Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts #3) - Sara Wolf Page 0,155

went beet down to his boots. “B-But—but you are the ki—”

“Head of State,” Lucien interrupted him smoothly, a chuckle on his lips. “Though my people do still cling to tradition. Have you heard? They call me the ‘King Without a Crown.’ Silly, really. And so…theatrical.”

Lucien could swear he heard Malachite scoff a soft “you love it,” but the rest of the room was quiet, uneasy at the unheard of shift of etiquette. The constant knocking of hammers on the palace walls and the deafening hiss of white mercury machines was but a dull undercurrent of noise here in the negotiations room, the shouts of workers and the stomps of the metallic matronics doing heavy lifting ringing far louder along the half-finished marble halls.

Lucien stood and made his way to the window, his black robe sweeping out behind him. He touched one finger to the sill, the paint still fresh. He’d ordered that the palace be the last thing to be rebuilt—housing and infrastructure first. And to his joy, the city had blossomed in the three years since. Well…since the end.

He shook himself out, holding his wooden hand tightly to his side.

New Vetris had sprung up around the crater of the palace slowly, but also in a blink. Time worked strangely in that way—constant negotiations, drawing up papers and trade requests and refugee inventories, sleepless nights of city planning with Fione, with Yorl, with the People’s Council. It all blurred together, melded and stretched and compressed until he was standing at the window today, in the fresh sunlight of spring, watching the city hum below. The horizon still looked different with the Red Lady gone, with the temple’s spire much smaller. Sometimes he’d blink and expect it to be there, wished it to be there, if only because that meant she would be there, too.

Time, reversed enough to give them time.

He scoffed softly under his breath.

Of all the rebuilding and restructuring New Vetris had accomplished together, the People’s Council was his proudest achievement. It was comprised of sixteen representatives from every walk of life, elected entirely by the people. The disenfranchised nobles had snuck in their man, of course, but outnumbered fifteen to one, his entrenched opinions barely held much sway. Bribery had tried to happen, naturally, but Fione had made the very prescient suggestion Lucien strip said nobles of their land rights. And so that had begun in earnest. T’was only doable because the nobles’ landed armies had been wiped out in the War of Trees—otherwise, civil war would’ve surely descended.

Lucien smirked to himself. Fate had given him the perfect time to step in and change things.

So, too, had it taken every other happiness from him.

But she’d be proud of him, wouldn’t she?

His sharp onyx eyes fell on the black rosebushes of the former Y’shennria manor, properly trimmed and maintained. It was an orphanage now, for all the children orphaned by the War of Trees, with Lady Y’shennria managing it gladly and well and as warmly strict as could be. He could hear the children faintly shrieking, scrambling about in the yard as they played.

On the difficult nights, Lucien would wander over to the orphanage and pick a single black rose to put in his room, to let the fragrance fill the empty spaces in his bed.

“My apologies, sir.” He turned from the window and back to the ambassador. “I’m afraid I grow weary. Shall we continue this on the morrow? Does midmeal agree with you?”

“Verily.” The ambassador stood, his guards standing to attention with him. “I would appreciate such kindness thoroughly, your—sir.”

“Then.” Lucien nodded and smiled as he swept past him and out of the room. “Farewell for now.”

His boots clipped on the sawdust-strewn marble, joined quickly by another pair with a far longer, lazier stride.

“The Pendrons think they’re so big,” Malachite scoffed at his shoulder. “Just because Varia forgot to touch them during the whole thing.”

Lucien laughed. “To be fair, not even the valkerax want to cross the Redlands.”

“They could’ve just taken the ocean,” Malachite grumbled.

“The ocean is very, very big, Mal.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“So you’ve seen.” Lucien laughed louder. The quiet descended quickly between them. The ocean. He, of course, meant Rel’donas. The Black Archives. That little island full of fond memories. A tender place now in his heart.

Together they walked through the palace, nodding at workmen carrying great loads, chopping and sanding and refitting walls. The two young men passed a particular room being rebuilt—a room that once held old portraits of an older family, and then