The jovial man I had once known him as was dead to me; the patience he’d shown me since we met snuffed out as quickly as a candle on an open windowsill. I had entered this dining room holding onto a sliver of hope that Wrena’s words weren’t true, and I would be leaving with the confirmation that they were. I would die and my mother would be left to sort through this morning’s events.
I walked out of the room, each click of my high heels a twist of the knife as I stepped around the toppled chairs. My mother’s ragged breathing was the only sound that followed me out of the dining hall.
Tyrak turned to me, hand on the hilt of his sword, taking in my reddened face. His face was emotionless, but his dark eyes were rimmed with the slightest hint of concern. He stepped out of my way without a word as I hurried to my quarters.
FuckCastemont.Fuckthe Board.Fuckmy lack of education, my cluelessness, and the secrecy. He saw how I struggled and still kept quiet. Oath or no oath, I was his family. Apparently I was expected to sacrifice everything for my family, yet he was not expected to do the same due to some fuckingoath?
I slammed my door behind me, the rage roiling through me like a tempest. Before I knew what I was doing, I was storming to the window and ripping at the curtains until they fell from the rod, crumpling on the floor. A war cry exploded from my throat as I swept my arms across my vanity, mirrors, perfume bottles, and trays shattering on the cold marble floor. I tore the sheets from my bed, the vase of flowers from my nightstand, the sconces on the wall, all of them hitting the floor, echoing throughout my bedroom. I threw my wardrobe door open, pulling gowns from racks, emptying the drawers of the bureau in my rage as I ripped and tore my way closer and closer to my Initiation gown.
But the diadem.
I stopped. It sat on the black velvet pillow, perfectly illuminated by candlelight, as if it were watching my rampage. Tears streaming down my face, Lord Castemont’s handprint still on my cheek, I picked it up, placed it on my uncombed head, calming my sobs to whimpers.
Standing in front of the mirror, I surveyed the mess I’d become. The stranger who stared back at me had been broken again and again, brown eyes dulled by enough anguish for ten lifetimes. I closed my eyes, letting the familiar smoke weave through the spires of the diadem and settle around my head. Clarity.
My chances were grim, but I would not accept the fact that seven men had the authority to grant life or impose death. I would not accept the fact that they were killing young women — Saints damnedchildren— looking for some fabled chosen one. No. Maybe others had come to the same conclusion but had too much to lose. I, on the other hand, had nothing left.
For that reason, I would chew up the Board and spit them out, drawing their blood as they planned to draw mine. And if I died, if the Board deemed me unworthy or uncouth or whatever the fuck they killed for, I would go down in an explosion that rivaled the one brewing in my chest.
I knew the Benevolent Saints wouldn’t smile upon me come tomorrow. The Blood Saints, maybe.
But I didn’t need the Saints. I hadn’t ever needed them, in fact. I had always been my own hero for no other reason than necessity. Tomorrow wouldn’t be any different.
Marita was right. I was a phoenix, and I would rise in a burst of fire or die setting everything ablaze.