Because she is part of the Resistance.
Well, she was. There is not much to be a part of anymore after today.
How could I not see it before?
I shake my head, already knowing the answer to that question.
Because I was blinded by everything that is her.
She killed him. She killed the king. She killed my father.
And yet I let her go.
But not for long.
I stand to my feet, looking down at the dead king before my gaze snaps back up to the speck that is her, now barely visible through the rain.
The title of Enforcer has never weighed so heavily on my shoulders.
I’ll have to find her.
And when I do, I’ll have found my courage.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Paedyn
I don’t stop running until I stumble into the woods beside the road leading home. Running is soon replaced with tripping when roots catch my ankles and rocks stub my toes. The rain hasn’t slowed its attempt to drown me yet, pelting each of my open wounds.
My finger finds its way to the gash trailing from my jaw and down my neck, tenderly following the torn and bloody path that I know will never look the same. Then my fingers fumble across my chest, stopping only when they meet the shredded skin right above my heart. I wince, and I wish it was because of the pain.
O.
I trace the jagged lines that form that single letter. That single letter that will forever scar, marring it with the memory of him and what I am.
O for Ordinary.
The brand is just as mangled as the heart barely beating beneath it.
I stagger onward, hand pressed against the O carved into my skin and every meaning behind the seemingly simple letter.
A pop of color catches my eye, bright against the dark foliage of the damp woods. My heart splinters at the sight, lungs squeezing and legs shaking. It was only yesterday that the sight made me smile, that the symbol was slid into my hair by strong hands, sure fingers.
“A forget-me-not, since you always seem to be forgetting who I am.”
I stare at the bundle of blue flowers, mocking me with the memory of stolen touches, silent promises.
Now all that’s left are shouts of revenge, steely eyes that promise no mercy, and a stolen silver dagger so dear to me, yet so likely to be the blade that’s stabbed through my heart.
“I don’t give a damn if you forget who I am in title, so long as you remember who I am to you.”
I open my mouth to laugh only for a sob to slip past my lips instead, my body deciding to shake with hurt rather than humor.
Oh, I remember who he is to me.
How could I forget my father’s murderer?
I stumble forward, blinking through the constant stream of rain and tears.
Thick, hot liquid runs down my brand, my body, my very being.
Honey.
That’s what I tell myself.
It’s just honey.
Epilogue
Kitt
It’s been three days since I saw my father lying dead in the mud.
Three days since I last slept.
Three days since I could close my eyes without seeing his bloody body.
Three days since the Resistance attacked at the final Trial.
Three days since the girl I trusted, the girl I grew to want, became a murderer and a betrayer.
Three days since I became king.
The crown atop my head is heavy, much like my eyelids have grown, and much like the weight of the kingdom now thrown onto my shoulders. I blink awake, reminding myself of what I will see if I give in to the fatigue.
My only true parent, dead. The parent I have been trying to please, make proud, my entire life. Lying lifeless beside me. My knees sinking into the mud as my tears fall onto his bloody chest, his severed neck— I silence the screaming thoughts that have echoed in my skull for dozens of hours. My gaze makes its way back to father’s favorite chair, brown leather worn from years of sitting. I find that I study it quite often, even when he was alive and sitting in it, signing treaties and strategizing.
I studied everything he did.
Before he was brutally murdered.
“Kitt.”
Kai.
My Enforcer.
He steps into the study after a light rasp of his knuckles on the open door, sounding almost timid. I nearly laugh at the sight of Kai trying his best to be cautious around me. It’s a valiant effort, though I didn’t ask for his pity.
I’m not like Kai. I’m not cool and collected and constantly wearing a carefully constructed mask around most. My emotions are on full display, my heart on my sleeve. I’m Kitt, the brother who is supposed to be kind and charming. Said to become the kindest king Ilya has ever seen.
Wrong.
I feel anything but kind. I feel everything but kind.
I feel rage and grief. Inadequate and hollow. Despair and— “You wanted to see me?” My brother’s words are soft, sounding slightly concerned.
And he should be. Kind Kitt doesn’t act crazed. Kind Kitt is caring, not a killer.
Kind Kitt has changed.
Grief is a bitch.
“Yes. Take a seat.” I gesture casually to Kai’s usual chair. His eyes flick to Father’s worn one before he sits, crossing an ankle over his knee.
He leans forward, eyes searching mine for answers he won’t find. “How are you doing, Kitt?”
The concern filling his voice cracks something in my heart—the one that has become so cold over the past seventy-two hours. My gaze softens slightly, momentarily shifting into more of Kitt and less of the king. He’s still my brother, the only flesh and blood I have left. Maybe even the only person I have left.
“I’m...doing.”
I’m doing? What the hell kind of answer was that?
I clear my throat. “How is,” I hesitate, “Mother doing?”
She’s not my mother. My mother is dead, just like my father.
“She’s...doing.” Kai gives me a weak smile. “She won’t leave her room. It’s like the grief of losing him is slowly...” he trails off, turning his attention back towards Father’s worn chair to distract himself from the unspoken words.
“I see.” I did see. I understand how she feels. How it feels to be so swallowed, so smothered, by grief.
My eyes shift to Kai, taking in his stiff shoulders, his bruised and bloody knuckles.
I pity the who or what he hit to take his mind off things.
I almost cluck my tongue at him, wanting to chastise my little brother for wearing that cool mask of his around me. He never does that, never shuts me out of his feelings like he is doing now.
I’m not sure what Kai felt for our father, but I know he never cared for him like I do—like I did. Perhaps it was a mix of love and loathing he felt for the man who made him into what he is. The man who was a king to him, not a father.