Burnt Devotion (Imdalind, #5)(88)

So, I let them look, their eyes darting between Joclyn and me as we all waited for things to begin.

You are my twin in more ways than looks, son.

I twitched a bit at the voice, shaking the bad thought away as the buzzing of conversation in the hall grew momentarily, the excitement increasing with each new voice.

These were all who remained of the last of the people my father had spent centuries hunting. No more than a month before, he had taken control of their last remaining sanctuary, sending them all scattering into the wind. Into the crevices and hiding places of the city that was now little more than a blood splattered maze of fear, until Ilyan had arrived to gather them all.

These were all who were left. No more than thirty of the tall and fair beings I had been raised to decipher as my enemy.

In many ways, I still saw them that way.

My father’s voice rose inside of me for a brief moment before I squashed it down, my eyes lingering over the small crowd until they came to rest on Risha, the woman who was as tall and fair as all the others. I didn’t see her as an enemy.

She stood with a few other near the platform, talking in low, excited whispers. She was as composed as she had been yesterday, her gestures short and sure as she spoke, and the gentle and powerful nature of her soul drew me in.

I stared at her openly, knowing I should look away yet not really caring. Something kept me there, glued to her as her eyes lifted to mine, the intense conversation she had been having lost and forgotten as her gaze met mine. A soft, red color covered her cheeks, an identical one seeping over mine at the look, at the way she smiled, at the way my heart beat in response.

It was one glance, one blush, one moment, and then she looked away, her eyes cast to the floor in a secret joy I didn’t think I had understood until that moment.

I could feel every beat of my heart. I could feel the warmth in my cheeks. I could feel the sweat build at the base of my neck in what I wasn’t sure was excitement or joy. It was there, and I liked it.

I liked it for a moment until I heard Joclyn sigh from beside me, the joy deflating like a balloon. A guilt I didn’t want to feel seeped into me.

No, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to feel it. It was that I shouldn’t.

Joclyn was no longer mine.

Yes, I wanted her as my friend. More than that, but that was closed to us. We had talked about it. She was happy, and I wanted that for her.

But then why did I feel so guilty? Why did I shy away from this joy that was so swelling and free?

Why did I feel like I needed her permission?

Because she still belongs to you. She hurt you, remember?

She’s so close…

What are you wait…?

The voice faded to indistinguishable murmurs as I looked at her curiously, trying to make sense of everything that was moving through me, trying to filter through the emotions and confusion, only to have her eyes dart toward mine, her beautiful, silver eyes I had fallen in love with so long ago. The eyes that were filled with so much more emotion, joy, and strength than they had ever held.

My eyes widened as hers met mine, the voice igniting in anger. The distanced sound hollowed in my mind, never moving loud enough for me to listen, for me not to be able to fight it.

You need to fight. You need to.

Stop putting it off.

I could look at her as she could look at me. A million unspoken things passed between us, a million things that could never be said lingering in the air.

Right then, staring at her in a way that felt more friend than fancy, I wanted to talk to her the way I always had. I wanted to tell her what had happened.

Before I even had the chance, the large, wooden doors at the end of the hall slid open with a grind. Then all the lights in the hall extinguished at once, leaving us standing in the dim red light that filtered through the tall windows, pools of crimson hitting the floor in shimmering lines, the dim hue only lessened from the setting sun.

“All hail our king, our lord, our guide,” the voice rang out in Czech from behind us, loud and booming as it echoed across the walls.

As one, everyone moved down to their knees, their heads hung low as the three chosen children stood standing, watching Ilyan stride into the large room, looking like something out of a historical drama.

Tunic, tights, even a crown—it was all a little ridiculous. Part of me wanted to laugh since it was a stark contrast to my father, who always wore the same black and purple velvet robe, a crown much more large and gaudy atop his head.

Compared to that, Ilyan’s choices seemed much more regal, humbler.

Exactly like him.

I might not know my brother well, but I knew that, above all else, he might rule, but he put his people before his needs, possibly more than he should.

Ilyan climbed the small steps to the platform, moving himself to the direct center of the space right as the same voice cut through the silence. The role that would normally have been taken by the second in command was temporarily being controlled by one of his many men.

Part of me knew I should be ruffled that I hadn’t been asked, but part of me was grateful. Especially given my past, I didn’t know what these people would do if I was given a role so high. Best not to push my luck.

I would rather prove myself, my worth, and my loyalty to them, anyway.

“Our lord, the king of our people,” the voices rang out in unison. A shiver moved up my spine at the deep magic that was infused with them. “We bow before you in allegiance, in devotion. We serve you now and for as long as the magic flows within the earth.”