Page 232 of Traitor of the Drowned Empire
Aemon grunted, thrusting deeper, and I closed my eyes, matching his pace, moaning every time he slammed back inside.
I had known what would happen to Rhyan. I had known before he died. I knew it would come to pass. I knew it had to. He would become akadim. Andromeny had seen it. And so I’d waited, and bided my time. Holding Aemon’s shard captive, learning to control the akadim, to bind them to me. Because I had to be sure. I had to make sure he was mine. That I could protect him. Save him. For Lyr. For Lumeria. Bartering for Rhyan as my Arkturion, in exchange for the indigo had worked beautifully.
And I’d kept Rhyan from further losing his soul, from being unable to return to himself.
Aemon picked up the pace, his flesh slapping against mine.
Tristan was silently sobbing to himself.
I ran my fingers through Aemon’s hair. “Not so fast,” I purred. “Don’t you want to give our company a good show?”
He bared his teeth, and pulled at my hair, baring my neck to him. “He’ll get a fucking show.”
He turned us around, laying me on the ground, pulling out just long enough to lift my legs over his shoulders, and then he slammed back into me with a grunt.
“Fuck,” I cried out, turning my head in time to see Tristan look away in horror, his eyes tear-stained.
I continued to stare at him, just to keep Aemon happy. To keep him going. Because I needed him to keep fucking me, to give me just a few moments where my mind could be open, my thoughts my own. And Aemon unable to hear for once.
I had known, I had fucking known Rhyan would be cured, that they all would. Andromeny had seen him as a demon, seen him march on Glemaria. Seen fire spread from its highest peak and burn the Empire to the ground. She’d seen the sun come out. She’d believed that meant the daywalkers.
But I had known better. I had enough experience interpreting Meera’s visions, seeing how the strange images always played out. Andromeny’s visions were almost always straightforward. Accurate. Not this one.
I knew the sun meant he was healed. Meant he was cured. And so was his entire army.
There was never any need for me to perform the kashonim on Rhyan, linking the others to him. There never was. I had the akadim well under my control, and knew they’d continue to be long after I was gone. But I’d done it anyway.
So Parthenay would believe. So I could abandon them. So Lyr could save them. Rhyan was always meant to come to Glemaria, and from there fire would spread. Fire that would bring the Empire to its knees. But he was going to do it alive. And Lyr would be beside him. Already, it was starting.
I lifted my hips, urging Aemon on, making sure he didn’t grow suspicious, or think for a second I wasn’t enjoying myself. I was. Oh, I was. I fucking was.
Just not for the reasons he believed.
His movements grew faster, and I squeezed him inside of me, crying out his name.
He was not going to touch Jules, or Meera. Or Lyr. Or Rhyan. Not again. I’d see to that.
But first, I had to find a way to save Tristan. I had to get the reincarnation of Turiel, the eighth Guardian, away from here.
Because if Aemon killed him, if Kane’s full Guardian power was restored, and he was reunited with the yellow shard, the power of the Yellow Ray, then Gods help us all.
The world would end.
