King of Battle and Blood (Adrian X Isolde #1)(103)

I stood for a moment, breathing hard, and the weight of what I had just done—of this whole day—crashed down upon me.

I screamed.

I raged.

I broke every mirror left in the hallway, and when I was finished, I made my way upstairs, to the top of the tower. There, I sank to the ground to rest beneath the red sky of Revekka, and I knew this was the pain that would make me into a monster.

*

When I opened my eyes again, Adrian hovered over me, expression grim. Anger was etched into his brows and the hollows of his cheeks. I broke when I saw him. My anguish was a physical thing that had invaded and warped my body. I would never be the same. My father was dead. The man who had raised me, whom I had looked to for guidance, whom I had idealized as a great king, had tried to end my life for the greater good.

For the greater good.

I kept repeating his attack in my head and hearing his words, but I was no closer to understanding.

Adrian knelt and gathered me into his arms, and I sobbed into the hollow of his neck. The next thing I remembered was waking up beside him. I lay on my stomach, my hand curled beneath my head, and when I met his gaze, more tears sprang to my eyes. I was exhausted, I was tired of crying, but I could not hold on to anything but my pain.

He reached out and brushed them away.

“Do you know why I call you Sparrow?” he asked, his voice a quiet whisper.

I shook my head. I had assumed it had something to do with my vulnerability here among so many vampires, and right now, I felt every bit the mortal I was.

“The sparrow is sought after by many monsters, but she is cunning and resourceful, and she always wins.”

As he spoke, my throat tightened, and the tears burning my eyes were renewed once more.

“You have the heart of a sparrow, even among wolves,” he said, and his lips pressed hard against my forehead. When he pulled away, he added, “It should have been me. My blade that cut him down, not yours.”

“No,” I said.

It was right that it had been me. If he had died by any other hand, I could not have forgiven them, just as I would never forgive myself.

“I failed you. I promised to protect you.”

“How could you have known?”

“It is not about knowing. I swore an oath.”

“To my father, who could not even keep it.”

As I spoke, my lips quivered, and I could see he struggled just as much, his eyes reflecting the torment of my heart. The pain and anger and sadness—even the shock. Who would have suspected I would not be safe with my own father?

“Then let me swear a new one to you,” he said. “I will never let anything hurt you like this again.”

Nothing could hurt like this, unless I lost him. I would have made the same oath to him, but his was already fulfilled. He would never live without me.

“Adrian,” I whispered his name and touched his face, my fingers twisting into his hair. “Ravena knew.”

His expression hardened.

“Ravena knew about the bloodletting, which means one of your four is a traitor.”

It was a greater blow. It was not as if we had many people to trust. The noblesse were not to be trusted. The four were trusted…until now. Who between Daroc, Sorin, Ana, and Tanaka would have told? Had it been a mistake? A moment of weakness?

I also told him of the noblesse who had betrayed him—of Gesalac and Julian—but he was not surprised and admitted that they had fled.

“Sorin is hunting, but I do not think he will find them.”

“What will you do?” I whispered.

He studied me for a moment and then answered, “We will wait. Sometimes a traitor is the leverage we need.”

Strangely, I wondered if this was what it meant to be queen—never fully trusting anyone but my king.

*

We would burn my father, forgoing the traditional burial of my people. It was an insult, because no king of Lara had even been consumed by fire, and yet as I watched the final beam fall into place atop the pyre, I did not regret my decision.

I stood in the courtyard of the Red Palace, wearing blue and silver, the colors of my house. It was not for my father but for myself. I saw this as my funeral too—the death of the woman I used to be.

Few joined us for the burning. Ana and Killian stood on my left and Adrian on my right. Beside him were Daroc and Sorin and behind them, Isac and Miha. Tanaka and the remainder of the noblesse were scattered about. I tried not to look at them with mistrust, tried not to think that one among four of Adrian’s closest friends was a traitor, and yet I could not let the knowledge fall to the back of my mind.

We had a traitor.

With that thought, I moved closer to Adrian, and he welcomed me, his fingers sliding between mine as my father was carried from the castle. He was wrapped in white, and what was left of his blood soaked through the fabric, his skin having been eaten away from his body by the mist.

My misery was acute, both because my father was dead and because he had tried to kill me. I was still not over the shock of it, and I had barely slept, because each time I closed my eyes, I no longer saw burning pyres at my feet—I saw my father standing over me with a sword.

How had we gone from only having each other to this? How had I gone from being his gem—the savior of our people—to the enemy?

Was that the duty of a king?

To ensure the greater good?