for life.
With a jerk, Petros scrambled drunkenly to his knees. He pressed his palms to the marble floor like he was trying to lift a stone with geoeia, and hissed out a breath.
“Excellent.” Geoxus was clapping. “He’s fed. Now let’s see if he can give power in addition to taking it. Guards! One of you, step forward!”
Anathrasa nodded her approval as one of the guards lifted a hand.
Sickness speared through any victory Madoc had earned. He’d nearly killed his father. He’d nearly become his father.
But Petros would never hurt another person with his energeia again.
Madoc shuddered. His anathreia was barely contained. He felt like he could punch through a wall. Break bones with the clench of his fist.
But there was something wrong about it too. Tainted. An anger that wasn’t his own moved through his veins, heating his muscles.
Petros’s energeia was powerful, as Anathrasa had said, but it was slick and tasted like rusted metal. Madoc wanted to be rid of it, but he didn’t want to give it to anyone else. If there was a way to destroy it, he would do so.
At the flick of Geoxus’s hand, a guard rushed toward Petros and assisted him to his feet. Madoc watched his father struggle, saw the deep lines around his eyes and mouth and the bow of his spine. Anger warped his every feature, as if the ugliness inside him had finally risen to the surface.
“Should have killed you when you were a baby,” Petros spat. “Should have let the birds pick the flesh off your bones!”
Madoc recoiled. Petros’s smooth front had vanished. Fury was all that remained, and it smelled like death. With one last burst of strength, Petros grabbed the spear from the unsuspecting guard, then wrenched back his arm, prepared to hurl it at Madoc’s chest.
Without a second thought, Madoc lifted his hand.
“No.”
Petros’s arm arced down, plunging the spear into his own belly.
With a gasp, Madoc lunged forward, terror ripping through him. Petros staggered, then fell back with a grunt, his eyes wide, both hands curved around the pole protruding from his body. Blood stained his tunic, spreading to the floor beneath him.
A few gasping breaths, and then Petros went still.
Madoc’s anathreia screamed in his ears.
His father was dead. Had he done this? He’d meant to stop Petros, that was all. To protect himself.
But he’d wanted Petros punished too.
He was vaguely aware of movement. The guards, leaving Petros in a puddle of his own blood. Geoxus’s tightening frown. Anathrasa, closing in beside him.
“You’ve done well,” she said, for only him to hear. “You’re ready.”
Madoc was reeling. “I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t think he would . . .”
From the hall outside the throne room came a thunderous crash, and the sound of moving footsteps. All eyes turned toward the entrance, where four centurions came rushing beneath the silver-plated archway.
“Honorable Geoxus!” one shouted, bowing before the god of earth. “We told Ignitus to wait, but he insists on seeing you now!”
“I told you, no interruptions!” Geoxus bellowed.
Madoc could not take his eyes off his father. He’d done this. He’d done it, even though he hadn’t held the spear. Even if he hadn’t told Petros what to do. Intention is power.
The next crash shook the floor and had Geoxus sweeping toward the entryway.
A strong grip closed on Madoc’s forearm, dragging his gaze away from the horror before him to the old woman at his side.
“Forget Petros,” she said, more urgently now. “Your purpose is far greater than anything he could have accomplished.”
His eyes flashed to hers as a new dread overrode the churning anathreia in Madoc’s body.
“What are you talking about?”
Her mouth warped into a severe smile. “It’s time to do what you were made for.”
He shook his head. Jerked out of her hold. “I won’t help Geoxus.”
Not if it meant more of this.
“No—we have to stop him. Otherwise, he’ll destroy everything.” Anathrasa kept her gaze on Geoxus as he spouted orders to his guards. “I can’t take the energy from other gods after what they did to me—he was right about this, at least. You can.”
Her words took a beat to sink in.
“You want me to drain Geoxus.” His gaze flicked back to Petros. She seemed as unaffected by his death as she would be a spider she’d accidently crushed beneath her sandal.
She nodded.
“He thinks he’s humoring me, tossing me these gladiators to feed on in exchange for a Soul Divine heir. A child who can use anathreia at his master’s bidding. He thinks that