The Midnight Star

Teren continues to stare. “Always playing games,” he finally says.

I glance at Raffaele. “You are going to have to trust us for a moment.”

Teren laughs at that. He shakes his head. “What has trust ever meant to any of you?” But when Raffaele steps forward to place his gemstones in a wide circle around Teren, he doesn’t react. He watches, noting each of the stones. When Raffaele finishes, he steps back and folds his arms. I crane my neck, too, suddenly curious. What memories will Raffaele see from Teren’s past? What does he align with?

What if he does not align with what we need after all?

The chamber falls into silence. Raffaele furrows his brows in concentration as he studies each of the gemstones. As we look on in the darkness, three of the gems take on a subtle glow. One is white, which I instantly recognize as diamond, as ambition; then, a bold, brilliant blue; finally, a scarlet so intense that the gem looks like it is bleeding. I release my breath. I recognize the blue glow—it is the same as one of my own alignments—the alignment to Sapientus, for wisdom and curiosity. But the scarlet . . .

When Raffaele reaches out, Teren stiffens, then gasps. His eyes become unfocused, as if he were reliving a memory—then he winces, squeezes his eyes shut, and turns away. I watch, fascinated, reminded of my own tests. I have never seen Teren vulnerable in this way before, his mind open to not only another person, but someone who is his enemy. Again and again, Raffaele reaches out, and again and again, Teren flinches and backs away from him. Ambition. Wisdom. And . . .

Suddenly, Teren lets out a snarl and lunges for Raffaele. Raffaele takes a quick step away just as Sergio steps between them. His sword is drawn before I can blink. He hits Teren hard in the chest with the hilt of the sword, then shoves him roughly back. Teren stumbles and falls to his knees. I wait, heart in my throat, as Teren stays there with his head down. He’s breathing hard. He doesn’t say anything.

Raffaele looks pale now. He nods, confirming what we already guessed. “Ruby,” he says, his voice echoing in the dungeon. “For Tristius, son of Time and Death.” His gaze wanders to me. “The angel of War.”

I exhale again. Teren has the missing alignment we need.

“Why are you here?” Teren hisses. All hints of his taunting nature are gone now, replaced by raw anger. “What do you want? What do you want?”

I take a step toward him and bend down to his eye level. “Teren,” I say softly. “There is something happening to the world. To you, to me, to everyone here. The immortal Underworld is seeping into the real world, poisoning everything in it.” I explain what Raffaele had told me, about the poison in the dark waters, the dying baliras, his wounds that now heal more slowly than they ever have before. “We believe we are the only ones who can stop it. The Elites. And you align with the immortal world in a way that we still need.” Teren’s head stays bowed, and somehow, a part of me aches in understanding. What had Raffaele forced up from his past? “I want you to come with us.”

Teren lets out a broken laugh. He lifts his head, and my breath catches as his colorless eyes find mine, windows full of madness and tragedy. “We have an unpleasant history together, little wolf,” he says. “What makes you think I have any desire to help you?”

“The last time we worked together, there was another standing in the way,” I reply.

Teren leans forward. He is so close that I can feel his breath against my skin. “The one standing between us is you,” he snaps. “We can only be enemies.”

I suppress my hatred of him. “When we first met, you told me that I deserved to return to the waters of the Underworld. That all Elites are abominations, never meant to walk this world.” I narrow my eye at him. “But tell me, Teren. If you are a demon, and I am a demon—abominations in the eyes of the gods—then why have the gods given me the Kenettran throne? Why do I rule the Sealands, Teren, and all armies fall before me? Why, Teren, do the gods keep rewarding me?”

Teren glares at me.

“You were born the son of a Lead Inquisitor,” I say. “You have been taught all your life that you are lower than a dog, and you have believed it. Even the woman you once loved told you that you were nothing. She turned her back on you, in a way that makes me pale by comparison.” Then I lift my head and look straight at him. “What if you are wrong? What if the gods sent you, and indeed the rest of us, not because we were never meant to be, but because we were always meant to be?”

“It’s not possible,” Teren replies calmly. But he does not answer my question.

“Is it possible that the gods created us in order to save the world, instead of destroy it?” I press, knowing the words that will weaken him. “Is it possible that they created us in order to undo something broken, so that we may one day sacrifice ourselves?”

Teren stays quiet. “So,” he finally says, “you want me to join you in this quest to fix the break between worlds? Why would I do this?”

“Because we need you,” I reply. “And you are still the strongest Elite I know.”

Without warning, Teren lashes out and grabs my wrist with one of his hands. His grip is iron, painful, unyielding. I suck in my breath sharply at his touch. Sergio pulls his sword halfway from its sheath; Magiano utters a sharp warning. “I could kill you right now, Adelina,” Teren whispers. “I could break every bone in your body, could crush them into powder, and there is nothing your men can do to stop me. Let that prove to you that the gods are not on your side. You are still the same quivering little girl I tied to the stake that morning.”