Chapter 79

Chapter 79
“I don’t know yet,” I said honestly, trying not to meet his eyes. “But maybe.”

Thunder cracked again. He didn’t press.

We walked the rest of the way in tense silence, and when we reached the edge of the Rift, I looked back one last time.

“Next time,” I muttered, “we bring more firepower.”

“I thought you were the firepower.”

“I am. But I like backup.”

When we finally emerged from the Rift’s edge, the rain had started to fall again, soft at first, then heavier, as if the sky itself wept in exhaustion. The guards stationed near the camp were stunned at our return, their eyes widening at the state of us—soaked, burnt, bloodied, but victorious.

Sort of.

I handed the golden flower to our healer and told her to guard it with her life. Damian collapsed onto a bench, his hair soaked and crown slipping slightly. I joined him, still buzzing with residual lightning under my skin.

“I don’t know about you,” I said, “but I’m eating three whole chickens when we get back.”

“You’ll share?”

“Hell no.”

He laughed, deep and genuine, and for a moment, there was no war, no Rift, no treacherous fathers or kingdoms on the brink.

Just two broken souls trying to pretend we weren’t.

Returning to the capital was supposed to feel victorious.

We had survived a rift crawling with blood-hungry orcs, goblins with too many teeth, and shadow beasts that whispered my name in the dark. We secured the rare golden flower that was rumored to cure even the vilest of curses. We did our duty. We risked our lives.

And yet, the moment our carriage rolled through the grand gates of Aetheria, the capital welcomed us with stiff silence and side-eyes sharp enough to cut through chainmail.

Nobles lined the promenade like peacocks on parade, their ornate cloaks flapping in the breeze, gossip hanging off their painted lips like pearls. Some bowed. Most whispered.

I caught snippets as we passed.

“Is that the mage girl?”
“She’s the bastard’s daughter, isn’t she?”
“He went into the Rift with her? Bold.”
“That’s Prince Damian’s blood on his collar, I swear—look at it!”
“Do you think she cursed the King just to cure him and gain power?”

I leaned out the carriage window and offered them a dazzling smile, lightning humming at my fingertips for dramatic flair.

“You can stare or you can kneel, your choice!” I called sweetly.

Damian snorted beside me. “Very diplomatic.”

“I’m in no mood for diplomacy. We almost died for this kingdom and all they offer is lip.”

He leaned his head back against the velvet cushion and closed his eyes. “They’re scared. You terrify them.”

“Good,” I muttered. “Fear keeps people from doing stupid things.”

“Then you must be the patron saint of deterrence.”

The palace loomed ahead—white stone and gold spires, too pristine for the kind of mess we were about to drag into it. Rain had stopped, but the skies remained the color of bruised steel. Even the sun seemed reluctant to bear witness.

As we dismounted, royal guards flanked us immediately. One of them, Sir Valen—tall, stiff, and permanently annoyed—bowed shallowly.

“The King awaits you in the healing hall. The court physician has already prepared for the transfer of the flower’s essence.”

I held up the case containing the golden bloom. “He better not mess this up. That thing nearly cost us our limbs.”

Sir Valen winced. “Your… limbs?”

“I said what I said.”

We strode through the palace corridors like a pair of bloody war gods—mud on our boots, battle-smoke in our cloaks, and murder in our eyes. Servants scattered like frightened pigeons. I didn’t even bother hiding my exhaustion or the bloodstains dried into my sleeves.

Inside the healing hall, the King lay pale and unmoving, wrapped in layers of enchanted cloth. The curse had been eating him slowly, thread by thread. His lips were dark, veins pulsing with black tendrils of corrupted mana.

Prince Damian hesitated at the doorway.

“My father’s condition worsened yesterday,” he murmured. “He barely opened his eyes when I visited last. If this doesn’t work…”

I turned to him. “It will.”

He stared at me for a long moment, jaw tight. Then gave a nod.

The physician—an older woman with kind eyes and perpetually ink-stained fingers—stepped forward. “The flower must be placed into the sanctified cauldron. It will take hours to extract the serum.”

“I’ll stay,” I said.

“Me too,” Damian added.

The physician eyed us both. “Then let’s begin.”

Hours later

The potion gleamed a soft gold in the moonlight. The King stirred.

I stood to the side, exhausted, my magic finally ebbing into stillness, but I remained alert. Damian knelt by his father’s bedside, one hand clenched into a fist.

The King opened his eyes.

“Father,” Damian whispered, voice cracking.

The King blinked slowly, then shifted his gaze toward me. “The mage…”

“I have a name,” I said flatly, “but I understand curses scramble memories.”

He actually smiled—a weak, ghost of a smile, but a smile nonetheless. “You remind me of your mother.”

That made my blood go cold.

Damian’s head whipped toward me. “What did he just say?”

“Don’t start,” I muttered, my voice low.

The King coughed. “She was fierce. Wild. Magic ran through her like wildfire. I warned your father not to cross her…”

I took a step back, unsure if I was furious or just unraveling. “We came here to cure you, not to relive your past sins.”

“I owe you,” he said.

“I don’t want your gratitude. I want the truth.”

The physician stepped in quickly. “He needs rest. The cure is working but it will take time.”

Damian turned to me once we left the healing chamber. “Abby… what was that?”

I shrugged off my cloak. “Your father knew my mother. Knew her well enough to remember her when half his mind was rotting. That’s not coincidence.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. “Do you think—?”

“I know my father had something to do with that curse. And now? He’s been feeding the nobles false stories. About me. About you. About how I’m dangerous and using magic to control you.”

Damian frowned. “My spies said the same.”

“Good. Because if my father wants to make me his enemy, I’ll give him a reason.”

He looked alarmed. “Abby—”

“No,” I snapped. “I’m done being quiet. I’m done pretending I don’t know he’s working with warlords and poison-tongued councilmen. He sent assassins after you, Damian. And maybe after me.”

“I can protect you.”

I turned to him slowly. “I don’t want protection. I want retribution.”

He studied me for a long moment, then gave a faint, crooked smile.

“You scare me.”

“Good,” I said again. “That means you’re finally seeing me clearly.”