“Funny, coming from an Arkani.” Sylas scoffs. “Our magic is our consequence. Death magic sacrifices the Mortemagi, and Aspieri are brainwashed to think that death is honorable during fights and somehow above survival. What consequences dotheyhave for their magic? None. If they run out of magic, they refill it with dust, and they can make dust out of anything.”
“I told him I’ll testify that there was no Mortemagi,” I blurt out, meeting his eyes.
“You can’t do that.” He echoes his brother’s words.
“I only have two, maybe three more years left to live.” A shiver crawlsdown my spine as I speak. Somehow, with Sylas in front of me, the words weigh heavier. I thought I had come to terms with dying, but the dread curling in my chest begs to differ.
“Viola…” Sylas’s worried gaze stirs a low, warm feeling in my belly. I still don’t know what to make of us: not quite friends, not quite more. I’m used to the cold, calculating, and volatile Sylas, not the calm, understanding, and concerned one.
“Ouch,” Beau groans, drawing our attention. He hands the dagger back to Sylas and flattens his bloody palm on the crest to the right of the door. At first, it faintly lights up. Then it burns fiery red as the door opens with a high-pitched scrape.
“Wait here,” Beau says. But Sylas is already following him into the darkness.
“He’s not so bad, you know?” Lyria rests her head on my shoulder. “Losing Dad was tough for him.” She blinks and a warm tear trickles down my arm. “He carries Dad’s death as his personal failure. And now, a unit was killed, and Gryff is in recovery for weeks because of his actions…”
“What happened with your dad?” I ask. Then I realize I’m overstep-ping and immediately apologize. “You don’t have to—”
“Sylas disobeyed orders and ran into poachers. They were outnumbered, he and Gryff. Dad let go of Raiek to save Sylas, and a poacher killed him so fast that Railesza couldn’t heal him in time.”
Gods. I bring my hand to my mouth, tears prickling at my eyes. I feel sorry for him, for all of us, for having to live through the loss of our parents, our family, and our friends. We were all children, robbed of our innocence too young.
“As I was saying…” She clears her throat. “He’s not a bad person. You should give him a chance.”
“He hates my magic,” I murmur.
“Death magic killed Mom,” she whispers. “But you aren’t the worst of your magic. I’d argue you’re the best of it.”
I want to tell her that if I could scrape the magic from my veins, I would. What good has it brought me other than heartbreak and misery?
Before I can reply to her, Beau steps back out, his face beaming like the sun. Around his arm is a shiny emerald aspier.
Lyria’s jaw drops. “Haal, she’s even more stunning in person. No offense to you, Railesza,” she calls back into the vault.
“Vi, this is Briar, my father’s healing aspier,” Beau introduces her.
Lyria reaches for the aspier, but Briar pulls back, cocking her head. Then, slowly, she rubs against Lyria’s finger. “She’s a healer like Railesza,” Lyria says softly. Briar’s scales are sharply woven along her slender body. Her emerald is lighter than Railesza’s, and her eyes lean more yellow than green.
A moment later, Sylas joins us, brushing spiderwebs from his jacket, Railesza coiled around his left arm again. He tousles his raven-black hair, shuddering as he steps out of the crypt. “With all the money we sink into the Balish economy you’dthinkthey’d clean these things.”
“How many aspiers are there?” I ask.
Beau shrugs. “More than there are Aspieri, for certain. Our books say that in the beginning, Haal granted all Aspieri three aspiers. It’s not until Gorhail was founded that the singular aspier became common practice. Then you have Sylas, who needs to be special.”
“You ass.” Sylas loops his arm around Beau’s neck, ruffling his hair. Lyria pushes her way in the middle, wrapping her arms around both of them. I smile, watching them make their way through the paths, taking a different route than the stairs we came down.
My steps lag behind. The lavish decor of some of these mausoleums brings me pause; how important must the dead be for them to have a whole city in which to rest. Magic is so deeply rooted in family history— something that’s forever lost to me.
As I cross over to another section, a dull, golden plaque glues me in place.
The Corvi name twinkles under the low light, our House crest above it. I look around, and my eyes fall on the statue of a raven standing on a short pillar to the right of the black marbled mausoleum. The raven’s sapphire eyes burn into mine, daring me to take a step forward.
I do.
The raven blinks. Impossible. It’s but a statue, guarding the bodies of the dead. My fingers caress the top of its head, running down the length of its beak, when something sharp pricks my finger, spilling blood in the small stone bowl that sits in front of it. The raven’s eyes turn red, and the door scrapes open.
I hold my breath.
This could be a trap. Poachers could be waiting inside, ready to kill meand take my cuff. But my legs are ensorcelled, and the faint light coming from the inside lures me through the door.