Children of Fallen Gods (The War of Lost Hearts Book 2) by Carissa Broadbent (good english books to read .TXT) 📕

seemed to be questioning it. Orin looked abjectly confused. Only Athalena seemed to be considering it, her mouth serious and downturned.

Still, something about his offer seemed to put Ezra at ease, if only slightly.

“Your generosity is… kind. But that does not change the fact that we cannot help you, even if we wished to. We know nothing more than you do.” He lowered slowly into his chair again, returning to his glass of wine. “And so, King Iero, today your blood can remain unspilled. But your offer is appreciated, and I would like more than anyone for our Houses to live in harmony.”

It wasn’t enough.

But before any of us could press further, the door squealed open, and a little blur of eggshell blue bolted into the room.

“Zora! You’re not supposed to be—” Athalena’s scolding was interrupted by an oof as the child launched herself into Athalena’s lap. The little girl was perhaps no older than five summers, squirming to regard us with big, curious brown eyes. Her dark hair was styled in what were likely once-perfect ringlets, now messy and fallen. The little girl’s ears, I noticed, were mostly rounded, and short like a human’s, with only the faintest point.

“I apologize,” Athalena said, to us. “Our daughter is quite social.”

“Zora,” Ezra muttered, sternly, “we said that you must stay in your room.”

His eyes flicked from us, to his daughter, clearly tense for reasons I didn’t quite understand. I noticed, too, that Orin had shifted forward in his chair, watching us more carefully.

“I have a son that age,” Ishqa said, with a wry smile that held none of his typical practiced polish. “Trust me, I understand it.”

“Come now,” Ezra muttered, to his daughter. “Time to return to bed.”

The girl had no interest in such a prospect. She watched me, wide-eyed. Despite myself, a smile tugged at my lips.

This, I knew, was wrong — the intermingling of Fey and human blood was a travesty, only a shade away from beastiality. But this child didn’t look wrong. She looked… normal. Loved.

Ezra turned to us, oddly tense. “I apologize, but I must be getting my daughter back to bed. Our hospitality still stands. You are welcome to stay as long as you wish, speak to our scholars, and make use of our archives. But I’m afraid we have nothing more to offer you.”

“Perhaps we could meet—” Ishqa started, but Ezra was already rising, his daughter in his arms.

“I don’t believe we have anything further to discuss.”

He didn’t look back as he strode to the door. The child waved goodbye to us over his shoulder as he crossed the threshold, leaving us sitting at the table in silence.

Chapter Fifty-One

Max

Zeryth’s celebration ball managed to be even worse than I expected. I hated the Orders’ functions well enough, but engagements thrown by the crown or by high-ranking nobles made those balls look like drunken pub parties. At least by this point in the Orders’ annual ball, the drama had already begun, and it usually came in the form of someone yelling, someone crying, someone slowly removing someone else’s clothes in the corner, or, most frequently, all of those things at once. Wielders, after all, tended to fall a bit far from “subtle.” If nothing else, it made things interesting.

This? This just set my teeth on edge.

Long ago, I had attended many of these parties. They were always refined and tasteful, the decor beautiful but never gaudy, the music skilled but never loud, the insults cutting but always hidden between polite words. Now, one look at this party told me that Zeryth’s hand was involved. The tasteful, opulent decor of traditional Crown parties was here, yes — pedestals adorned with relics and statues, impeccably neat bouquets of flowers, lanterns with flames hidden within orbs of crystal stained glass. But overlaying all of it was a new, distinctly-Zeryth flavor of decor. White roses and ribbons hung down from the ceiling, suspended above us with magic. Between them were little lights that twinkled like stars.

And there, in the center of it all, was a shimmering conjuring of the sun and the moon, so enormous that it nestled perfectly in the curve of the domed ceiling.

Ugh.

I could imagine Zeryth walking in here five hours ago, looking around at the nobility-approved decor selected by the royal planners, and saying, “This is terrific and all, but do you know what I think this really needs…?”

I was not the only one who noticed it. As guests entered the room, every one of them cast little glances up at the ceiling. An undercurrent of uncomfortable snickers hung in the entryway.

Nobility knew. They always knew, when something didn’t belong.

Those were the same sounds they would make at my mother at these parties, just low enough that they could pretend they were being subtle and just loud enough to ensure they weren’t. Disgusting.

“General Farlione.”

A hand clapped my shoulder. I stiffened and resisted the urged to slap it away. A doughy, mustachioed face grinned at me. The man was ten years older than he had been when I last saw him, but no less obnoxious.

“Congratulations on your victory, General. I always knew you were headed for big things. Two of Ara’s greatest wars, now, ended thanks to you.” He lifted his mostly-empty wine glass — surely not his first, despite the early hour. “Your father would have been proud.”

I made a noncommittal noise and looked for escape.

“Of course, it is a shame…” The man’s voice lowered — poorly — as he leaned towards me conspiratorially. “A bit of a waste, isn’t it? Such a great victory for a nameless king. Did you know his mother was a whore?”

Amazing. They hated Zeryth for all the wrong things.

“Actually, Lord Quinlan,” I said, “some might say the only good thing about Aldris is that he doesn’t come from—”

I was interrupted as an arm delicately slid around mine. “There you are. I thought you would have skipped.”

I turned. Whatever barbed words I’d been preparing left me all