Page 47 of Oracle of Ruin

Chapter22

Rowan

Kya sits propped on a stump, Amír fussing over her head. It takes both Blaine and I holding the gunslinger down to keep her from storming back to the rebels and shooting them all once she discovers a sizable welt on Kya’s temple. Her anger is hardly assuaged when she learns it is from a man kicking her in the head when she was knocked over in the swarm. Kya informs her that the man left with a broken wrist and dislocated shoulder, which does help a bit.

Torin offers a dampened rag, which my second accepts and holds against the Vari woman’s bleeding head. Kya winces at the cold, but remains still as Amír’s cautious fingers prod along her ribs, searching for soft spots to indicate any fractures. Once satisfied, she retreats a bit, contenting herself to wipe the blood from her girlfriend’s face.

Blaine accepts no such tender care from me. He has a sizable gash on his arm and his limp is worse than it was when we entered, but he bandages himself and threatens to emasculate me if I attempt to nurse him. I bite back a quip that his former lover wouldn’t be pleased if that happened. The peace we’ve established is still fragile, and while I don’t detest the man as much as I used to, I hope Vera realizes this is all for her.

We are still a few miles from the inn, where Derrín and my mother wait. Derrín is probably asleep by now, but Mother won’t rest. Not until we are home safe.

“Come on, we need to get moving before something worse comes along.”

“Worse than what?” Amír snaps, nonetheless rising.

“Worse thanyou,” Torin quips.

I bite back a laugh while Amír’s face contorts with indignant fury, calmed only by a gentle touch of the arm from Kya. It has always puzzled me how soothing and motherly Kya can be when I’ve seen her laugh while ripping a man’s spine out. A silent and unassuming killer.

We trudge onwards in silence, but voices ring clearly in my head as if they were still beside me. Roiden called me the rightful king of Krycolis, and somehow, that was almost worse than him exposing me as a hybrid.King. The title is one that has chased me since my teenage years, but it has always been followed with “of mercenaries.” My people are small and ruthless and I can use whatever force I deem necessary to quell a threat. King of Krycolis isn’t a title that allows that.

Not to mention the ties it has. Ties to my father, Ophelus. The man I swore to kill for forsaking my mother. But now knowing the full story and seeing the love my mother still harbors for him… Even if I held the blade now, I’m not sure I could ever force myself to still his heart against it.

Yet he’s not the same man, I have to remind myself. Thousands have died and millions more will if he is not stopped. I have a duty, and those duties will only grow as king.

Then there’s Vera. We talked about moving far away, living a simple life with no strings tied to the crown. We were going to escape these lives we have been forced to lead, and now we must willingly walk back into them?

Derrín told me the best way to protect Vera is to befriend our enemies and elevate my own power. Would becoming king be the best way to do that, or would I be placing her further in harm’s way?

Would I be able to willingly watch her walk away?

Verosa made it clear that royal life is not for her anymore, and how can I ask her to return to a palace where so much has happened? Where she has lost so many?

You have her eyes.

Lyra. Roiden’s wife. She knew my mother, though she didn’t admit how. She could have taken a guess—plenty of people have green eyes, and given that my father doesn’t, it is likely my mother would. It was a guess, simple as that.

Yet something in my gut tells me it wasn’t. That there is more to the story.

Now that I consider it, the rebellion began about ten and a half years ago. The group existed before that, but they were stragglers, just barely getting by and often killed in mass executions for treason. They were lost to the wind, then ten years ago, that changed. They became organized and moved in groups. They became quick and their attacks ruthless. Verosa was eleven when the first attempt on her life was made. It was at the queen’s funeral, nonetheless. The royal family did not issue a statement, but the rebels did. They pinned dark-haired dolls to the palace walls and painted, “The false heir is next” in pig’s blood.

I shake my head. I will ask my mother about it in the morning.

Amír settles in step beside me, Kya finally shooing her off. “You’re thinking too hard.”

“How do you know?”

“You look like you’re about to kill somebody.”

“Isn’t that my natural face?”

Amír snorts. “Touché.”

We settle in step beside each other, her long legs matching mine stride for stride. She’s always done this since we were teens, making sure when she steps, her foot lands just a bit before mine. It started once she stopped growing and was just an inch shy of being taller than me. Mother tried to console her and explain she was incredibly tall already, standing at six foot two. Amír now must prove how much better she is by having a longer stride than I do, the action now more of a habit than a conscious act.

Silence envelopes the group, a welcome change from the quick pace of the night. We have nearly reached the inn now and exhaustion weighs heavy on all of our limbs. I keep my face stoic in the dark and my steps brisk despite feeling like the tether of gravity is trying to pull me back down to earth. Just as we break through the thickest of the trees right before the inn, I halt.

Every muscle in my body stills. Where there used to be five sets of footsteps, now there are only four. Ever so slowly, I inch my fingers towards the hilt of the blade that hangs at my hip. Blaine and Torin pull to a halt before me. I raise a single finger to my lips, letting the silence fill the questions that linger. Amír’s braid slaps my face as her head swivels, recognizing who is missing.

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