Page 45 of The Sacrifice

33

I’m paralyzed most by the god-eater.

QUINTESSA

Qora says nothing. Simply canvasses me in her shadows as I tiptoe in a scurry across the edges of the courtyard. Grass brushes my thin skirts, tickling my calves through the thin fabric. The god-eater pauses in mid-stride. At first, I freeze just before a crypt, worried I may have disturbed a pebble or something. But Emperor Kronos simpers at Drago, but I recognize a leer when I see one, considering my father gave me plenty. An odd possessiveness sizzles my bloodstream, and I clench my teeth, resisting the urge to jump between them.

Ducking behind the crypt, I press myself against the slabbed stone, scoot along the back, and repeat with the next crypt and the next. Since the fourth crypt is carved into the wall, I creep around to the front, careful not to brush the ivy swarming the stones. From here, I have a better view—about fifty feet away or so.

Bottles as colorful as stained glass decorate the table. That’s when I recognize the Kings all hold the same instrument as the god-eater. It reminds me of a convoluted pipe, but the smoke drifting from the chamber is anything but normal. It forms unnatural shapes, reminding me of swirling tattoos and mirrors the variety of colorful bottles. I swallow hard from the sight of Drago with one arm propped on the back of the couch, his body leaning deep into the cushions with his legs relaxed and parted wide. My insides tighten, growing warmer from his tunic parted to show his scaled muscles while he’s released his chaotic long hair from its ponytail, so it drapes like fire over his broad shoulders. More of his stubble has grown into a beard, and with the loss of my embers trotting along my skin, all I want to do is mount the monster god and become the grandest dragon rider of all time!

Until the flaming currents wandering into the air from his skin compel me most. Dumbstruck, I flick my eyes to the others. It takes my breath away.

Not just Drago, but there is Mayce at the end of the couch with his own pipe. Except, fire doesn’t curl from his body. Instead, roots and branches twist and twirl in a dance of his control, growing white flowers with petals tinted in a flush. My jaw drops, and I marvel at how he grows a beautiful tree and right there in the pavilion. Fruit sprouts from the flowers, gleaming golden-red and dripping with luscious juice.

“Remember, never blood berries?” muses Mayce, nudging Drago with his elbow.

Drago cocks his head, gives him a chuckle, and nods. “Named thus since any non-Fae, who taste even one, never want to stop until the berries fill a human’s belly to the bursting point. I also remember how you tricked me into eating them the night we met. And I was shitting out burning seeds for the next week.”

I cover my mouth to stifle my laughter. Even Merikh smirks at the two of them sharing the memory. The vampire mesmerizes me most. Spiraling from his form are two currents weaving in and out of each other like intricate DNA strands, except one is the pale, crystal-clear color of water while the other stream is red as blood. At the iron smell tinting the air, I almost choke, understanding: it is blood.

And there is Kyan sitting close to Merikh, except he’s directing all the smoke into chaotic patterns. It takes him a few moments, but he collects the smoke, transforming the patterns into one great portrait. Of grand angel wings. My whole body softens from the sight of all my monster kings, at how I’ve trespassed onto something that seems…sacred, something from their past that unites them. It makes them even more beautiful and powerful in my eyes.

I’m paralyzed most by the god-eater.

So much legend and magic abound within the stories of Emperor Kronos. Portraits and statues of him swarm every major province within the Five Realms. Peoples of all races will travel far and wide to pay tribute to him and serve him. It’s simple to see why. Power radiates from him. He wears it loosely, casually because he knows none may take it from him. Cheekbones sharp as a reaper’s blade, he is every bit as beautiful as Mayce and as masculine as Drago but with a darker, deadlier persona. Not the ruggedness of my dragon king with all his rich eat. No, Emperor Kronos would never need to seduce. With one command, he would bring an army to its knees. And a host of lovers to his harem.

“Such an encouragement that you have chosen to accept my gifts for the first time in thousands of years instead of stealing them,” muses Kronos, rubbing his strong, pronounced jaw and the dark beard that only serves to accentuate it. “I hope you are enjoying yourselves. These half-souls may be my leftovers, but Daddy still cares enough for his boys to offer them the finer things.”

Tremors assault my body. Icy horror rattles my insides, and I rub my shaking arms with quivering fingers in an attempt to self-soothe. The monsters, my monsters are consuming half-souls. Half-souls…like mine. Could one of them be responsible for devouring Qora’s soul and half of mine?

34

I can feel Emperor Kronos.

QUINTESSA

“Not the finest as that would require you to consume full souls,” indicates Kronos while uncorking another bottle from his belt.

“Never,” growls Drago, spitting embers to crackle in the air.

“Unlike you, Kronos, we haven’t lost all sense of propriety. Or scruples,” Mayce adds and curls his hand to rouse more fruit from his tree. By now, its roots have fused deep into the cracked stone, growing to twist around the pavilion arches.

He laughs. Kronos laughs and swirls the wispy soul within his bottle. My blood congeals when I hear a wail of lament from that bottle. After lifting the bottle to inhale the traces of fog curling from beyond, the god-eater sips, taking time to savor the tragic soul. I clutch my throat, wondering if it’s what happened to Qora. Did her spirit suffer at birth? I turn to my Shadow to discover her amber eyes fixated on the Emperor, her figure arched as if...longing.

“Come now, boys. You will never wash the blood from your hands. How many villages did you plunder and pillage in the days of the gods? How many lost widows did you take to your realms to warm your beds and wet your cocks? How many brothels did you young kings frequent for a fast fucking to fill the hollow within your hearts?”

They say nothing. Do nothing. Shadows cross each god king’s eyes as if they are lost in those aged memories. Squeezing my blurring eyes, I cover my mouth. Bile churns inside my belly, acid rising into my throat. Somehow, I swallow it down, refusing to retch and be caught.

“However distance you may have from your past is irrelevant when considering the state of the Five Realms now. Yes, I spilled blood. Yes, I went to war with the wanton gods, who abused their power and enslaved the people, and struck them down. And yes, I slaughtered ten thousand men to form the Veil of Souls and cage you insolent boys.

“Ever since, not one war has plagued the Five Realms. Boundaries have been well established between the lands, which prevents quarrels and political turmoil. All binders log their abilities into my annual census. The more powerful ones are brought to the Capital for advanced training to offer aid should any natural disasters arrive. People gladly pay taxes to prosper the Realms. Fathers work hard but enjoy a fruitful harvest every year. Mothers are fat and joyful, their children well-fed and protected, and aside from the manageable pub brawl, the races do not seek rebellion.

“Of course, I must consume souls. It’s how I survive. Little different than mortals hunting or breeding their food. My form of tax for bearing the burden of the Five Realms. Your names are forever an abomination in the texts of the high annals. The Waste may be a dark blight upon this side of the Five Realms, but a blight I have contained to the weeds.”

Feeling gutted, I hold my stomach. The truth of those words stabs deep into me. Though I never left the confines of the Borderlands, the god-eater’s name is revered and worshipped for a reason. No war. No unrest. No famine.

“Yes, you established boundaries,” dictates Mayce while growing more roots to crack the stone near Kronos’ boots. “Isolating the races from one another. No crossed territories or shared lands. Interracial relations expressly forbidden.” He grimaces, shoulders tight as Drago eyes him from the side, nodding his agreement.

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