I hid so carefully, all these years. Tramped down every scrap of my power. Endured every abuse. I did it all with a placid stare on my face, never letting him see the hatred beneath.
It was not useful to hate my father. It was useful to learn from him.
So I learned.
It was so satisfying to see it on his face when he realized his mistake. That he had underestimated me my entire life.
Whenever I think of the faces of the children, my nieces and nephews and cousins, I replace them with that of my father. The realization of his hubris, his miscalculation.
It made every year in this shithole worth it.
I think only of my father as I nail his wings to the wall, muttering spells beneath my breath.
I think only of my father.
I think of the Kejari.
I think of a crown on my head.
I do not have regrets.
I do not have regrets.
I couldn’t breathe. My stomach churned. I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t feel.
My hand hurt—Mother, my hand hurt so fucking much. It was that pain that rooted me back to the world, and I clung to it. I forced my eyes open. My vision was blurry, as if I’d just been staring directly into the sun, though this tower was still dim with only the warm beginnings of sunrise slipping through the shattered stone.
I looked down.
My hand was covered in blood. I flipped it over to see that I’d been clutching the pendant, so tightly that the sharp edges had carved a perfect imprint of the crescent moon into my palm.
What the hell had just—
“Do you know,” a light, childlike voice came from behind me, “how long I have been trying to access that?”
A chill fell over me.
I forced myself to my feet and was rewarded with a wave of dizziness so strong I staggered against the wall. I righted myself and turned to see Evelaena standing silhouetted against the sunlight, one of her child companions, a stoic-faced little boy, beside her.
Fuck.
It was past dawn. How could they be here?
The beginnings of sunburns—a dark, purplish cast—had started on Evelaena’s cheeks, though she wore a heavy cloak with the hood pulled low over her face. Her wings were creamy, fleshy pink, and the burns on them were worse, especially since the cloak couldn’t have covered them as she was flying.
If they bothered her, though, she didn’t show it. She didn’t blink. Her blue eyes were wide and eerily bright in the dim light, smile tight and unwavering.
She was looking at me like I was something to be devoured. Like she wanted to peel my face off and wear it over her own.
“I discovered it about a decade ago, you see,” she chirped. “It wasn’t there two-hundred years ago. I knew it was his right away. He must have come without telling me, must have—” She blinked, like she lost her train of thought mid-sentence. “But I could never open it.”
I said nothing.
Drip, as my blood hit the stone floor.
The child’s eyes locked to it. His throat bobbed. Evelaena’s nostrils flared.
I slid the pendant into my pocket and reached for my blade. I tried not to show it, but I was still leaning against the wall. My head ached with the exertion of forcing my eyes to focus. Fragments of—of whatever I had experienced when I touched the pendant slipped into the corners of my vision without my permission, a gritty, grainy version of the world.
“And the wings,” she added, still not blinking. “How interesting.”
Drip.
My blood hit the ground again.
The child lunged for me.
He was fast. I barely had time to respond before he was on me, teeth sinking into my arm. I let out a curse and flung myself against the wall, sending him careening to the stone.
Move, little serpent, Vincent whispered to me, hurriedly. Move. She’s coming for you.
I knew she was. She was coming and I couldn’t move quickly enough.
I heard her before I saw her. I whirled around as fast as I could, nearly sending myself back into the stone, lashing out at her with my blades. I caught flesh—her arm.
She drew back, face contorted into a hiss. She wielded a rapier, similar in style to the one Vincent had once wielded. Not a coincidence, I was sure.
I barely managed to deflect her when she lunged again.
My body felt as if it was a half-step disconnected from my mind. My wings, which I had no idea how to disappear, drastically altered my balance. Evelaena was no great warrior, certainly not compared to those I fought in the Kejari—but she was still strong and fast, her movements eerily similar to Vincent’s in style. Efficient, precise, graceful—but half a step from bloodlust, sloppier with every drop of my blood.