I felt like I needed Mische, and I hated that. But maybe Oraya needed her even more than I did, right now.
“Mm,” I said, vocalizing none of this.
“Things are bad?”
I thought of Oraya’s ragged sobs in the middle of the day, when she thought no one could hear her. Thought of the empty nothingness on her face for weeks.
Thought of her voice—I do hate you.
“Yes,” I said. “Things are bad.”
The concession was bitter with regret.
I’d long ago given up on some image of myself as a morally decent person. I’d killed hundreds with my own hands over the years. Thousands indirectly, as a result of my actions in the last Kejari or this one. I’d done what was necessary to survive. I tried not to beat myself up about it.
But I would always regret this. Breaking Oraya. That was a sin that I’d never be able to atone for.
A long silence. Then Mische said, softly, “I’m just… really, really glad that you’re not dead, Raihn.”
I laughed a little, but she snapped, “Not a joke. I mean it. What were you thinking?”
I wasn’t sure I was glad I wasn’t dead. When Oraya had killed me, I’d felt certain that I was doing the right thing. Giving Oraya the power she needed to seize her potential. Giving the House of Night a clean start. No messy alliances with the Bloodborn. No complicated pasts.
That had seemed worth dying for in that moment. The dying, after all, wasn’t the hard part. The coming back was where all the mess started.
I just said, too casually, “I wasn’t really doing much thinking,” even though it was a blatant lie.
Her brow furrowed. “But you worked so hard for this.”
I had to clench my jaw to keep from saying the truth.
For this? No.
I’d entered the Kejari because Mische had. Because she’d forced my hand. Because one day, when we were traveling, she’d caught me on a particularly bad night, and I’d told her all of it—the truth of who I was and the scar on my back, the things I’d never uttered aloud to another person.
Every emotion painted over Mische’s face, and that night, I’d watched her sadness for me, and then her confusion, and then, the thing that actually hurt: the excitement.
“You,” she’d breathed, eyes lighting up, “are the Heir of the Rishan line and you aren’t doing anything about it? Do you have any idea what you could do?”
That had fucking killed me. The hope.
We’d gotten into a fight that night—one of our worst, even after years of constant companionship. The next night, Mische had disappeared. I’d been beside myself by the time she returned, nearly at daybreak, and she’d showed me her hand: her blood offering scar.
“We’re entering the Kejari,” she had said, smugly. Like she’d just signed us up for a painting class or a city tour.
I hadn’t been so angry in years. I did everything I could trying to find a way to get her out of it. But in the end, I ended up there right beside her, just like she knew I would.
After my initial outburst that first night, I never told her how I felt about that. I held that discomfort in a tight knot in my chest, buried deep.
It was hard to be angry at Mische.
But harder than the anger was the concern.
It was no small act, to enter the Kejari. I thought often—unwillingly—about Mische, and the decision she made, and the way that sheer fucking luck had saved her life.
Only one person could win the Kejari. What had Mische’s plan been, if things had unfolded differently?
I didn’t like to think about that.
I tore my eyes from Mische’s accusatory stare, and they drifted to the hand she had propped over her knee, and the burn scars barely visible under the fabric of her sleeve.
If she saw that look, she ignored it, instead cocking her head and giving me a light, reassuring smile. “Don’t look so depressed,” she said. “It’ll turn out. I know it will. It’s just hard right now, but it’s good that you’re here.”
“Mm.” If only the truth was as easy as Mische’s optimistic platitudes. I gave her a sidelong glance. “And how’ve you been?”
“Me?” Her face went serious for a minute, before she gave me a carefree shrug. “Oh, you know me. I’m always good.”
I knew her, alright. Knew her well enough to know when she was lying. And to know when not to push.
I reached over and rustled her hair, making her wrinkle her nose and jerk away.
“It’s too long,” she said. “I’ve got to cut it.”