piece. How magic sparks to life in those who never should have touched it. What will the world look like when you cannot box such power into two neat little avenues? How much will atrophy when power spreads?”
Malachiasz’s eyes were bright with almost manic delight, but he had the decency to appear mildly concerned.
“So much magic with such little control. What will that spell? You, a new creature, bovilgy of chaos. That Kalyazi girl, a nightmare waiting to happen.” She waved a hand at Serefin. “And you have not escaped unscathed, though total divinity, I think, does not suit you.”
“Great,” Serefin muttered.
He glanced at Malachiasz. The Black Vulture curtain had fallen fast; he sat curled in on himself, small. A pale, young boy who had been shown how truly monstrous he was. Serefin wasn’t sure if pity was the correct emotion, but he felt it in that moment.
“You took care of the god problem, so you say, but he still speaks to you, does he not?” she said to Serefin.
He nodded.
“Do you know what you did?” Pelageya asked. “In the forest that takes and takes and takes? The same forest we are in, in fact, but it fed so fully that it rests, temporarily, waiting for when it will hunger again.”
“I—I set Velyos free,” Serefin replied. He didn’t understand what that meant. Or know anything about these Kalyazi gods. He hadn’t wanted to see it into reality, but he hadn’t been strong enough to fight them off. He wasn’t strong enough for much of anything. Maybe it would be better if he never went back to Tranavia. If he let the throne go to whoever fought for it the hardest because he would never be good enough for it.
“Yes, the little Kalyazi nightmare started it, and you finished it.”
“I don’t understand what that means.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Tranavian boys, you prod and you bite, and you lash out at the world, but you don’t know, you don’t know anything at all.”
“But you do. What about those fractured prophecies you kept spouting at us?”
“Oh, you’ve long past broken those. Foretelling or prophecies are never set in stone. They are mere suggestions of how the world might turn if each piece lines up properly, they never account for a boy willing to murder his brother, or a boy willing to murder a god.”
Serefin flinched. Malachiasz didn’t.
“It wasn’t me,” Serefin whispered.
“I’m not the one you need to convince of that, little king,” Pelageya replied.
Serefin did not look at Malachiasz. How is he alive?
Dealing with Pelageya always left him more rattled and confused than before, and without any answers. He just wanted to understand what he had done.
“What happens now?”
“It depends what you want this world to be when it all comes crashing down. If you are willing to put down your vendettas for the sake of something different, or if you are dead set upon the path you walk. If you are willing to work with the Kalyazi, or insist on destroying them.”
Malachiasz’s expression was carefully blank in a way Serefin knew was dangerous.
What did Serefin want? To disappear back to Tranavia and leave the Kalyazi to whatever became of them from the fallen gods, really. He wanted to do what he did best and run away from his problems. He was very good at it.
But it was time for Serefin Meleski to stop running. It was time for him to be the king that he absolutely wasn’t good enough to be.
“And if I wanted to stop these gods I set free?”
Pelageya smiled slightly, her gaze moving to Malachiasz. His chin rested in his hands and he looked thoughtful.
“I don’t think I have a choice,” he said, a tremor in his voice. This was Malachiasz when truly terrified, not pretending to be scared for the sake of an image he couldn’t uphold any longer.
“No, you don’t. But will you interfere with your brother’s goal, or will your plans align?”
“What about—” Serefin started.
“I don’t know,” Pelageya said. “I don’t know where she fits in this any longer. I thought her a witch waiting to happen, but not a witch, not a cleric, not a, well, who knows. I can no longer see her threads. I only see yours.”
Serefin couldn’t help his gaze trailing to Malachiasz, who had paled considerably before his expression hardened.
“She’s done enough,” he muttered.
Pelageya tilted her head. “Yes, she has, hasn’t she? But haven’t you, as well?”
He didn’t respond.
“Nothing rests on the edge of a knife any longer. You’ve tipped the balance.