“Would you like to see it?”
Roman frowned. “What do you mean, sir?”
Wordlessly, Dacre pulled a folded newspaper from the stack near his elbow. He set it down with a plop, and Roman leaned forward, reading the dark-inked headline.
DACRE SAVES HUNDREDS OF WOUNDED IN AVALON BLUFF by ROMAN C. KITT
Roman’s heart slowed to a heavy beat. As if responding to a siren’s call, he reached out and took the newspaper in his hands, if only to read his words again in such fine print. To feel the ink rub off on his fingertips.
“The Oath Gazette,” he read aloud, admiring the paper’s calligraphic header. And there, deep in his chest, was a spark. “How far is Oath from here?”
“Six hundred kilometers to the east.”
“Is that where you’re heading, sir? To the city?”
“Yes. To reunite with Enva.”
The goddess’s name made Roman freeze. It felt familiar; Roman knew he had spoken it before.
“My wife,” Dacre supplied with a sharp smile. “She lived in the realm below with me, and while I loved her and gave her my vow … she was a trickster, biding her time and scheming to betray me.”
“I’m sorry.” Roman was uncertain how else to reply. “Is that what this war is about? A broken vow between you and her?”
“It is about far more than that, but I don’t expect you to understand, given that you are mortal and unmarried. You’ve never uttered a vow, or felt it settle in your bones like magic. You’ve never sworn yourself to another.”
Roman wanted to protest. His cheeks warmed, but he didn’t understand why. He forced himself to remain silent, listening as Dacre continued.
“I hoped that she would meet me halfway after I woke from my grave. That she would come to me; but she has chosen a coward’s path, remaining in Oath. It is now up to me to save this realm from her deceptions.”
More questions bloomed in Roman’s mind, but they withered when he hung on the word save. He saw Del again—her gaze vacant, her mouth full of water, her heart unresponsive beneath his frantically pumping hands. Roman hadn’t been able to save her in the dream, and he still felt bruised from that horrible mistake. A mistake that should never have happened. If it had happened at all.
“You’re thinking of someone,” said Dacre. “Or perhaps remembering them?”
Roman inwardly shook himself. Yet another foolish thing, to let his mind wander when he was alone with a god. “Yes. I had a dream.”
“You dreamt of someone you loved?” There was a sharpness in Dacre’s tone. “Someone from your past?”
Roman hesitated. “I dreamt that I had a little sister. Delaney.” He wasn’t sure how much to tell Dacre, but once he started speaking, the account flowed from him. It was strange how tasting the dream with his voice only made it more solid.
This really happened. His heart pounded the assurance through him. I had a sister, and I lost her.
Dacre was silent for a few moments, as if weighing the dream. But when he spoke, his words were the last thing Roman expected.
“Did you know I also have a sister? She is one of the remaining Underlings in this realm, sung to sleep in a grave south of here.”
“Alva?” Roman said, reflexively. He had a faint recollection of a schoolroom, a map of Cambria pinned on the wall, a teacher droning on about the five divine graves in the realm. The gods we championed and buried—Enva Skyward, Dacre Underling, Alva Underling, Mir Underling, and Luz Skyward. The gods who will be captive to eternal sleep.
“Yes, Alva,” Dacre replied, his voice softening on her name. “We shared the same mother, hence why the two of us were bound for everlasting trouble, even though our powers, compared to others of our kin, were quite harmless.”
“Your powers?”
“Did they fail to teach you about the full breadth of divinity in that school of yours?” But Dacre didn’t give Roman a chance to respond. “Of course they did. Mortals are often afraid of the things they don’t understand.”
“I know that you heal, sir,” Roman said, tracing the scars around his knee. “But what was your sister’s power?”
“You mean what is her power. She only sleeps, as I once did. She’s not dead.”
“Y-yes, of course. Forgive me, I only meant—”
“Alva is the goddess of dreams,” Dacre interrupted. “Of nightmares.”
Roman stiffened. He could still feel his own nightmare shadowing him, and he drank a sip of milk, trying to chase away that hint of pond water and anguish.