Page 2 of Oracle of Ruin

Ophelus never should have let me live, not after he killed her.

The skull of a Kijova squishes easily under my heel as I walk over it, the undead creature dead once more.

I said before that all the blessed mages are dead.

I lied.

All the blessed mages are dead—except for me.

And I am going to kill every last one of these fuckers.

Chapter2

Verosa

The sun has fully begun her ascension to the sky as Rowan and I return to our camp. The first rays of daylight stretch across the gold and pink expanse of the sky, slowly giving way to a bright and clear blue. The crisp mountain air stings my skin and I inhale deeply. Pine and fresh dirt flood the air and my olfactory senses while I sigh into the autumnal chill. The morning dew clings to our boots and the hems of our pants as we trek through the grassy Hills of Siva. The wet of the cloth sticks to our warm flesh beneath, our skin still cooling from our early morning exertion. Few birds sing in the mornings these days, but one whistles in tune with our steps as we march towards our temporary home.

We chose the hills when we fled Ophelus’s dark army. Only a day’s ride from the palace if on horseback and a few days on foot, the mountains have been our shelter for the past few months. Our makeshift camp sits nestled in a small clearing of trees within the mountains. Most of the grass is dying out and crunches beneath our boots, but a few sparse patches still struggle to spring up from the ground. I step to the side—it would feel wrong to trample them.

A semicircle of tents forms around a firepit. The tents are comprised of a thick, red wool, blankets we stole from an abandoned inn and stitched together. They do a good enough job of keeping the chill out on nights we can’t risk a fire, but fail miserably on days where rain overtakes the mountains. Under other circumstances, a cave would be preferred, but given our enemies and Ophelus’s tracking skills, we all sleep a bit more soundly at the thought of having more than one exit to our campsite.

Ophelus—the man I thought was my father and now know as the fallen king. Five months ago, when he and my fiancé, Lucius, attempted to take my life, they failed. The blade meant to sacrifice me for my blood embedded itself in another’s chest, and from her blood, Ophelus’s dark army was born.

The Kijova are something none of us were prepared for, nearly unkillable creatures of shadow and death. Their one mission is to fulfill Ophelus’s greatest desire—finding his former lover and son. Unfortunately enough for us, that would be the blond mercenary walking by my side, holding my hand, and his mother.

Rowan and I pass two familiar faces as we stalk by the firepit. Blaine and Emilie sit huddled around the pit, breakfast simmering over the open flame. We say nothing as we pass them, the morning brain fog too thick to form coherent thoughts and my unwillingness to disturb the simple peace preventing my tongue from moving.

Five months. For five months now, we have been on the run. All neighboring kingdoms have closed their borders and Ophelus has seized the harbors, leaving us trapped within a dying kingdom. Neva was the first, then Varium, soon followed by Tesslari, despite their crown prince’s involvement in the atrocities that plague my kingdom. So far, we have managed to stay under his radar by hiding in these mountains where there is enough rock to slow our enemies’ tracking. The occasional Kijova has made it this far, like the ones this morning, but they come in small enough droves that we can pick them off. We learned one eventful morning that the Kijova struggle to pick up our scent and sounds over rushing water. We attempted to make it as far as the port just above Varium and Neva, but Ophelus had all the ports destroyed or seized. No ships large enough to withstand the rough waters surrounding the continent were spared. Recently, we have settled for camping near rivers instead, far enough away to hear an attack, but close enough that it buys us a few more weeks of peace to make our next move.

But I know it is only so long before we run out of places to hide. One day soon, we will have to make a choice to run or fight. I can only pray we live long enough to make that choice.

From within one of the tents, someone swears.

I raise an eyebrow at Rowan. “Derrín?”

The mercenary shakes his head. “Derrín wouldn’t swear.”

We both come to our conclusion at the same time and follow the sound towards Kya and Amír’s tent. The flaps of the thin tent are pulled closed, as if warning us not to enter. Per usual, we choose not to listen.

Amír sits hunched over a map when we enter. Her red hair is tied back in her usual braid, though a few of her white strands fall over her forehead. The gunslinger’s calculating gaze slides over Rowan’s form then to mine, and her eyes narrow. “I’d ask, but I think I already know.”

Even as we’ve been in close quarters for five months, Amír’s disposition towards me has yet to change. Cold. Standoffish. She would take a bullet for me, but it feels as though she would just as soon be the one to fire it.

Rowan offers a crooked grin and no other explanation as he settles on the dirt beside his second in command. The map before them has a multitude of red marks marring its crumpled page. Rowan slides the piece of red charcoal from between her fingers and marks the spot where we encountered the Kijova. I stay standing silently, waiting for her reaction.

Amír pinches her eyes shut and rubs at her temple. Her headaches have become more frequent lately, and she fixes me with a stern look. I already know what words are about to leave her mouth before her lips even part. “We’ve been over this. Torin was in the palace when your father—”

“He’s not my father,” I hiss through clenched teeth. Ophelus has earned himself many titles throughout the past months after unleashing his dark creation upon the kingdom, and “my father” is not one of them. He himself cleared that up the day he intended to sacrifice me to create his Kijova, both by kidnapping me and then murdering my best friend.

Amír shakes her head then amends her statement, turning towards Rowan instead now. “Sorry. Whenyourfather unleashed the Kijova. We’ve all seen the report. There were no survivors.”

Rowan scowls and my heart rate rises. The revelation of who his father is took us all by shock and led him to believe us to be siblings for a brief moment in time. However, there was something Rowan had forgotten to realize in his state of shock that should have ruled out this possibility instantly: Rowan is a hybrid and I am a blessed pureblood.

As a pureblood, my parents must have the same color blood—both blessed. This allows for my pure, golden blood, as well as certain advantages—increased strength, quickened healing, and my light magic being some of these.

However, Rowan’s blood is flecked with both silver and gold, the telltale mark of a hybrid, something that has been outlawed for years. Previous kings feared a hybrid’s power, given their innate abilities and lack of weaknesses. Hybrids are stronger, faster, and damn hard to kill. With heightened senses and lacking the weaknesses of a blessed or cursed given the combination of their blood types, all were to be put to death upon discovery.

Rowan’s father, the man who kidnapped me, was cursed and his mother blessed. Somehow, the king had snuck through the royal line as a cursed, despite the law that has stood for centuries—that a cursed cannot even work in the palace, let alone rule. We’ve yet to uncover why, but it hasn’t exactly been high on our list of priorities.

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