The Infernal Crown: Of Roses and Lies

Chapter 20

Cruel death on swift hands.

The title came out of nowhere, and for a moment, I saw the painting I'd create: the steely determination of their eyes, faintly illuminated with a gleam from the radiant spring sun, the glare of their blades, the harshness of Nolan's tattoos spotlighted in the sunlight against the dark tan of his back—

I blinked, and the image was gone, like a cloud of hot breath on a cold night.

Oberon jerked his chin towards the two males. "The sentry is out of shape, his moves too sloppy, and won't admit it, but Nolan is too polite to beat him into the dirt."

I glanced once at Oberon before returning to watch the ever-intensifying fight between Nolan and the sentry, my brows furrowed in disbelief. All three looked anything but out of shape. The Elders curse me, what the hell did they eat to look like that?

My knees wobbled a bit as I strode to the stool Oberon had brought a pitcher of water and two glasses. I poured one for myself, my pinkie trembling uncontrollably again.

As a way to hold memories of the ones who have died, I realised. A way to remember the lives he has taken and lost, their names quite literally imprinted on his skin.

Would the names of the Imperial Lords and sentries I kill be written on his back as well? I didn't push further into that question.

Oberon filled a glass for himself and clinked it against mine, so at odds from the brutal taskmaster who, moments ago, had me walking through punches, hitting his sparring pads, and trying not to crumple on the ground to beg for death. So at odds from the male who had gone head to head with Nolan, the tough commander who would do anything to save his people.

"So," Oberon said, gulping down the water. Next to us, Nolan and the sentry clashed, separated, and clashed again. "When were you going to tell me about killing the Baphomet?"

Maybe it was because exhaustion branded my bones and I was in a shitty mood but the question hit me so viciously that I sniped, "How about when you talk about being away protecting the border from the attacks yet it seems to have only become worse?" Because I had no doubt he was well aware of the problems at hand.

The beat of crunching steps and clashing blades beside us stumbled—then resumed.

Oberon let out a startled, rough laugh, though it was tinged with bitterness. "Old news."

"I have a feeling that's not that old."

"Get back in the ring," Oberon said, setting down his empty glass. "No core exercises. Just fists. You want to mouth off, then back it up."

But the question he'd asked still swarmed in my skull. Killing; kill; killed; killer.

I had killed—I'd meant it. But it had felt oddly strange, normal, to kill that faerie ... No, it had felt good to kill. Waves of heat coursed through my blood and a cold sweat glistened on my forehead.

Yet, after killing dozens more of faerie lives later on, their immortal blood warming my hands, then this ... I had been frightened by the maliciousness of the Baphomet, cowed by it. And what would become of me then—I had sacrificed for this so deeply, so greatly, but ...

"Kallistê told you?" I said.

Oberon had the wisdom to look a bit nervous at the expression on my face. "As you probably already know, she informed Phoebus, who is ... monitoring things and needs to know. Phoebus told me."

"I assume it was on the night you arrived, exhausted from the trip back." I drained the last of my water and walked back into the ring.

"Hey," Oberon said, catching my arm. His light green eyes seem to be paler today. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit a nerve. Phoe only told me because I asked him if there was anything I needed to know for my own forces; to know what to expect. None of us ... we don't think it's a joke. What you did was a hard call. A really damn hard call. It was just my shitty way of trying to see if you needed to talk about it. I'm sorry," he repeated, letting go.