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Grey for the magic-less city. Red, for the healthy empire. White, for the starving world.
If he’d been a Collector, Kell might have cut him some slack, but men who waded into waters claiming they could swim should not need a raft.
The source of Antari power had always been a mystery (it followed no bloodline) but one thing was certain: the longer the worlds were kept apart, the fewer Antari emerged.
He was, after all, Antari. And Antari could speak to blood. To life. To magic itself. The first and final element, the one that lived in all and was of none.
If red was the color of magic in balance—of harmony between power and humanity—then black was the color of magic without balance, without order, without restraint.
But no matter the theory on how they came to be, most believed that Antari were sacred. Chosen by magic or blessed by it, perhaps. But certainly marked by it.
For all his caring, and for theirs, the fact remained he was a weapon, a shield, a tool to be used. He was not a prince. He was not a son.
Love doesn’t buy us anything, so be glad for what you have and who you have because you may want for things but you need for nothing.”
“I said Rhy forgave them.” Kell pushed to his feet. “I never said I did.”
Kell didn’t want Lila to see how scared he was, but he thought she saw it anyway.
“We are all made of both brothers, of blood and magic bound together.”
One glance at this Kell told Rhy all he needed to know—that where he was summer, this boy was winter. Where Rhy was loud and bright, Kell was silent, a shadow. They could not be more different. Rhy beamed, and held out his hand.
