Morte."

"I can't let them find Castanea," I wail.

As the warmth seeps into my skin, I’m enveloped in a deep calm. Wilder's eyes brim with tears as he unleashes his magic on me. "Listen to me carefully," he whispers. "I will take the blame for what happened here today."

"No!" I scream, frantically grabbing onto his shirt, trying to anchor myself to reality.

But his spell is too strong, immobilizing me completely. He continues in an eerily detached voice, "When they ask you about what happened, you will tell them you watched me kill these people. You were an innocent bystander. If they ask for my motive, you will tell them these children were trying to kill you for your feathers."

Horrified, I feel Wilder's magic coat my tongue and infiltrate my soul until all I can do is cry fat tears of despair.

"I love you, Morte," Wilder murmurs softly, his eyes darkening with pain as he brings his spell to an end, as if his words aren't poison that will destroy everything we've ever built together.

Shouts echo around me as the curtain of secrecy Wilder had woven to protect us is torn asunder. The authorities appear with lightning speed and snatch Wilder away, while I can do nothing but stand there in terror, my mouth agape and my screams heard by no one.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

AGGONID

The late evening sun casts an eerie light against the walls of the library, painting it an ethereal blue, the air heavy with a thick, oppressive atmosphere.

The quiet is pierced by the sound of Morte and Irid entering the library. Their footsteps are heavy and labored, as if they’re carrying a great weight on their shoulders, and faint scraping of metal links from the chains binding Morte’s wrists and ankles.

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