Slaying the Vampire Conqueror

by Carissa Broadbent

Ascension, not death. Never death. Arachessen didn’t believe in death, only change. Just as the loss of our eyes didn’t mean the loss of sight, the loss of a heartbeat didn’t mean the loss of life.

“You have a kind heart, Sylina,” she said. “That is a gift to Acaeja, even if it is, at times, a burden to you. Temper your expectations of this world. But do not dampen your fire. You’ll need it for what’s ahead.”

“You’d think that a child of your goddess would understand that the world looks awfully different depending on where you stand. Or maybe they took your eyes so you wouldn’t see that.”

“You’re lucky,” he said, “that I have a soft spot for caged birds.”

“Beautiful. Mysterious. Dangerous. And an obvious, clear-as-the-fucking-moon mistake.”

A woman alone in this world sometimes needs to perform to make men take her seriously.” Only a little true. Perform, or suppress. Rarely anything in the middle.

I hated them all so much, and I loved that I felt that way.

“I’ve killed demigods,” he snarled. “Your death means nothing to me.”

And then, in the secret silence, where no one could see me, I trailed my fingertips up my own arm. Just out of curiosity. Just to remember how it felt. A meaningless touch. Strange thing to crave.

“Hm,” he said. “To think I let such a dangerous creature sleep beside me every night.”

Places had souls. The Thorn Palace’s was ugly and covered in death. A place where thousands of threads were severed.

Because Weaver, I wanted more of him. Wanted to embrace the darker, forbidden sides of the desire that sleeping beside him every night had stirred.

I was grateful for his honesty. For his imperfect effort. No one who had survived the lives we had could deny the value of that. Most never try at all.

“You shouldn’t be near me.” True, a voice whispered in the back of my head. But the danger wasn’t him. The danger was myself—or maybe something even bigger, the natural tension of oil and fire inching closer.

“I already see you, Atrius. I’m not afraid.”

I didn’t want him to stop any of it. I wanted Atrius to destroy the Pythora King. I wanted him to do it slowly, painfully, relishing revenge. I wanted him to let me help. I wanted him to save his people. I wanted him to earn Nyaxia’s respect. I wanted to burn it all down with him.

“You shouldn’t be here.” This time he spoke against my mouth—not quite a kiss, but the promise of one. I whispered, “Why?” “Because you make me ravenous.”

Atrius was a man terrified of losing control. And I was asking him to balance on the knife’s edge.

It wasn’t until this exact moment that I realized: as far as Atrius was concerned, I was one of his people.

“This place doesn’t deserve their bones. This place doesn’t deserve the bones of their children.”

“This arrangement isn’t about me. It’s not about us. It’s a title that you deserve because you are a good leader. You are intelligent. You are compassionate. You know what the people of Glaea want and need. You have lived the lives of many here. And I know that if you were to be tasked with their well-being, you would advocate for the lives of these people until your dying breath. That makes you worthy of power, Vivi.” A wry twist of his lips. “And so damned few are.”

Naro— I love you. I’m sorry for the ways I failed you. I forgive you for the ways you failed me. Maybe in the next life, it can be different. But if not, what I feel in this one remains the same. I love you. Vivi.

“Death is what happens when you stand still,” I said. “Don’t stand still. Not for anything.”

Territorial men—human or vampire or slyvik. The one thing you could always count on.

What did it say, that I had been afraid when picking a fight with the slyviks, but wasn’t afraid to go kill the Pythora King? Maybe it just meant that anger was the antidote to fear. I hated the Pythora King so much that I had little to be afraid of. I would die either way. Let me die with my blade in his throat.

I wondered if I looked beautiful. There was a certain appeal to leaving behind a pretty corpse.

I had been so ashamed of my inability to shed my grief from fifteen years ago. And yet here was a goddess, one of the most powerful beings ever to exist, and her grief was still just as raw, two-thousand years later.

His fingers absentmindedly intertwined with mine. The gesture reminded me of the way he had stroked his horse’s mane back when we rode to Alka—instinctive affection.

Strange, how being so exposed can make a soul feel so very safe.