Crown of Cinders (Imdalind #7)(63)

“As will you. But I don’t think you are going to get away so easily …”

A deep sound ground from the man’s throat. The desperate attempt to speak, to plead, to beg ripped from him, blocked by the black water burn that plagued him.

“I’m sorry. What was that?” I asked with a laugh, the sound a gleeful bell that rang over the stone. “It must be something important if you are trying to talk through the pain. Come again?”

“What …? What … are you g-going …?” he asked, his voice barely able to rise above a whisper due to the control I still had over him.

“What am I going to do to you?” I filled in the blanks, another laugh following behind.

I released all of my magic from him, sending him to ground in a heap.

“That’s quite simple, really. I am going to rip you apart limb from limb and make you bleed. Then I am going to let everyone scream at the sight of you. I am going to destroy you all.”





OVAILIA





14





I didn’t have much time. I urged myself on as I rummaged through the drawers of an old bureau in the king’s suite. Rolls of socks and T-shirts were thrown in so haphazardly it looked like little more than a laundry hamper.

Sain had gone to trap the traitors and left me here with strict instructions not to leave, something I didn’t take to very kindly.

Instructions. Demands. I was used to following orders, yes. My entire life had been spent following orders. I strived to serve, to protect. Not to wait around in dark rooms.

Not to hide, cowering in the shadows like I couldn’t hold my own. As if I couldn’t kill on command or take down an entire coup single-handedly; or couldn’t single-handedly put out a pekelny.

I had days ago while Sain had been trapped in some sight. I had put out the flames that dozens around me couldn’t even make a dent in. I had devoured some of the strongest magic.

All while hundreds had watched.

Hundreds of Chosen and Trpaslíks who had approached me in the shadows had passed scraps of parchment bearing the same few words.

You should rule.

Me, not him. Not the filthy man who refused to see what I had accomplished. Refused to use me as the asset, as the strength that I was.

He didn’t trust me, and that was what bothered me. After everything I had done for him, after everything I had proved, he continued to treat me like a child, like a liability.

A danger.

Maybe I was. I surely didn’t trust him. I hadn’t for thousands of years. I had followed him weeks ago because of the power I had seen in him, the strength he had kept hidden from me a devilish secret I couldn’t wait to indulge in.

Like chocolate and wine.

However, I hadn’t noticed how the chocolate was moldy and the wine was rancid.

I hadn’t noticed how the strength I had lusted after, that my magic had trouble controlling itself around, was cracked by madness.

Something he had made clear.

“Something a child could accomplish,” I growled to myself, the hatred I felt toward him rotting the words.

I hated him. I had hated him from the moment I had bonded with him. I had hated him when he had died. And I had hated him more when my father had found him very much alive.

“I have to find that blade,” I said to myself, my voice crisp. “I have to destroy him.”

Looking up from the messy drawer at the old mirror that hung above the bureau, I pursed my lips. The ice in my eyes stared back at me. I was as beautiful as ever.

Smiling at the beauty, at the power in my eyes, I could already see myself plunging that blade into his heart, the same way he had my father. I could already see my magic surging past it as I absorbed his magic and trapped his soul.

“Now, it’s my turn.” Shuddering in eager pleasure, I pulled myself away from my reflection, my hair falling over the side of my face like a sheet as I turned from the bureau to move toward an old trunk that stood at the foot of our bed.

No, his bed.

The bed, the room, the belongings—he had taken them all from my father, from Ilyan. The bloodstains on the carpet were a twisted sign of ownership. Like a dog who pisses on the wall, Sain left trails of blood behind him.

He needed to be fixed.

My shouldered stiffened, my lips pursing in anger as I searched with a deeper desperation, ignoring my hair as it fell over my face.

My heels clicked as I moved to the massive hand-carved wardrobe. I knew it had to be in this room somewhere. There wasn’t anywhere else he would hide it. I didn’t think there was anywhere else he could. I knew it wasn’t on him, and he didn’t trust …

He didn’t trust me. So why would he put it somewhere I could find it? Why would he put it somewhere that wasn’t secured in some way?

Eyes drifting out of focus, I froze, hovering over the drawer. The smell of my shampoo was strong in the air as my mind took me right back to when we had first moved into this room a few weeks ago, to him hovering in front a wide stretch of stone, stone that wasn’t quite right.

His magic hadn’t been quite right.

I gasped in shock, the sound of my discovery followed by an intake of another kind, one that wasn’t an echo.

I straightened, turning on the spot as I shut the heavy door with my hip, the loud smack of the ancient wood clamping shut, echoing beyond the still of the room.