Page 6 of Oracle of Ruin

If Lucius’s eyes could soften, they do, and he eases his grip a bit. His lips curve upwards in a smile that resembles something like pity, and his voice is gentle when he speaks again. “I thought you’d want to know that something went wrong with the spell. It didn’t bring her back.”

Her. His mother—the one he was willing to kill me for. From the outside looking in, it seems a noble pursuit. An honorable young prince willing to sacrifice the love of his life to bring his mother, the empress, back to life. He might even be the hero in someone else’s story, or the villain only in mine. Rowan told me once that not everything in our world is black and white. I suppose the same goes for Lucius.

Then he smiles wickedly, an expression I’ve never seen him make before. “There must have been something wrong with her.”

I know he is not referring to his mother now.

The single thread of restraint holding me back explodes and I unleash the last of my willpower that has kept me from hurting him. The light in my veins rages against my flesh, but I force it to die. I won’t need my powers for this. With months’ worth of caged grief and rage, I bury my fist in his face. The action splits my knuckles open, white bone protruding through my flesh as I repeatedly beat against him. My blood sprays across my face and I scream, but when my eyes open, it is not Lucius I have been attacking this whole time. It is an oak tree.

My blood drips down its trunk and I gasp when I see splinters of bark in my raw flesh. The edges are raised and form swollen peaks coated with my golden blood. Warm and sticky chunks of something I didn’t know was in my body splatters across the trunk and my mangled hand. With a small whimper, I dig the splinters out, but not before noticing the warmth on the back of my neck. The dying sun warms the forest I’m in, but more importantly, I am alone.

Lucius is gone.

I bite my lip as hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Swearing under my breath, I cradle my injured hand, completely unable to use it.

A soft rustling of leaves and a low growling has my gaze shooting forward into the tree line. Instinct replaces fear and my weight shifts to my back leg, allowing it to take the brunt of my force for an attack.

A moment passes. Nothing.

Nonetheless, I raise my uninjured hand, fingers splaying painfully wide open right as the Kijova bursts through the foliage. The scent of death hits me like a wall, knocking me back. Every nerve in my body tenses as my instincts scream at me to run. I square my shoulders and brace for the pressure of my rising power.

The beast locks eyes with me and screams.

“Vera!”

My breath catches in my throat as my knees begin to shake.

No.

Gods, no.

“Vera, run!”

Don’t look. Do not look.

It lowers on its haunches, staring into my face. My raised arm drops to my side as if lead. My eyes lift.

Golden eyes stare back into my blue ones. Tanja’s eyes.

I sink to my knees, my body no longer able to hold the weight of my grief. The rocks hidden amongst the grass bite my knees and tear my linen trousers.

The beast makes no more sound, no more hint of recognition on its ugly face.

The lowering sun amplifies the odious scent of death that surrounds us. No breeze offers solace. Even the earth knows I do not deserve as much.

Tanja’s eyes stare at my face as the Kijova rears an arm back, then buries its fatal claws in my gut.

And I let it.

I dart up with an inhuman noise that sounds somewhere between a gasp and a scream. My hands fly to my stomach, but Rowan’s is already there. His hair is mussed with sleep and his eyelids heavy yet alert as he steadies me. He reads my face carefully, something like sympathy masking his own.

I avert my gaze as I grip at my completely drenched sleep pants. The thin fabric clings to my thighs, practically see through at this point. It might have been embarrassing if this were the first time this has happened. Unfortunately, it is not, and I doubt it will be the last time. Rowan’s hand rises and falls with my breathing under my shirt, allowing the feeling of his skin on mine to ground me.

I open my mouth to say something when I gag. Without hesitating, Rowan grabs the bucket beside my bed and holds my hair back as I vomit into the pail. He doesn’t complain when some splashes on his arms or one of our only clean blankets. He simply massages the back of my head as he fists my hair, whispering soothing words and reminders to breathe into my ear. Slowly, the heaving subsides, and I fall back against his chest, exhausted.

Wordlessly, he lowers me back against the pillow and excuses himself to go empty my returned dinner outside. He returns a moment later with clean hands and a damp rag that he blots against my forehead with the utmost care.

Night after night, he cares for me, and every night, emotion fills my heart as if it were the first time.

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