Children of Fallen Gods (The War of Lost Hearts Book 2) Carissa Broadbent (best book recommendations txt) 📖

And I let my grief become rage.

Epilogue

Nura was tired.

She had attended several coronations. When she was very young, she attended the coronation of Sesri’s father. Then the spiritual coronation of Sesri’s advisors, and the official coronation of Sesri, after that. She had, thankfully, missed Zeryth’s — probably best for everyone — but she could imagine the sort of affair that had been.

This? This had been unlike any of them.

She had knelt, solemn, as the head advisor placed the crown on her brow, and what she had seen in the eyes of the crowd was not excited hope, but petrified fear. The celebration, if one could call it that, had been staid and quiet, heavy with hushed whispers. It had broken up early. That was fine with her. Nura had never been good at celebrating. And now, so much weighed upon her mind that it seemed like a poor use of time, anyway.

People were terrified. How could they not be? They had just found out their country was at war with a mythological race that they had all thought to be five-hundred-years extinct. There was nothing more terrifying than that, especially when they had all already seen the reality of the danger.

The aftermath of the battle of the Scar had been horrific. Most of the Syrizen had been slaughtered. Dozens of civilians died when the Scar fell in, unsettling the Orders outbuildings built on top of it. It was a miracle that Nura had survived. Nura, and—

She pulled her mind away.

She couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw visions of destruction, of what the Fey would do to Ara if she failed.

She rose from her chair and went to the mirror. It was a gaudy thing, decorated with gold and jewels. Everything in the Palace was gold. The Towers were not exactly the most welcoming place, but over time, she had managed to make them her home. The Palace, though, was an entirely different matter. It seemed like the walls themselves were judging her. This mirror certainly was. The woman who stared back at her was gaunt and exhausted. Her burn scars were visible beneath the loose drape of her nightgown. A new scar now ran from her cheek down over her jaw, a gift from the collapse. She now had to mask a permanent limp, too, and a headache that had followed her for the last three weeks straight.

Still. She was lucky.

Unlike—

She pulled her mind away. No. She had to walk.

She put on a robe, careful to wrap it tight enough to cover the burns at the base of her throat, and slipped out the door. She padded barefoot down marble-floored hallways. The portraits on the wall seemed to follow her with disapproving stares.

She went to the throne room. It was a beautiful space. Massive stained-glass windows adorned the far wall. During the day, they cast glittering multi-colored sunlight across the entire interior. Now, the moonlight dipped the floor in a mournful blue, the world reduced to icy monochrome.

Nura reached the bottom of the stairs and turned. For a moment, her heart caught in her throat. Then she swallowed and ascended the dais. Slowly lowered herself into the throne.

The view from up here was stunning. She could see the entirety of the throne room laid out beneath her, the floor cast in immaculate mosaics. Through the windows, the moon was warped and fractured.

It was utterly silent here. Silent save for the ghosts.

The crown, a delicate creation of silver, sat beside the throne. Nura lifted it and placed it on her head.

She had sat here, like this, earlier today. Then, she’d been so nervous, so jittery, she had barely been able to think. Now, she could do nothing but think. She wasn’t sure which was worse.

She had done the right thing, she told herself.

The Fey were coming — worse, they had already come. They had taken the lives of her people. Ara wouldn’t be able to survive this without strong, decisive leadership. She knew this. Knew it in her bones.

She had done the right thing.

Still, here, in the shadows, she felt a looming presence. Sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, she thought he was standing there. Max, wearing the same expression he had when she sentenced him.

She reached into her pocket, deep, until her fingers hit the rough seam. Until they closed around a cold crystal shard. Morrigan’s Ice. Unfinished.

She withdrew her hand and looked down at the necklace in her palm, and thought of the woman who had given it to her. That woman had loved her — loved her when no one else did, loved her when she had needed a mother so, so much.

If that woman was alive today, she would not love Nura now. Not after what she had done to her son.

Perhaps Nura did not deserve to be loved, anyway. Perhaps love was just another sacrifice.

She pushed the thought away. She folded her fingers into a fist, tighter, tighter, tighter, until the crystal gave and cracked, slicing her skin. When she opened her hand, only bloody shards sat in her palm.

She let them fall onto the floor.

She had done the right thing, she told herself.

And it was all worth it. Worth it to save her country. Worth it to win this war. She had what it took. This is what she had fought for. This was power.

But there, alone in the moonlight, the last vestiges of her old life in pieces at her feet, Nura did not feel powerful.

She felt nothing.

END of BOOK II

Tisaanah, Max, and Aefe’s journey will come to a conclusion in Book III, coming in 2021.

Ashen Son: a 4-Part Prequel

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War has broken out, thrusting his family into the center of a savage conflict. In its wake, Max is chosen