Page 37 of Oracle of Ruin

“Noiteron.” Torin dips his chin, plastering on a courtier’s mannerisms.

I accept his hand in a firm clasp before stepping back. I turn my faceless hood towards the other travelers.

Each bows in reverence to a false king before spinning on their heel to lead the way.

The darkness was my first friend as a child. Even before Irene attempted to murder me and my mother, and my father lost his mind, I never had any friends that I could remember. I would play with other children, but never stayed anywhere long enough to remember names. I spied on them from locked windows, wishing desperately to be one of them. To be normal.

There was a girl I saw once after Irene shattered my semblance of a life. She and a boy ran into a clearing my mother and I were in. She was demanding, but possessed such commanding light that I found myself reaching for her before I was pulled back into the shadows.

I never wanted to bathe in the light so badly as then, until I met Vera.

But before Vera, there were shadows. They clung to me like a second skin, cloaking me in the night when the wind howled too sharply. Hiding my bruises from my mother when I first began picking up odd jobs to pay bills. I told her the sword was for safety. I told her I was simply an errand boy. It wasn’t until Amír came home with me, splattered in blood with bruised wrists and ankles, did she realize what I was doing.

Then Amír found Kya and Derrín, and we amassed our army. Mavis was supposed to be just another recruit, another underling. Amír brought her in, trained her. I loved her, and part of me was killed by her.

Yet they still chose to follow me, even after I lost half our profits to a slit-tongued succubus and our kingdom began to crumble. To Amír’s credit, I can see how I might have fooled others into believing me a fit ruler. I can see how the appeal of a hybrid who fought tooth and nail like them could paint a pretty picture upon a throne.

I stare at the scars lacing my forearms. They don’t know the curse of this blood. They don’t know like father like son. I may not be a monster yet, but by gods, I must be destined to be one.

I’ve never been a good man. I’ve never claimed to be. The poets say everyone has a villain in their story, and I have always been my own, happy to play the part. I try not to think of the innocent lives I’ve taken, whether they were caught in the crossfire or used against me as leverage by Mavis or some other enemy. An indirect kill is still blood on my hands. The wicked that I’ve put down do not haunt my dreams, but the deaths that could have been avoided do. They scream in tones only I can hear, and when they threaten to rip me to shreds, the darkness shields me once again.

Torin and the rebels lead us into that darkness now, all walking in dead silence for fear of what monsters lurk in the trees. My eyes adjust quickly, outlining pines and other dead or dying foliage. Kya picks her way nimbly next to me. The assassin’s fingers wrap around Amír’s wrist, guiding her past tree roots and loose stones. Amír is more than capable of finding her way on her own, but makes no protest as the other woman leads her in the dark. Blaine keeps pace ahead with Torin. His hand never strays from the sword hanging sheathed at his hip.

One of the rebels leans towards the other, whispering something just out of my earshot. Kya is behind them in a second, completely undetected as they finish their conversation.

“That’s not a nice thing to say,” she whispers between them, making a shallow cut across both their thighs—far too close to something more valuable. She’s back by my side by the time they turn around in bewilderment and fear.

Blaine stifles a chuckle while I lean in closer to the assassin.

“What did they say?”

“Oh you know, the usual.” She shrugs, despite no one else being able to see her. “They expected me and Amír to be men. Thought we were justcompanyat first.”

“If you slit their throats, no one will know.”

“You will.”

“Sinners can’t preach.”

Kya snorts. “No, I suppose not.”

“We’re here,” Torin whispers roughly. He knocks thrice on a hidden door against a wall of rock that not even I could spot, then kicks it once more when it won’t open.

A thick voice speaks from the other side, muffled by distance. “Who is it?”

“Last I checked, Lio, the Kijova don’t know how to knock,” Torin drawls.

The door opens and a burly man with a ruddy face appears. He claps Torin on the shoulder hard enough to nearly knock the man over. “You can just give a name instead of talking out your arsehole,” Lio answers, his voice thick with an accent.

Torin laughs, that bastard’s grin still lighting his lips.

The large man takes that as a response and ushers us all in.

I take note of the seven bolts on the door and their locking mechanisms. A few pin locks, some that just slide into place. Get the top three loose and the final four will pop clean off with a soft enough hand.

Kya and Amír trail my gaze. I already know they’ve thought of every way to get them unlocked in the span of fifteen seconds.

“The boss is this way.” Lio knocks my ribs with his hefty elbow. “He’s been expecting ye.”

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