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

magic and protecting me while I was distracted. I couldn’t have done any of it without her help, enhanced by the power Zeryth fed her. Each time, I came so close to the breaking point — the point where my skin and muscles and blood were burning, and Reshaye clawed for more power, a hair’s breadth away from breaking out of my control.

With each performance I would have to fight harder, dig deeper, sacrifice more of myself. Sometimes I would look down to see the ground itself withering to rot beneath my feet, as if death literally surrounded me. I would look at my arms and see the darkness crawling over my veins, spreading by the second.

Every time, I would have to cede more to Reshaye, and I would think, This is it. This is the one I fail.

But in the end, just when I thought it was over, our opponents would surrender.

The battles, though, were far from bloodless. Yes, there were dozens of corpses instead of hundreds; sometimes hundreds instead of thousands. But the armies still clashed. I became a target quickly, and when you’re a target, it is impossible to survive without killing.

I wished I could say that I remembered the faces of every person whose flesh rotted beneath my magic. But the truth was, they blended together quickly, struck down in panicked moments of barely-tethered control. Sometimes, those deaths were the only thing that kept Reshaye’s hunger at bay.

Still, I would dream of decaying faces.

For days, I would dream.

Reshaye grew more and more restless, and yet, it was also more withdrawn than ever. Our performances exhausted it so much that I would often go days without hearing it whisper. But at night, our dreams would tangle. I had the strangest, most vivid nightmares — dreams of blinding white and betrayal. I dreamed of Reshaye as I had seen it in the Mikov estate, in the deepest level of magic. And I dreamed that someone was reaching for me, and for reasons that I could not understand, that was the most terrifying thing of all.

The battles took their toll. I was careful to make sure that no one saw anything but strength, there or after, but as soon as I was alone in my room, I would collapse. The sickness was stronger every time. The deeper I dug, the higher the cost.

Nura would always be there, holding my hair back when I vomited or forcing water down my throat when I wasn’t. I never asked her to. Once, I croaked, barely conscious, “Why are you doing this?”

She’d given me a cold stare. “Would you rather I leave you here on your washroom floor?” she said, dryly. “Or would you prefer I call someone else to help wipe up your vomit?”

I’d had nothing to say to that. The truth was, I was too sick to be alone. And I didn’t want to let anyone see me that way — not even Sammerin.

We never spoke of it again.

Between battles, I remained in Korvius. I attended Zeryth’s meetings, though they grew more frantic and less measured. His own carefully-cultivated performances were disintegrating. Sometimes, when we were in close proximity, my magic could feel something strange pulsing off of his — like a song that was off-key in a way I couldn’t pin. As time passed, the notes grew more sour. After one meeting when Zeryth could barely string a sentence together, I noticed that his wrist — the same arm where my curse was tattooed on his forearm — was bruised and swollen. He was always in the worst condition after our battles, although he himself never fought.

I thought of the vials he gave Eslyn before each battle, and concocted a weak theory.

“He is sick the same way I get sick, isn’t he?” I asked Nura, afterwards. “Because of the potions he gives to Eslyn. It makes her… stronger. Better. But I can tell that it isn’t…” I struggled to find the right word. “Normal magic.”

Nura gave me a pointed look. “I have been instructed not to discuss this.”

The tone of her voice made it clear we both understood it to be a confirmation.

Still. I took no pleasure in being right. Because if Zeryth was dabbling in deep magic to do whatever he was doing to help Eslyn, that meant the curse may not be outside the realm of possibility.

“And what about the spell binding my life to his? Is that part of it, too?” I said. “Does that mean it’s real?”

Her expression flickered, and she shook her head. “That, I don’t have the answer to.”

No one did, it seemed. In my spare time, I combed through books, searching for information about whatever he had or hadn’t done, and whether it was truly possible. Hopeless. I found nothing.

Not that I had much time for such things — and in the grand scheme of it all, my research seemed pitifully insignificant. When I was not fighting or training or studying, I was with the refugees. It was hard for them to acclimate to a country so different from their own. I’d had Max to help ease me into this new life. They were all alone. But, they were resilient. They adapted, albeit slowly.

Still, it was impossible to forget what hung in the balance of my bargain. Every time I visited, Filias or Riasha would pull me aside, handing me another request for help for someone’s brother or wife or long-lost child. For every soul I had managed to save, there were so many who still needed my help.

“I’ll try,” I always told them, and meant it. But my hands were tied. As long as Zeryth’s war raged on, I could not go fight mine. I kept each name carefully preserved in a wooden box beside my bed.

Right beside them were Max’s letters.

Max. I missed him so much that his absence was a constant ache, like the pain of a missing limb. I tracked his victories carefully. There were many of them. All