Divine Rivals (Letters of Enchantment, #1)

by Rebecca Ross

“They’re called eithrals,”

Dacre had been buried in the west, Enva in the east, Mir in the north, Alva in the south, and Luz in Central Borough.

He typed, allowing the words to spill out of him like a candlelit confession. And he sent his letter to her before he could think better of it.

But just in case you were wondering … I’ll gladly read whatever you write.

Over the noise of conversation and the bell of the tram and the jostle of strangers’ shoulders, she could hear him calling to her. “Now wait a minute, Winnow. Don’t run from me!”

Iris blinked back a surge of tears. Perhaps it was because this was the first true conversation she had had with her mother in a long time. Perhaps it was because Aster’s fingers were gentle, coaxing memories to the surface. Perhaps it was because Iris finally had a full belly and clean hair.

He swallowed his emotions, hiding them deep in his bones. The things that he wanted, the simmering anger.

And his guilt whispered to him. Of course you must do this. You failed in your most paramount of duties once, and if this is for the good of your family, how could you not?

He saw a flicker of fear in her, and he realized she was just as trapped as he was.

He deserved this, though. It was his fault that he was his father’s sole heir. He deserved to be miserable. His breaths were ragged. He closed his eyes and told himself to inhale, exhale, inhale.

He crawled to it. His hands were trembling as he opened the folded paper,

he crawled back to her, over the graves of humans.

His soul was quiet; he was no longer swarmed by that suffocating panic.

Because she was the only one who took the time to annoy him in such a way.

Iris knew it was Roman without looking at him. She recognized his cologne—some heady mix of spice and evergreen.

“I don’t hate sandwiches,”

They’re a distraction. And distractions can be dangerous.”

Because of course he would have one of those sorts of laughs. The ones you couldn’t hear and not feel in your own chest.

“I think for this particular article, your words should be sharp as knives. You want the readers to feel this wound in their chest, even though they’ve never experienced a missing loved one.”

“It feels like wearing shoes that are too small,”

“With every step, you notice it. It feels like blisters on your heels. It feels like a lump of ice in your chest that never melts, and you can only sleep a few hours at a time, because you’re always wondering where they are and those worries seep into your dreams.

Do you ever feel as if you wear armor, day after day? That when people look at you, they see only the shine of steel that you’ve so carefully encased yourself in? They see what they want to see in you—the warped reflection of their own face, or a piece of the sky, or a shadow cast between buildings. They see all the times you’ve made mistakes, all the times you’ve failed, all the times you’ve hurt them or disappointed them. As if that is all you will ever be in their eyes.

I think we all wear armor. I think those who don’t are fools, risking the pain of being wounded by the sharp edges of the world, over and over again.

You remove a piece of armor for them; you let the light stream in, even if it makes you wince. Perhaps that is how you learn to be soft yet strong, even in fear and uncertainty.

One person, one piece of steel.

One person. One piece of armor. I’ll strive for this.

It struck a chord within her, music that she could feel deep in her bones, and she broke their stare first.

She cried the memories into her mother’s pillow

pride burning in her bones.

She could feel him staring at her, as if daring her to meet his gaze.

Sometimes I’m afraid to love other people. Everyone I care about eventually leaves me,

And I’m not afraid to be alone, but I’m tired of being the one left behind.

But I realize that people are just people, and they carry their own set of fears, dreams, desires, pains, and mistakes. I can’t expect someone else to make me feel complete; I must find it on my own.

A piece of armor, because I trust you.

A glint of falling steel, because I feel safe with you.

You will learn to live outside of it again, as impossible as that may sound. Others who share your pain will also help you heal. Because you are not alone. Not in your fear or your grief or your hopes or your dreams. You are not alone.

Grief is a long, difficult process, especially when it is so racked by guilt.

his eyes all but burning through her, and she knew he wanted her to look at him.

He didn’t answer, but his gaze held hers, and she thought she saw something flicker through him, like a star falling from the cosmos, or a coin underwater, reflecting the sun. Something fierce and vulnerable and very unexpected.

His eyes were keen, as if he could see everything that dwelled in her—the light and the shadows. Her threads of ambition and desire and joy and grief.

she had the frightening inkling that while she made it a point to never read anything of his, he might be reading everything she touched.

Roman wasn’t at his desk. Iris didn’t know where he was until she glanced up at the glass doors and saw him standing before them like a barricade, his arms crossed over his chest.

The guilt threatened to choke her. She had to sit forward and tell herself to breathe—breathe—because it felt like she was drowning.

He couldn’t protect Del when she had needed him most, but he would try his best to protect Iris now.

As soon as she thought of him, her chest ached. The feeling surprised her because it was sharp and undeniable. I miss him.

She missed stealing glances at his horribly handsome face, the rare sight of his smile and the fleeting sound of his laughter.

Sometimes I wonder what he looks like and if I’ll ever write to him again. Sometimes I—

“I don’t want to wake up when I’m seventy-four only to realize I haven’t lived.”

“They’re not even my sisters by blood, but I choose them.

But perhaps it had been Enva and her harp all along, which meant there had only ever been four gods slumbering, with the fifth still roaming in secret.