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The Rise of Deragon (The Deragon Duology #2) 46 84%
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46

Madden

P andora has been suspiciously calm since I broke the news about her father.

I remember the day I learned for certain what had happened to him. Four years and seven months underground, I’d caught wind of a conversation between Jericho and Venus in their suites after Duchess Geneva had excused herself early from dinner. Their trick door was a tapestry hung on the western wall, so while I couldn’t see their faces, the canvas didn’t diffuse the sound of their voices.

“She looked sick,” Jericho had remarked.

To which his wife had insisted, “It’s nothing.”

“You only say that when you know something.”

“I know that you don’t want to start down this path.”

“I thought there were no secrets between us—”

“It’s Kurt’s birthday,” she finally blurted out, and the room went ghastly quiet. “Or it was yesterday. It’s the first year that Geneva missed it, and the guilt is eating her alive.”

It had been a span of several minutes before either of them spoke again to the point where I feared they’d heard my breathing somehow. Jericho eventually broke the silence. “She told me she forgave me. Was she lying?”

Venus pondered on the thought for a minute. “No, my love. If she were lying, she wouldn’t still be bothering to hide the truth from Pandora; she’d poison her against you. Deep down, I think it’s herself she can’t forgive, because it’s one thing to look past your choices. It’s another thing entirely to rationalize what she’s done for us already in addition to what she’s unknowingly doing now.”

Jericho made a noise as if to say, “And what is that? ”

“She’s forgetting him, Jericho—and maybe that’s a good thing. For your sake, I recommend you forget about him, too.”

My heart shattered for a girl I hadn’t gotten to share a conversation with, yet I knew her so intimately. I pictured how Pandora’s lips would quiver before they gave way to tears. I wondered how foul her language would turn as she rattled the sky with her rage.

And yet, when I revealed the final, terrible truth I’d gathered from underground . . . nothing.

In fact, Pandora insisted that she was fine. That the news felt like a drop of water in a very deep bucket. That she never knew him anyway, so what did it matter how he died if everyone else had moved on.

Only I know it matters. They never offered Pandora the chance to have closure—and given that her entire upbringing was impacted by Kurt Prokium’s death, she deserved to know.

I know better than to be greedy or handsy with Pandora after news like this, especially when there’s likely a visceral reaction building beneath the surface. Maybe she doesn’t know it yet, but I do. I sense what I cannot see, what she does a stellar job of hiding. But I also know better than to bring her back to Andromeda House too soon.

So instead, I take her back to the docks to fish, or to the gardens to pick berries. Despite never having picked up the former hobby, she’s surprisingly good at reeling in a few sizable cod—likely because she’s patient, but also because she’s strong. Stronger than anybody gives her credit for.

Pandora Deragon proves to be most formidable when she’s quiet. The kind of woman people ought to silence themselves for when she stops participating in discussions. The kind of woman who could summon a storm with a single word—and with the blessing she inherited from Marzipan, I can only imagine the devastation and weight each of her words carry now.

And it’s that understanding that now has me leading the two of us into the massive library on property. I was just beginning to learn how to read when everything had come crashing down, so it took me a few tries to find this place, but Pandora didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seemed at home within the extra bouts of silence as we perused the halls.

The moment she crosses the threshold, however, Pandora hurdles for the oldest looking tomes, likely to test theories her newfound blessing has already proven factual. Sure enough, the minute I come behind her and scan the pages, I confirm they aren’t printed in either of our native languages.

“Fascinating,” Pandora sighs, no tinge of sadness lingering there. Only curiosity.

“What does it say, angel?”

My name for her makes her cheeks pinken. “I’m not truly reading yet, just . . . getting used to seeing foreign text with my eyes even though my brain comprehends everything so flawlessly.” She goes quiet for a moment before shutting the book and sliding it back into its spot. She fans at the dust that scatters in response. “Say something in your language, Madden.”

“ Non ci sono limiti al mio amore per te ,” I tell her seamlessly.

A small sound reminiscent to a hiccup bubbles out of her in surprise, and the blush in her face deepens. “ Stai attento, Madden. La tua voce in questa lingua mi fa delle cose .”

“I bet it does,” I whisper before stealing a kiss. I lean in too far and tip her backwards, but I catch her just as she loses her balance. The feel of her tightly grasping my shoulders reminds me so much of the way she’d clung to me days before, pleading with me to keep her this happy and unhinged forever. A wicked smile creeps across my lips at the memory. “Maybe I’ll tell you how good you feel in my language next time.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she whispers before coming back for more—

Something groans from a faraway corridor, and the sound has Pandora ducking out of my arms. On high alert, she waits for something else to alert its presence, but all that remains is silence.

“Maybe something fell over,” I reason.

Pandora isn’t entirely convinced, but when we both straighten out, she looks over me again. Her eyes snag on my casual state of dress save for the sword on my back. I’d given her my fishing pole this morning and resorted to spearing whatever I could catch, but I can tell that she’s still enthralled by it. “Were you hiding that thing under your cloaks all this time?”

The innocence in her voice makes my grin deepen. “Perhaps.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“You think so?”

She nods eagerly. “What’s its name? I assume you name all your weapons?”

Of course she remembers , my heart beams, and I unsheathe the weapon from behind my back. She assesses its density upon first touch, but her intrigue only sparks further as she wraps her fist around the hilt. “Hellfire.”

“Named after what the pain feels like to face it head-on?”

“Precisely.”

Pandora pauses for a moment, looking over the sword with a dark reverence that I can’t read clearly. All I know is her studious gaze pierces something within me. “Maybe I ought to have one, too,” she proposes shyly.

I’m one step ahead of her, reaching into my jacket. “I agree, you should have something to protect you, but nothing as overtly large as Hellfire. Something you can conceal easily.”

When her eyes befall the weapon I have in mind, Pandora quickly trades Hellfire for the gleaming dagger I present her.

She studies the blade with an expert’s eye, assessing the gleam of the silvery, sharp end. The golden hilt flickers in the faint, evening sun, but it’s the bloodred jewel in its center that truly fascinates Pandora. The mythical prism stares back at her, and when her eyes go wide, I almost fear that she knows exactly where I found it.

But she shakes her head, as if to convince herself that whatever thoughts started to arise in her mind, they were ridiculous and did not deserve any more of her attention. “Crimson,” she mumbles.

“I thought a piece of home would comfort you, even if the object itself isn’t comforting.”

Though her responding laugh is subdued, it sends warmth through my aching bones. “Why give me this now?” she asks hesitantly.

“I feel confident enough that you won’t disembowel me with it.”

“You thought I’d be able to successfully take you down?”

She has no clue. Pandora has no earthly idea that she didn’t need a weapon to best me. She could sink me with a song. She did —the first night she played the harp I commissioned for her and sang for me—it was a miracle I didn’t surrender right there and then.

“Don’t act so modest. I saw you train in Broadcove. I may have you in size and in stealth, but you have me in speed.”

You just have me, my lungs beg me to speak aloud.

Then, Pandora mutters to herself, her voice wistful and contemplative, “Perhaps I should name mine, too.”

I refasten Hellfire and give her the necessary quiet she desires to comb through her initial ideas, swallowing the urge to provide any suggestions. It’s not that I think she’ll come up with something bad , per se, but I fear the prospect of her naming a dagger something painstakingly unoriginal. Ruby, for instance, after the glimmering stone in the center of its hilt.

Then again, perhaps I should just be thankful that Pandora didn’t immediately recognize the blade from her aunt’s jewelry trove.

“Heart Punisher,” Pandora finally settles on.

Pride swells within me at the name, and Hellfire grazes the slope of my shoulder in equal acknowledgement. “It’s perfect.”

+

I wake up shivering, and when I reach for Pandora, my hands fumble with sheets and empty space.

“Angel?” I yawn, hoping my head deceives me, still in the haze of sleep.

But a passing glance towards the rusted nightside table—to the vacant surface where Heart Punisher used to lie—sends me skyrocketing out of bed. I don’t bother hunting down a shirt or a pair of shoes before I start tearing through the dusty halls.

“Pandora!” I don’t bother keeping my voice calm. “Pandora—”

Suddenly, a voice drifts from down the hall, its words unintelligible, but distinctly frantic. A beat later, I make light of its tone—pleading.

“ Pandora !” I roar. “Tell me that you’re safe!”

The voice cries out again, the words more distinct this time. Right as I make them out, I realize that they don’t belong to Pandora at all. The next ones do, though, and whatever they are, they’re said on a vicious sneer.

She’s making one last stand.

“ PANDORA —”

A gruesome noise echoes from the hallway to my right, and I dive headfirst towards the source in hopes of reaching Pandora before she starts screaming or gushing blood. The door flies off its hinges as I burst into the room.

Pandora doesn’t lay crumpled on the floor nor trapped in the corner.

No, she stands with her back turned, Heart Punisher pointing down in a death grip, scarlet dripping from the tip of the blade.

“What happened?” I ask roughly.

Pandora says nothing, merely turning her head to look me in the eyes—revealing the blood coating her beautiful face crimson.

“I got even.”

I sidestep her to see who she’s slain in the night, only to thrum with horrified excitement as I take in the body.

Thatcher Chumley aged rather poorly after jumping ship to the Urovian cause, but seeing the traitor in a bloodied heap on the ground fills me with an undeniable sense of pride. Pandora had all the control in this altercation, all the power. I don’t know how Chumley found us here, nor why he thought it’d be smart to intervene, but Pandora standing tall amidst her first kill is . . . electrifying.

I got even.

I shot Ardian Asticova—a man born of Mosacian blood and bred into Urovia. In a way, I slaughtered one of my own, but I did it for her. To get her away from them.

But Pandora . . . she didn’t kill for me like I did for her. She did it for herself . And somehow, that’s a hundred times more enticing.

Pandora stares after me, her eyes unblinking and smoldering, and it’s only then that I remember she might be in shock.

“Are you okay?”

“They have my mother.”

All the air drains out of the room.

“Venus and Jericho have my mother locked in their cells, awaiting trial alongside her companion. Then, Chumley told me that if I cooperated—if I went with him and abandoned you—they would agree to grant Mother a full pardon.”

And then, Pandora Deragon’s blood-drenched frown curves upward, into a disturbed smile.

“Funny how quickly they forget what they taught me. We don’t negotiate with people who think threatening us earns them anything ,” she recites, mimicking Venus so well it’s almost eerie. “If this were a rescue mission, Chumley wouldn’t be transferring a message. He’d be dragging me out of this palace kicking and screaming. They’ve made it clear that they only care about me if I’m disobeying their orders, so I’m done playing nice. They want a ruthless heir? I’ll give them one. They want me to come home? I’ll come home—and I’ll rain hell down on their doorstep so they know exactly why I’ve come back.”

Fury scorches the kind soul I had always seen in the depths of her brown eyes, and I try to mask the awe blooming in my chest at the strength she exhibits, failing miserably. “And if anyone stands in your way?”

I don’t bother saying Jericho’s name aloud, not when the mere implication of him might send her spiraling further. Even so, apathy paints a seductive smile over her full lips before she presses them against my mouth, the touch warm compared to an answer that feels like frostbite.

“Let’s hope their headstones will accept my condolences,” she finally returns.

My angel of music, prepared for whatever battle between flesh and blood comes our way.

My angel of death.

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