Page 98 of The Blight of Hollowmire

“There will be no next time, Arden—of that I assure you,” I threaten.

“I see a kingdom,” he continues, ignoring me. “I see beyond one single sobbing mother, one empty bowl, one sentimental old knight handing out bread from his little farm and pretending he has solved hunger because the line at his door happens to be shorter than the line at mine.”

The words hit their mark, and by the triumph in his eyes, it is clear that he knows they do.

“You don’t get to speak of hunger,” I say. “Not while you sit above it, high up in your crumbling castle while your ruined kingdom falls apart beneath you.”

“Ah, would that be the same ruined kingdom that you abandoned?” he fires back.

Silence crashes between us, yet another blow landing in my most vulnerable place. The guilt from simply accepting his exile—from refusing to challenge it—will haunt me until I can right things.

“You left,” Arden says, sneering. “You wrapped yourself in grief, played the martyr, and left me with the kingdom you were too broken to hold. ‘But Arden, I was exiled!’ Bollocks to that, dear brother. I did you a favor! Admit it—you were relieved.”

I release him as if burned. He’s right—I hate him, and myself, for it. But he’s right. Yet I am here to atone for my failures, and he is still trying to dress his up as necessity.

He smooths his cloak with both hands, regaining himself piece by odious piece.

“The original spell failed,” he says, soldiering on with cracked composure. “It affected the crops, mostly. The Blight Mother’s blood will undo the spell, and I can begin again.”

“She is not simply the Blight Mother. Her name is Vireth,” I growl.

“Oh, who cares?” He says with a dismissive sniff.

Rage overtakes me, and I hit him. There is no honor in it, no chivalrous restraint, no elegant contest between men of equal standing. My fist connects with his mouth with a satisfying crack, and he staggers into the desk, knocking over a stack of parchment. The pain flaring in my hand is immediate and absolutely worth it.

Arden touches his split lip, blood staining his thumb. He looks at it with mild curiosity before laughing softly.

“You’re not as strong as you used to be.”

“And you’re still a bastard,” I snap. “All those dead at your feet,” I say. “My wife, my boys, our father, scores of our people—your people! And you stand there defending your actions—bringing a kingdom to its knees because you could not admit to your failures.”

“I haven’t failed, Renard. Not really.”

“Starving ravens, Arden!”

He wipes the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. “You were always so easily horrified.”

“And you were always less human than people realized.”

Finally, something breeches his icy exterior. I recognize it in the tightening around his eyes and the brief hardening of his jaw.

“Humanity is not a qualification for rule,” he says.

“No. But a soul helps.”

He laughs.

“And what has your soul done, Renard? Fed a few peasants? Whispered sweetly to your horse? Comforted a fae monster while the kingdom suffered?” He tilts his head. “I assume it’s for her you came slithering in through the drains and not for the city you’ve ignored so beautifully.”

My body goes very still.

“What have you done with her?”

“Oh, she’s comfortable enough below. The accommodations are plain, but fitting. Stone, iron, a few wards to keep her from turning my guards into compost.”

“Take me to her,” I demand, my disgust giving way to my desperation to see her—to be near her.

He smirks. “I would say you can meet each other in the spirit realm, but I wonder whether that will be permitted.” He leans closer, lowering his voice as though sharing court gossip. “A goddess of death might have standards. She may not care to welcome men who fail everyone they love.”