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

Sammerin probably had to do a lot of things now that he wished he didn’t.

His face went harder, every muscle in his expression drawing taut. Sammerin’s emotions sat so far beneath the surface of his expressions, his eyes always gentle, his voice always calm — even now. And yet…

“Do you want to tell me about it?” I asked.

“Hm?”

“I see it.” I gave him a knowing look and tapped a finger to the corner of my eye. “I see that there is more to this for you. But you don’t have to talk about it, or tell me what it is. Not unless you want to.”

I just wanted him to know that I saw. He spent so much of his time caring for others. He deserved to be seen, too.

He gave me a small smile that faded quickly. “Do you know how the Syrizen recruit?”

I shook my head.

“They don’t choose this. Not any of them. The Orders screens for a very specific, very rare set of magical skills, and if you have them, you become one. Yes, it’s considered an honor to be a Syrizen. They get money, power, respect. But…”

His voice trailed off, and we both looked at Eslyn, the scars where her eyes used to be now wrinkled in a perpetual wince of pain.

He didn’t need to finish: But look at all they give up.

A shudder ran up my spine. To think that when I came to Ara, I had been certain I was going to a world that was so much kinder than my own. Foolish.

Sammerin was silent for so long that I thought our conversation was over. But then he said, quietly, “A friend of mine was chosen, once. She was a little on the older side when they realized she had the skillset — just old enough for it to be a shock. She had wanted to leave the military, actually. But then the war happened…” He trailed off, his thumb tracing his lower lip in thought. His eyes didn’t leave Eslyn, and now I understood that he was seeing someone else in her place. “She was a painter, actually. Striking eyes.”

I reached over and placed my hand on Sammerin’s shoulder — the same wordless comfort that he would give me, when I spiraled in unspoken anxieties.

“It’s a battle worth fighting,” I murmured, then lifted my chin to the tray. “Keep yourself strong enough to face it.”

He gave me a weak smile, patted my hand, and finally reached for the food.

I did eventually manage to convince Sammerin to go get some rest, though he did so reluctantly. After he left, I stood at Eslyn’s bedside in the empty room, looking down at her. Reshaye slithered through my mind, both curious and revulsed. Eslyn’s mouth was closed and contorted in pain, but I could still hear those sounds of agony.

A thought occurred to me.

Could we help her? I asked Reshaye.

{No one can help her.}

I reached out, my fingers brushing her face. Then her temple.

I heard her, when no one else could. We both drew from the same deep pool of magic, even if in different ways. Didn’t that mean there was at least a chance I could do something for her that no one else would be able to?

{There are powers that are beyond you. There are even powers that are beyond me. She is already dead, like a withered leaf clinging to the vine. She is just waiting for one gust of wind.}

Still… I reached out with a single tendril of my mind, reaching into hers.

Deeper — and I nearly gasped.

There it was. It was impossible to miss. I felt the sickness, like an open wound, gushing blood. It was so noxious that everything in my magic recoiled from it. It was everywhere. Every drop of Eslyn’s mind and magic was consumed with it.

Even if she lives now, she’ll wish she hadn’t, Sammerin had said, and now I understood. There was nothing of Eslyn left, anymore.

I pulled back, shaken.

I so wanted to help her. She deserved that — or at least deserved to die in a better way than this. But Reshaye was right. This sickness overwhelmed her, eating her alive from the inside out.

She was already dead.

The next day, I returned to find Sammerin sagging in the chair beside Eslyn’s bed, looking thoroughly exhausted. Ariadnea was kneeling beside her, forehead pressed against her friend’s shoulder. Sammerin looked to me and simply shook his head. She was gone.

I remained at Sammerin’s side as they covered the body. Several other Syrizen came to take Eslyn away. Nura came, too, watching the scene unfold, her face still as ice.

“Well,” she said, in the hallway, “this, at least, could solve some of your problems with the Threllians.”

I shot Nura a confused look.

“Eslyn was with us in Threll,” she clarified. “She was among those responsible for the attack on the Mikov estate. The Zorokovs might accept her death as justice.”

She said this so nonchalantly. It was like the woman who had been so shaken by Eslyn’s illness days ago no longer existed. All while the body was barely cold. It made me want to retch.

“What about her family?” I asked.

“Syrizen forsake all other ties when they become what they are. No one is waiting for her.”

Every angle of Sammerin’s face went hard, as if this statement reviled him.

Someone is waiting for her, I thought. They’ll just never get her.

“It does not matter,” I said. “The Zorokovs would see it as an insult, anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because they want—”

I stopped short.

Nura and Sammerin both looked back at me.

“What?” Nura said, at last. “You? That’s what you were going to say?”

I felt sick to my stomach. I wished I hadn’t even had the thought. Yet, the idea burrowed into my mind and wouldn’t let go.

It wouldn’t be perfect. It might not even be good. But how could I ignore any possible solution, when so many lives hung in the balance?

“Sammerin,” I said. “I