The Heirs of Death

27. Masks

A rumble evaded my throat. Many actually, some of it at the spears the encircling guards raised, the rest at the queen.

"Tongue-less and wingless, such a shame for the crown you are claiming."

Lysithea raged, her powers sweeping up before she even did, standing from her throne like a snake ready to attack.

Tongue-less, all of them were, lacking the power to understand the Old Tongue. But the wingless part, it had struck a cord, a deep and dangerous one. One that was unknown to the world, even to my father and Court Leader—to us, before I read her all, magic and strength and capabilities.

It was the Seventh male, whose sword was uselessly pointing at me that hissed, his slit tongue licking his fangs, "False accusations to the crown is punished by death."

I laughed this time.

"Not so false, male. Not at all.'' I lightly nodded my chin toward them, the guards and the thrones. ''Your first did not last instants under my Second's powers. Be wary, for I doubt you would last a heartbeat longer."

The cloud of darkness behind me materialized, forging a throne that gleamed as though it was night kissed by thousands upon thousands of stars. All the shadows that stretched afterwards held not even a flicker of light. A darkness darker than Yenes's magic. A power bread and tailored by five gods to my very disposal.

I sat on the throne, and it became a queen to a prince and his mother. A matter solely between Armedeses. The crown that sewed itself atop of my head—a twin to Aedis's—had Lysithea snarling even more as she still stood, magic burning beneath her skin to be released.

The spears enclosed us more, and I stared with little amusement at how ridiculous it was, all that steel pointed at us. The way the guards stared at me, the way the prince and queen held their head high, it told me enough just how badly this throne had seeped beneath their skin and core, clawing at the mightiness they wore like skin. The mightiness of a King and of a Queen that had never been disobeyed nor challenged, and that now faced crumbling at the hands of a Cohar who would not bend, would not play by their rules.

So I reached one of the spears pointed at my face, clutched it hard. And the metal snapped.

Only the rattling of the tip as it hit the marble echoed around us.

The rest of the spears disappeared in a puff of smoke just like the manacles had done, and the hand I held, it made the guards' auras shake. All of them, the Fifteen, the ones at Yenes's command, the ones guarding the doors.

There had been not even a single smear of blood.

The guards stood rigid, and I knew right then I had full control over them, not by magic, not by spirit. But by fear. And it was delicious, that horror spreading in the air, gnawing at them as they beheld the throne, the powers, the crown, the very hardness of my muscles and bones. The queen who sat back and could not do a thing against me than use her tongue as a sole weapon.

It was wicked delight that laced my face when I turned back to stare at Blake, Cohars locking eyes—because he'd been one before, in many lifetimes ago, a king born Windreaper.

"Elayda of the Windreapers. Cohar.''

"I know."