Page 8 of Oracle of Ruin

The soft sound of light footsteps on the grass outside claims my attention. I stay rooted where I am as the flap of our tent is pushed aside by pale hands and my mother enters the room. Her shawl is tucked against her small body, her eyes heavy with sleep. She gently tilts her head towards the door of our tent.Meet me outside.

Slowly, I lay Vera back against my pillow, letting my hands linger on her shoulders as I pull the blankets to her chin before following my mother.

Emilie stands with her back to me, her golden hair that matches my own caught aflame in the rising sun. She hugs her arms to her midsection and shuffles on her feet. “It’s getting worse,” she notes without ever turning around.

I sigh heavily as I come to stand beside her. We have been over this multiple times as of late, and it always ends the same way. There is nothing we can do except wait.

“She watched her best friend die, Mother. That’s something no one should see, let alone thewaythat she died. I…” My voice trails off, leaving the sentence open to the wind.

Purebloods like Vera and Tanja are more than rare. They’re the exception to every rule our genetic code should follow. They are such an enigma that the best guess of a solution that our top scientist can provide is that they are a gift from the gods to those who are devout. For a blessed pureblood, they would need to come from a line of two blessed parents, and a cursed pureblood from two cursed. Not that anyone has seen a cursed pureblood in years. They, not too unlike their blessed counterparts, have been hunted to near extinction for their blood. While purebloods possess the power to heal anyone who descends from the same god, they also have the ability to poison anyone from the other divine bloodline. That kind of power isn’t the type of thing to go unnoticed. Most purebloods go into hiding or seek the protection of the palace—or both.

Chances are, Ophelus didn’t know Tanja was a pureblood. Judging by the records I studied while in the palace, the last recorded pureblood before Vera was Tanja’s mother. Two purebloods in one family line is extremely rare. If I had to guess, Tanja’s mother did her best to hide Tanja from the royals. Ophelus wouldn’t have had any way of knowing there was an alternate sacrifice in the palace. All of that means that if I hadn’t left Vera on her birthday, then Ophelus wouldn’t have had a sacrifice and Tanja wouldn’t have died. We also wouldn’t be dealing with the Kijova, but I know which part of that narrative matters most to Verosa. The ever-growing pile of sweaty clothes and vomit-flecked pails tell the story for me.

My mother watches my throat as I swallow hard. Something might as well be lodged in it for all the struggle it takes to move my tongue in a way I have my entire life. Vera hates herself enough that she won’t let anyone else be to blame for her friend’s death, but that doesn’t mean the thought of my involvement hasn’t crossed her mind.

Emilie crosses two fingers over her heart and presses her lips together. “Whatbothof those girls went through is horrible, Rowan.”Don’t blame yourself.“But Vera is letting her grief destroy her each day that she doesn’t allow herself to process what happened. It’s been five months, and she hasn’t cried once, while these nightmares are only getting worse.”

“Which nightmares? The ones in her dreams or real life?”

She pinches my arm. “I can see it, Rowan, the revenge blackening her heart. These night terrors aren’t just from the trauma of all she’s been through. Her soul is torn between what is right and what is revenge.”

The air grows colder despite the rising sun. Goosebumps prickle my arms and the wind kisses the back of my neck. I wish I could say I don’t see what she does, that I don’t see Vera physically burning each time she eyes a Kijova, or feel the moment the darkness overpowers the light.

“What, are you saying she’s like Father?” I growl out.

My mother watches the shift in my demeanor with something like pity crossing her features. She slowly rests her head on my shoulder, her hair tickling the side of my neck. “Your father was lost to black magic. Verosa is lost to grief. Thankfully for us, one is reversible while the other isn’t. But this can’t continue. Look at yourself, my love. Can you tell me that you both have forgiven so easily?”

She strikes a nerve, mostly because she is right. Ever since the day I met her, Vera’s stubborn personality matched my own, stride for stride. She has never been one to forgive easily, and neither am I—if I forgive at all.

We haven’t spoken about the things that have passed between us, the ways we have hurt each other. She screamed like I had ripped her heart out when I told her we should have stayed strangers and when Blaine left, and yet after she fell into my arms five months ago, none of that mattered. By the time she saw Blaine again and realized I had found him and never told her, she was too numb to care. She stepped over my slight as if it didn’t exist. I do the same each day when she finally lashes out as a result of her anger and exhaustion. We cut each other deeper than anyone else can, and yet each night, she crawls into my bed and I hold her as if nothing else matters.

“Forcing forgiveness is just as bad as forgetting. Sometimes you need to be angry with each other first to heal.” My mother slowly steers me back towards our tent. “Don’t think you can outrun the day where you both suddenly remember the pain you’ve endured. It’s better to release that anger before it turns to hatred.”

By the time we return, Vera has kicked the blankets off the cot, seized by another night terror.

Mother sighs and hands me a mixture of ginger and mint, as well as a tonic. “Sleeping draft. Amír found it at last night’s search,” she explains as I take in the vile-looking liquid.

I pocket both gratefully as I pick my way to Vera again. The tent flap falls closed, encasing me in darkness.

I settle beside the disgraced princess and hold her to me until she stops flailing. Her breathing is shallow, but eventually slows. I sigh into her hair and kiss the top of her head.

She suddenly squirms in my grip and positions herself so that she is facing me. She looks up, her outgrown bangs falling into her eyes as she attempts a smile. “Hi,” she breathes.

“Hi.”

“Was that your mom?”

I nod.

“What did you talk about?”

My arm falls to drape across her hip and I allow myself to take her in. I love Vera in the mornings, still half drowsy enough to be at some semblance of peace. For a moment, she looks like the same nineteen-year-old girl who ran down an alley to save a man from a bar fight and wielded a butter knife against the king of mercenaries. She blinks the sleep from her eyes and it disappears. But for a moment, I hold on to that view.

“Nothing.”

Chapter5

Verosa

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