The Grieve could insult him, could fight him, but he couldn’t force him to say it.
But he needed to say it. He needed to lift the weight off his soul, even if the Grieve was the only one there to listen.
“My brother,” he rasped. The words tasted like ash on his tongue.
The other boy’s expression hardened, just as Alistair had known it would. The Lowes had always been the undisputed villains of their town’s ancient, bloodstained story, and now the Grieve knew for certain—all those tales were deserved.
“That’s despicable.” The Grieve stood up, his chair screeching across the stone floor. “So that’s how the Lowes win, is it? They seclude themselves in their estate and secretly sacrifice whoever they deem weakest to ensure their victory?”
Alistair didn’t reply. A part of him knew that his family didn’t deserve Alistair taking their punches for them. Another part knew he should. All his life, the secret had been right in front of him. In the portraits. In the graveyard. And he hadn’t seen it.
Hendry’s blood was on Alistair’s hands, too.
“What does the curse even do?” the Grieve asked.
“It ignores defensive enchantments and drains the life magick of anyone in a fifteen-meter radius.” The thought of Hendry’s life magick so mutilated left a sick feeling in Alistair’s stomach.
In several strides, the Grieve reached over, grabbed Alistair by the collar of his sweater, and yanked him up, close enough for Alistair to smell the liquor on his breath. Even as broken as he was, Alistair felt a rush of fear. “So why hide in this Castle? Why protect Isobel? You’re just going to kill us all, in the end.”
Alistair opened his mouth to correct him, but stopped himself. The Grieve’s green eyes burned with a feverish intensity, with how badly he wanted to kill him. And even if it meant he tried this very moment, Alistair would still rather he think of him as a villain than as pathetic.
The Grieve yanked Alistair harder, causing him to stumble, and Alistair steadied himself by gripping the edge of the table.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t use it,” Alistair said. He didn’t know why he bothered—it wasn’t like he would ever seem anything less than a monster to the Grieve. But he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone thinking he’d played a willing role in Hendry’s murder.
“I don’t believe you,” the Grieve spat.
“I mean it,” Alistair said. “I won’t win using my brother’s death.”
“Then prove it.”
Alistair’s eyebrows furrowed. “How?”
“Bury it.”
He stiffened. If he buried the ring, the enchantment inside it would dissipate. To bury the ring would be the ultimate rebellion against his family.
It was an idea he should have had ages ago, he realized. The moment his family had given it to him, Alistair should’ve buried it in Hendry’s favorite spot in the graveyard, should’ve mourned him properly. Alistair could delude himself into thinking he hadn’t had time between the shock and the tournament, but really, Alistair hadn’t wanted to say goodbye.
“Fine,” he whispered. The other boy’s expression softened. He clearly hadn’t expected Alistair to agree. But he didn’t back down now, either; he led Alistair to an isolated courtyard in the center of the Castle.
Without using magick, Alistair knelt on the ground and clumsily dug into the earth with his hands. His fingers were quickly coated in dirt, caking underneath his nails. He pulled up grass and roots, removing the worms and beetles squirming beneath, and created a hole.
He slid the ring off his finger.
Nearly a minute of silence passed. Part of him wanted to cry, but he was too proud, too drunk, too embarrassed to do so in front of the Grieve. Instead, he pictured the faces of his family—all those who had played a part in Hendry’s death.
And he cursed them as he dropped the ashen ring into the dirt.
He covered it and patted the earth back down, bracing himself for the magick to release. But there was nothing besides a phantom aroma of pastries wafting through the air. Maybe the curse was so strong, it would take longer to undo itself.
“You did it,” the Grieve said in disbelief.
Alistair stood, keeping his face downcast. “I’m going to bed.” He walked toward the courtyard’s exit back into the Castle, his chest tangled into knots of everything except regret. He’d made the right decision. He just wished he’d been good enough to come to it on his own.
“Alistair,” the Grieve called. “Wait.”