Page 209 of Harbinger

It’s in every conscript he trains. Every life he refuses to use his powers to take. The scion who killed all those people years ago has spent every day since struggling to make himself into a better man.

And he has.

“That’s why you don’t use your powers,” I whisper.

He nods once. “They remind me that there is a fine line between delivering justice and becoming a monster.”

I want to tell him he’s not a monster, but I don’t think he’ll believe me right now.

“Hadrian showed me what I didn’t know. Taught me there was another way. That I could have control over the powers I’d claimed—that I could rise above their pull.”

“Your vestiges?” I ask.

“I didn’t have to claim them.” He leans back a fraction. “Not every immortal I killed was innocent. Some of the powers they carried …”

“But you claimed them anyway,” I finish for him.

He turns to me and holds my gaze. But there’s no comfort in his eyes. He’s looking at me like a man about to open a window he should keep closed, as though he’s preparing for what happens when I’m no longer on the other side of the glass.

I can see it etched in his winter blue eyes—the certainty that I’ll never look at him the same way again.

“My birthright is one of the darkest, Arden. It’s …” He pauses as though he needs to choose his words carefully. “A constant fight to control it. Since the day I came back from the dead, it’s been roiling under my skin, waiting for its chance. Grief makes it harder. Rage. Wanting you …” He swallows. “My vow is its only cage, but if I’m pushed too far … If I ever lose control of it again, that cage will be gone. There’s no rebuilding it from the other side.”

I open my mouth to ask what birthright the Stars gave him in exchange for being part of their endless game but think better of it. Not when I’m not ready to admit mine might be worse.

But he sees my face. “It’s terrible,” he whispers. “It’s the curse I deserve.”

“I don’t believe that.” My fingers find his sleeve and curl there.

“I didn’t even know I was using it …” His throat slides. “I don’t know how many people like Hadrian I killed. How many of them were scared, untrained, and then I …” He drags a hand over his face. “I never gave them a chance. That’s why when a scion shows up at the Bellatorum, I help them.”

Like Shea.

But something about how he says it makes me ask, “There are other scions at the Bellatorum?”

“A few. Some have already gone. I’m sure more will come.” His gaze lingers, like he’s searching me for the forgiveness that he can’t give himself.

“Aren’t you worried that if you train them …” Guilt rushes through me and cuts off the question.

But they can’t all be like Shea.

“It would be just for me to die at the hands of someone I trust.” His voice is firm, but his gaze shifts away. “Too many immortals opened the door to a bishop but let in a wolf.”

“You aren’t that man anymore.” I take his hand, waiting until he turns his haunted eyes back to mine. “You’re allowed to forgive yourself.”

He raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t point out my hypocrisy.

Still, I push back. “You get to choose—and you’ve been choosing all this time.”

“And when I can’t?” The words are a hollow whisper. “When the cycle begins …”

The skin on my chest tingles. I close my eyes as if I can hide from it. “It won’t.”

“I love that you believe that.”

I swallow, my heart skipping a beat. “I have to.”

Like Hadrian needs to believe the fury can be contained. Like I need to believe I’m not Ravenell. That my birthright isn’t dark magic. Like I need to believe Bishop can overcome his demons, too.