Ve'Rah Daa (The Ephemeral: Book 3)

Chapter 43

In place of the scorching white light I'd grown accustomed to, red fire engulfed my consciousness, sending me flailing and tumbling into the past.

Images of maroon carpet and smooth marble danced in the flames around me, and I rifled through memories of tactical maps and demon soldiers as my power clawed through the king's mind. Digging, scrounging, mining for clues.

I pushed, pushed, pushed through his resistance until I found the childhood memories he'd stashed away. The moments he'd forced himself to forget, lest his humanity persevere.

I peeled back his early years like dried-up rose petals. The first we shed, a fuzzy memory of little Regulas sitting atop his father's shoulders, waving at his soon-to-be subjects. Then the day Asa took his first steps, proudly stomping toward his brother's open arms. And later that year, when Regulas received his custom-made sword from the blacksmith and, much to his mother's chagrin, brought it everywhere with him—even the dining room table.

And who could forget meeting Lucy for the first time? When Sora finally allowed him and Asa into the nursery, and he experienced a surge of love, adoration, and protectiveness overcome him. A breed of compassion and gentleness only a baby sister could elicit.

Until it all came to a screeching halt.

The smoke burned my nostrils as I peered closer to the torn and blurry memory: the moment that changed the young king's trajectory forever.

"Regulas," Sora Sterling said from her deathbed, her pale, delicate hands folded over her lap. "My love...don't be angry."

"Don't tell me what to feel," he hissed, and judging by the awkward pitch of his voice, he had to be in his early teens. "This never should have happened. Coming after you...they crossed a line. And they'll pay for it."

A solemn beat passed as she watched him stand there, stiff and agitated, in the doorway. "It breaks my heart to leave you, Ray," she said, carefully mulling over her final words to her child. "But I need you to—"

"I don't want to hear it," he snapped. He traded those perceptive dark eyes for the carpet. "I know what this means for the family. I know I'll have to take on more responsibilities. Don't talk to me like you're already dead."

"Regulas," she sighed, patiently waiting for him to look at her again. "All I wanted to say is...don't swallow the hatred."

He glared at her, even as mournful tears slid down his cheeks. And Gritz, how he burned inside—like a pot of boiling water foaming at the lid. "How can I not hate the people who did this to you?"

"You can, if it helps you grieve. But then you need to spit the bitterness out, before it stains your throat," she told him. "Don't let it inside. Don't let it darken your heart." Like Godric, her defeated expression said. "Trust me; you cannot lead with hatred. It's a sickness disguised as a crutch."

He wiped his eyes. "Father disagrees."

"Your father is blinded by pain," she pressed. "I raised you to make honorable choices. Don't poison the boy I love, Regulas." She fixed him with a pleading stare. "I beg you."

Angry flames ripped through the memory, reducing it to cinders, and I coughed as toxic smoke swept up my consciousness and transplanted me in a colder, darker setting.

A setting I'd experienced before.

Above me, portal light collided with stained-glass windows, dousing every inch of the throne room in reds, golds, and violets. No cobwebs clung to the vaulted ceiling yet. And no dust blanketed the hardwood.

"I don't understand," Regulas said, his metal crown digging into his hairline, suddenly too small and uncomfortable for his head. He was older now, a grown man forced to fit the husk of a young adult. A prince sentenced to a life of genocide.