All the Sacrifice of Shadows (Starstorm #2)

Chapter 34

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

B rackroth had not changed in the least—it was still dismal, dreary, and damp.

Creslyn missed the sunlight and sparkling blue skies of Aeramere. She missed the warmth of the sun upon her skin, even when there was a chill in the air. Here, there were no seasons. It was cold and wet, then colder and wetter. There was no escaping it. How anyone could choose to live and even thrive in Brackroth was beyond her. She once thought herself capable of ruling here alongside Drake, but the cost to her own peace of mind would have been great. Its morose aura, its gloomy climate, begat misery and despondency.

It was a good thing Drake had promised to return with her to Aeramere once she was done with this bloody business of murdering a king. No crown was worth such a spiritless existence.

Svartos touched down near Dragnott Lair, further from Castle Brackroth than Creslyn would have liked. She had hoped to have the element of surprise, even if perhaps a small one, on her side. But now, King Marius would undoubtedly know they’d returned before they made it back to the castle.

Drake reached up, his large hands capturing her waist as he lifted her from the dragon’s back. She pinned him with a knowing look. “I told you I had business with the king.”

“And I have business with my dragons.” He took her hand, leading her toward the wide opening of a tunnel carved deep into the rugged mountain’s face.

“Dragons,” Creslyn repeated as they passed at least a dozen dragon riders, none of whom dared to glance her way. They kept their heads down, their eyes averted, murmuring hushed greetings as Drake strolled further into the lair. “We’re going to see the dragons?”

Torches lined the jagged walls, casting the uneven ground in a fiery orange glow, much like the flames Svartos controlled. Despite the frigid cold of Brackroth, it was almost excessively warm within the lair. Beads of sweat slid down Creslyn’s neck, rolling along her shoulders and slipping down her spine. Tapered spires of curving stone plunged down from the high ceiling, where drops of water dripped from their sharp points, spattering against the rough path in a puddle of steam. Her stomach fluttered, fraught with nerves.

“It’s time I paid them a visit.” Drake guided her around a corner, away from the high-pitched screeches she could only assume were the cries of the whelps. “Besides, how else will you choose one of your own?”

She drew up short.

“Choose one?” She practically squealed, clamping one hand over her mouth as the sound of her excitement echoed through the lair. “You’re giving me a dragon?”

Drake’s full lips curved into a slow smile. “Why else would I put you in leathers if not to give you a dragon of your own?”

Creslyn threw her arms around his neck, rising on her toes to whisper into his ear. “And here I thought you merely enjoyed the way I looked in them.”

He grabbed a handful of her backside, giving her bottom a firm squeeze. “That, too.”

“Now,” he continued, tucking a lock of hair back behind her ear, “dragons are capricious creatures, you must?—”

“I’ve already made my choice.”

“You have?”

“Yes.” She nodded once with absolute resolution. “I want Astrylys.”

“I thought you might.” Drake tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow as they ventured further into the winding tunnel.

“How long have you commanded the dragons?” she asked, curiosity piqued. He spoke so rarely of them, of their origins, yet he seemed to have quite the fondness for them. “And what will become of them when we leave for Aeramere?”

In the haunting glow of torchlight, his forbidden green eyes darkened, taking on the color of a somber, silent forest.

“The dragons were here long before man laid claim to this land. Before Marius, before the bloodline predating him took its first breath. When I arrived, all that stood was the castle, built with stone capable of withstanding immense heat. Or fire. There are rumors surrounding its creation. Some claim the witches used magic so that the dragons could not burn it to ash, others believe it was the will of the gods.” Drake chuckled, low and unamused. “I doubt Valorahan had anything to do with it.”

Creslyn peered up at him, squinting in the dim light. “What is Valorahan?”

“It is where the people of the Northernlands believe they go once they die. A place of revered respect, an afterlife for those deemed worthy, where they wait for their souls to be reborn.” There was an edge to his tone, a layer of doubt.

“Oh yes, Kjeld spoke of Valorahan to me when we first met. It sounds much like an eternal paradise for souls of the brave and gallant. Like the fae have Maghmell.” She glanced up at Drake. “You do not believe such a place exists?”

“What I believe does not matter. There is only what is, and what is not.” He lifted her hand from his arm, pressing a featherlight kiss across her knuckles that sent her pulse skittering. “The shadow realm has shown me many things. What are gods, stars, and fates if not ancient stories woven by folklore and myth, then shaped to fit the beliefs of one society?”

“Yet here you stand before me, a god of shadow and prophecy.” She threaded their fingers together, tucking their joined hands beneath her chin. “Far more real than a story.”

“In time, kearsta , I too will be forgotten.” His lips brushed over hers. Once. Twice. “We all will.”

Before she could object, he continued speaking, his cadence almost musical, his accent heavy.

“The dragons do not fear me, perhaps because they recognize me for my true self.” He shrugged, but the movement was stiff, wrought with tension. “When we leave this place, we will take only Svartos and Astrylys to Aeramere. If the dragons wish to follow us, they may. If they choose to reclaim their homeland, then I will not stop them. Their wisdom spans centuries. Either way, they will know that I will not return to Brackroth.”

Creslyn’s heart twinged, ached for the dragons who might be left behind, the pang growing more severe as she thought of the citizens who would be left to fend for themselves once she took Marius’s life. “What of the people?”

“They are of no concern to me.” His voice was cold. Leaden. “I am not their prince, nor their god.”

They approached a den of rubble and what appeared to be a large pile of shimmering diamonds.

“Here she is.” Drake gestured to the waking dragon. “Your Astrylys.”

Creslyn held her breath as the magnificent beast rose, stretching her fibrous wings that gleamed like crushed moonstone. Astrylys sat up, shifting in such slow, fluid movements that her silver scales looked to be crafted from moonlight. Each flicker of torchlight cast her in a glow of iridescence, from her long neck to her onyx claws, and her piercing blue eyes with horizontal obsidian slits for pupils latched onto Creslyn.

Astrylys inhaled deeply then huffed, the heat of her breath sending Creslyn’s hair flying behind her.

From beside her, Drake murmured, “Easy, girl.”

Creslyn would not be so bold as to assume she could simply claim a dragon as her own. She imagined the bond between rider and dragon would need to be mutual, a kinship would need to be formed, a binding between one of magic and one of fire.

She carefully held out her hand, palm up, hating the way she could not keep herself from trembling.

Astrylys angled her head, bending lower, sniffing her open palm.

“You saved me once,” Creslyn whispered, and the dragon’s ears twitched. “You heard my pleas, and you saved me. I owe you my life.”

She stared into the startling blue eyes and did not blink. Did not falter.

“I choose you…if you’ll have me.”

Astrylys lowered herself even further, nuzzling the side of her head against Creslyn’s outstretched hand. Her scales were smooth yet rough, and cool to the touch. Her hand was so small, so slight, compared to the majestic creature.

She ran the pads of her fingers across the glimmering scales once more and smiled. “My Astrylys.”

Creslyn looked back over her shoulder to where Drake stood nearby, watching the interaction with an expression of subdued pride. Her husband had set her free. Though it was painstaking and devastating, he’d helped her unleash all that she wished to embody, all that she longed to become. And now, she would do the same for him.

Drake held her gaze, then dipped his head.

It was time.

Creslyn stalked through Castle Brackroth with Drake by her side, its dank halls eerily silent. No doubt King Marius had been informed of their arrival, and if she had to guess, he was preparing for a fight. Unfortunately for him, it would be his last. There were no servants, no guards, no hushed whispers or muttered conversations. Only the pattering of rain against the grimy windows could be heard, that and the measured timing of her breathing. She inhaled with purpose, exhaled with vengeance.

Drake had armed her with a sword, and she kept one hand wrapped tightly around its hilt as they strode toward the throne room.

The arching double doors carved of rich oak stood before them, and Drake paused, taking her arm. “A king is not so easily slain.”

She met his imploring gaze, unable to discern if he was attempting to sway her mind or warn her of their impending battle.

“I am aware of such matters.” She glanced toward the arched doors, anticipation firing through her. Rolling her neck, she loosened her shoulders, connected with the hum of magic coursing through her veins. “He deserves to feel my wrath.”

“And how, exactly, do you plan on doing this?”

She clasped one hand over her heart, feigning shock. “I am surprised you did not think to ask me sooner.”

Drake’s brows furrowed and his jaw popped. Most of his hair was pulled into a knot on top of his head, but a few strands fell loose, and though she itched to smooth them back, she kept her hand firmly planted on the hilt of her weapon.

“I’m asking now,” he ground out.

“It’s quite simple.” She tugged her arm free, then gave him the most sinister of smiles. “I will make him think he’s won.”

Without another word, without a backwards glance, she marched into the throne room.

Creslyn heaved the doors open, the aged wood groaning on its hinges as they swung wide, creaking loudly, drawing the attention of every soul in the room.

And there were many .

Dozens of soldiers filled the throne room, each of them decked in full armor of black with blood red sashes wrapped around their waists. They lined the walls in a multitude of rows, swords drawn and at the ready, helmets covering most of their faces so only the fierceness of their eyes could be seen. At least twenty stood before the dais, the rest were positioned by windows and other doors, barricading every exit, every means of escape.

Regrettably, Creslyn had not taken that into consideration.

King Marius stood from where he lounged on his throne, his round frame teetering as he ambled forward. His wrinkled face was twisted into a sneer, the crown sitting atop his bald head sagged, revealing spots of age and scraps of gray. He gripped his belt with both hands, likely to support the weight of his protruding stomach, as he descended the gray marble steps. His boots clicked noisily against the polished floor, and though her stomach clenched in disgust at the sight of him, Creslyn did not step back.

She sensed Drake directly behind her, found strength in the bond binding them together. It made no difference if every weapon in the room was aimed at her, if she could feel the burn of hate seeping from each soul who tracked her with guarded eyes. She had come here with one purpose, and she had no intention of leaving until King Marius’s body was lifeless on the ground, his blood staining her hands.

“Drake.” The king’s beady gaze drifted beyond Creslyn, then refocused on her. His mouth stretched wide in a hideous grin, displaying rotten, yellowed teeth. “And your faerie bitch, too. How lovely.”

He sauntered closer, appraising her. His black eyes roved over every inch of her, lingering on her hips and chest, and the sick bastard adjusted his belt once more.

Creslyn’s stomach soured. Her blood boiled.

“I see you’ve outfitted her in riding leathers.” The king licked his thin, cracked lips, and from behind her, Drake growled.

“Mind yourself,” he warned, his voice low and lethal.

But King Marius paid him no mind.

“Finally bending her to your will, are you?” he mused, breathing heavily, and the stench of stale alcohol and rot assaulted Creslyn’s nose. “Tell me, pretty little faerie, did he break you?”

She stiffened, steeling her spine. Her magic raged to the surface like an angry tide, but she tempered it, crushing its furious swell. “No one can break me.”

“We shall see about that.”

The king snapped his fingers, and Creslyn pulled her sword, but the soldiers were on her with lightning speed.

Metal clanged in her ears, the clash of weapons sending tremors down her arms. Her mind raced, reliving every move, every instruction Kjeld had taught her. She dodged and parried, stepping into each attack, swinging her sword with deadly accuracy. Her blade struck true, but where one guard fell, another quickly took his place. The tip of a dagger sliced across her shoulder, and sudden, stinging pain tore down her arm. Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, she spun away from the threat, only to find another guard rushing toward her. Her muscles ached and her head was spinning. Blurs of black and bloodied red were everywhere, their grunts and vile shouts a cacophonous noise that drowned out the sound of her own thoughts.

Creslyn kept her elbows up, using both hands to guide her weapon. Another streak of pain lanced across the back of her thigh, and she lurched forward, gasping as the cut of a blade sliced through her flesh. The healing property of her magic heated her blood, tending to the wounds on her arm and leg, but if she continued to take hits like this, she would fall too quickly. And she couldn’t very well kill the king if she was already dead.

Guards swarmed her, flashes of swords blinded her, but she continued to fight, each strike becoming more punishing than the last.

Off to her left, she could have sworn Drake shouted her name, but his voice was lost to her.

Something warm and sticky splattered against the side of her face, and she staggered backward, the metallic tang of blood filling the air.

Blood that did not belong to her.

Shadows swarmed the throne room, plunging into chaos around her, forming a pit of eternal darkness.

It was a cloak of velvet nightfall writhing with the promise of death. Shades of gray colored her vision as the shadows moved like serpents, snaring soldiers by their legs and arms, tearing their limbs from their bodies. Harrowing screams reverberated through the throne room as Drake’s power cleaved through the space, rendering them silent.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and Drake’s booming voice split through her mind with such force, the bond quaked.

“Use your magic!” he demanded. “ Now, Cres!”

Creslyn shook her head violently, blocking him out.

Not yet.

She had a plan, she had to make King Marius think he’d brought her to heel. And the only way to do so was to fall directly into his hands.

Pitching herself forward, she feigned a misstep, tumbling right into one of the guards closest to the king.

“I’ve got her!” the guard shouted, taking a fistful of her hair and yanking her head back. Splitting pain scoured her neck. streaking down her spine. “I’ve got the faerie!”

The edge of his finely honed blade pressed hard against her exposed throat, threatening to cut clean through her skin, so cold it burned. A whimper escaped her, and her sword clattered to the ground. She clawed at his forearm in a desperate attempt to free herself, but the soldier only tightened his grip, his sword dangerously close to breaking her skin.

Drake roared, his magic amplifying until the screams of the dying were too much to bear.

King Marius grabbed her by the upper arm, dragging her so close his scraggly beard scraped her cheek. “Cease your insufferable darkness at once, or I will end her pathetic life.”

The shadows evaporated, leaving behind a messy bloodbath in their wake.

In the center of it all stood Drake.

His eyes were wild, crazed with bloodlust. In one hand, he held the Shadowblade, in the other, a severed head. He dropped it at once, and Creslyn grimaced as it rolled across the sleek floor, smearing it with a trail of crimson. Chest heaving, he stared at her, and they both knew—one wrong move, and the king would slit her throat.

“That’s better.” King Marius released her arm and let out a low whistle. “Quite the mess you’ve made, Drake. I suppose I should have your wife clean it up…then again, I imagine I could find other ways for her to be of use.”

Drake snarled, and a vein along his temple pulsed in rage. His fury thundered down the bond and left her breathless. He sheathed the Shadowblade in one quick movement, his fists clenching by his side until his knuckles whitened.

“Trust me ,” she pleaded. “ You must trust me.”

He bared his teeth.

But the king was no longer looking at him, he was looking at her . “As for you, fae bitch…”

The remaining soldiers laughed cruelly, as though they already knew what was coming, like they were in on some wretched secret. The one who held her captive angled her head back further, his sword digging into her throat, so she was forced to look up at the king. She sucked in a painful breath.

King Marius stood before her and gave her a poisoned smile.

He dragged his rough knuckles across her cheek, and they came away scarlet. “If you wish to spend the rest of your days with my son and not with your head upon a stake, then I suggest you prove your loyalty.”

Creslyn swallowed the knot of trepidation lodged in the back of her throat and met him with malice of her own. “Drake is not your son.”

“Ah, he told you the truth, did he? That he’s nothing more than a common bastard?” King Marius chortled, his large stomach jiggling as he ran a hand down his beard.

“He is more than you will ever be.”

The king snatched her chin, squeezing so hard with his gnarled fingers, tears spilled down her cheeks. “On your knees, faerie whore. And prove your loyalty to your king.”

Drake roared.

King Marius reached for his belt again, except this time he unbuckled it. For one horrendous moment, she thought he meant to whip her. Until his knobby fingers reached for the top button of his pants, and it was only then she realized with absolute horror the act with which he intended to force upon her. The bulge in his pants caused her stomach to heave.

Creslyn spat on him. “A fae kneels for no man.”

Her magic exploded in a catastrophic sunstorm. The soldier holding her hostage screamed, releasing her as he fled. She aimed all her power, all her might, at the king. Radiant beams of sunlight shattered his hideous body, scorching him, scouring him. His screams brought her solace. Thrusting both of her arms forward, she channeled that fury, that raw darkness she’d come to accept, directly at his vile soul. Sharpened spears of rainbows blasted from within, and she drew on the well of magic, siphoning all of it in his direction until the stench of charred flesh hung heavy in the air. Light erupted in the room, swerving around her in an impenetrable sphere, in a flurry of tumultuous beauty.

Guards ran, clambering over one another to flee from her, lest they be burned to death. Their shouts and fearful screams were deafening, filling the throne room until her head pulsed and pounded.

“Creslyn!” Drake shouted as he leapt over dead bodies, sprinting to her side. But she ignored him.

Streak after streak of magic blasted into the king’s burnt, lifeless body. His flesh was all but melted from his skin. His clothing was nothing more than soot and cinders. Bones protruded from the singed remains, crumbling to ash. Exhaustion clawed at her and her arms dropped, her knees wobbling. Though her body swayed, she managed to remain upright. To hold her ground. Finally, once she had nothing left, her magic waned. Tiny shadows crept into the sphere, soothing the anguish, calming the storm. They cocooned her, wrapping around her so she grew limp.

So tired.

So weary.

“Creslyn.” Drake remained motionless. He did not reach for her. He did not offer his hand. He simply waited for her magic to subside, waited for her to come back to him.

She tore her gaze away from the dead king at her feet and looked up into a pair of mesmerizing eyes.

“Drake?” Her throat was scratchy, rough like gravel and stone.

“Yes, kearsta ?”

She shivered. “I’d like to go home now.”

Drake said nothing. He scooped her into his arms, and she collapsed into the strength of him, her head lolling against his shoulder.

She inhaled softly, breathing in the comforting scent of frozen mountains and the promise of snow.

“Rest now, sjellhert .” His words were a lullaby, a balm to her soul.

Her eyes closed, weighted with fatigue. She would not think about what she had done. She would not think about the permeating reek of blood or the lifeless eyes of the dead. No, she would allow none of those things to haunt her. She would fall into a dreamless sleep, in her husband’s arms, and only one thought would stay with her.

“I love you, Drake.”

Creslyn could have sworn he said something in return, something she did not understand, and his voice faded as she slipped into a peaceful abyss.