A bead of sweat dripped down my nose. Despite Mische’s commands, I could still hear Vincent in my ear, too: Focus. Control. Willpower.
Lately, his voice had been an unwelcome visitor.
The Nightfire sputtered and roared, threatening to either spin out of control or wither away completely, as I balanced on the edge between shutting myself off and falling into a pit of emotion I couldn’t confront.
Where do you want me to go? Vincent whispered. I’m a part of you. And isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?
Once, I had wanted nothing more than I wanted to be Vincent. Even now, a part of me still wanted it—even knowing how he had lied to me, knowing what he had done to my family and his, knowing the brutality he had inflicted upon people just like me for centuries.
I was ashamed of it.
Ashamed? Vincent said. I made you everything that you are, and you say that you are ashamed of me?
That one was a memory. One of the last things he had said to me.
The Nightfire flared, spinning out of control. Mische took a step back. I struggled to wrangle it. Struggled to fight back the war of shame and guilt in my head.
But when I was using magic, everything came so much closer to the surface. It was Vincent’s magic, after all—his blood that gave me this power, his Heir Mark that intensified it. I could not wield it without feeling his presence breathing down my throat.
“Keep going!” Mische urged, though I could barely hear her.
My eyes burned against the blinding white of the Nightflame. In that light, I saw Vincent’s bloody face in those final moments—always so real, no matter how many times I tried to forget it.
The voice in my ear whispered his final words. So many regrets in the end. Never you.
I couldn’t do this. Goddess, I couldn’t do this—
STOP.
I severed myself from all those unwelcome memories.
The Nightfire guttered out.
Suddenly, my knees were in the damp dirt. My breath was painful, coming in deep, raspy gasps.
“Oh, gods.” Mische knelt before me, her hands at my shoulders—I leaned against them without meaning to, silently grateful for the stabilizing force.
“You’re alright,” she murmured. “It’s alright.”
I didn’t know why her voice sounded like that—so pitying—until something wet hit my splayed hand. I blinked down at it, confused, and another spot joined it.
Tears.
Fuck.
My face grew hot.
“I’m fine. It’s—let’s just go again.”
I stood and turned away, swaying a little on my feet. It was hard to pull myself together once I’d started to break. Like all that pressure was building up right under the surface. That was how I’d ended up sobbing in front of Raihn. And now Mische. Great.
“I’m fine,” I said.
Mische said softly, “You don’t have to be fine.”
She said it so simply. Like it was just a truth, nothing to be judged or disagreed with. I knew that she believed it, and in this moment, I loved her fiercely for that.
Even if I couldn’t bring myself to.
I had a kingdom relying on me, and a crown waiting for me, and people who needed me to become something better than this immediately.
And what had I done? Lodged a single failed attack? Found a pretty little necklace I couldn’t figure out how to use?
“Oraya…”
Mische touched my shoulder. I didn’t turn—I couldn’t show her my face. Perhaps she knew this, because she didn’t try to make me, only offering me that one touch—so light I could move away if I wanted to.
“Magic is like… a living thing,” she murmured. “I guess it makes sense that it comes from the gods, because it’s just as fickle and temperamental as they are. Yours feeds on your emotion. It makes you reach into things that are… hard right now. But one day, the things that are the most painful are going to be sources of strength.”
I glanced down, at Mische’s hand on my shoulder and the several inches of her wrist visible beneath her sleeve. The scars covered nearly all her exposed skin.
Had they been that bad before? Or had she just been incessantly trying, and failing, to use her magic ever since her god abandoned her?
Maybe my profile revealed the question I didn’t ask, because she removed her hand and pulled her sleeve down as I finally turned to face her.
“Don’t think I don’t understand what it feels like to—to lose something,” she said.
When I’d first met Mische, it might have been easy to dismiss her as some pretty, vapid thing. But every so often, I glimpsed something so much harder under the surface. Now, that shadow passed over her face. A glint of blade-sharp steel hidden in the flower garden.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said.
She hesitated. Then nodded.
“What was it like to Turn?”
Her face darkened.
“It was hard,” she said. “I would have died if Raihn hadn’t found me.”
“He saved you.”
That shadow parted, just enough to let a little sad smile slip through. “Mhm. He saved me. I don’t really remember it. One minute I’m very sick in the middle of the desert, and I’m—” Her expression shuttered, and she cut herself off. “Then I’m waking up in some shitty inn with a giant, grumpy stranger. That, let me tell you, was a hell of a confusing moment.”
I could imagine.
“You were a priestess,” I said carefully. “Right?”
The smile faded. She tugged at her sleeve again and didn’t say anything for a long, long moment.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That was—”
“No. No, it’s fine.” She shook her head, as if pulling herself from her haze. “Yes. I was. A priestess of Atroxus. It’s just… it’s hard for me to talk about, sometimes.” She gave me another weak smile. “Hypocritical of me, right?”
“No,” I said. “It isn’t.”
“Magic is… I know some people think it’s just another discipline, but I think it lives close to our hearts. I think it draws right from our souls. Mine has always been close to me. And I—” Her jaw snapped closed, eyes shining.
“It’s alright,” I said quickly. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
It was downright painful to see Mische on the verge of tears.
But she laughed and wiped her face with the back of her hand.
“This is what I mean, Oraya,” she said. “We’ve all got our reckoning. My Turning wasn’t my choice, and it broke me. Raihn’s was his, and maybe it broke him even more. Maybe the others don’t let you see the shards. Maybe they don’t show you the things they mourn. Doesn’t mean it’s not there. Doesn’t mean they don’t feel it. And your father—”
Her face went serious now, fiery-fierce. Her hand fell to mine, clutching tight. “Your father, Oraya, felt all those things, too. He was just as broken as the rest of us, and he was so determined not to acknowledge it that he flayed you with those sharp edges and then berated you for having skin instead of steel.”
My throat was tight. Grief and fury surged up it before I could stop myself.
“Don’t talk about him that way,” I said. But my words were weak and pleading.
Mische just looked at me sadly. “You and Raihn are always trying to be like them,” she said. “I don’t understand it. You’re better than him. Don’t forget that, Oraya. Embrace it.”