Children of Fallen Gods (The War of Lost Hearts Book 2)

by Carissa Broadbent

  “We will find a way to get him out, Tisaanah,” Sammerin murmured, but my rage was already bubbling over.

  “We must go back now. Now, Sammerin.” My voice rose to a hysterical spike. I could barely breathe. “We cannot leave him there, not for a second longer. We cannot leave him. We can’t—”

  Sobs unraveled my words. Sammerin’s arms wrapped around me, and without thinking, I clung to him, to his stability. I felt his grief, his anger, settle over mine.

  “We are going to get him out,” Sammerin whispered, against my hair.

  I pulled away from him and looked out across the sea. It was an endless expanse. Thousands of miles of ocean between here and Ara — thousands of miles between me and Max.

  I thought of that goodbye kiss, right between my eyebrows.

  I thought of everything I didn’t tell him. Of the life we could have built together.

  And I thought of the person who had taken him from me.

  I had no words for this. But I sank to my knees and looked out over the sea, as if, if I tried hard enough, I could reach out over those thousands and thousands of miles, reach out for him in Ilyzath.

  And I let my grief become rage.

  Epilogue

  Nura was tired.

  She had attended several coronations. When she was very young, she attended the coronation of Sesri’s father. Then the spiritual coronation of Sesri’s advisors, and the official coronation of Sesri, after that. She had, thankfully, missed Zeryth’s — probably best for everyone — but she could imagine the sort of affair that had been.

  This? This had been unlike any of them.

  She had knelt, solemn, as the head advisor placed the crown on her brow, and what she had seen in the eyes of the crowd was not excited hope, but petrified fear. The celebration, if one could call it that, had been staid and quiet, heavy with hushed whispers. It had broken up early. That was fine with her. Nura had never been good at celebrating. And now, so much weighed upon her mind that it seemed like a poor use of time, anyway.

  People were terrified. How could they not be? They had just found out their country was at war with a mythological race that they had all thought to be five-hundred-years extinct. There was nothing more terrifying than that, especially when they had all already seen the reality of the danger.

  The aftermath of the battle of the Scar had been horrific. Most of the Syrizen had been slaughtered. Dozens of civilians died when the Scar fell in, unsettling the Orders outbuildings built on top of it. It was a miracle that Nura had survived. Nura, and—

  She pulled her mind away.

  She couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw visions of destruction, of what the Fey would do to Ara if she failed.

  She rose from her chair and went to the mirror. It was a gaudy thing, decorated with gold and jewels. Everything in the Palace was gold. The Towers were not exactly the most welcoming place, but over time, she had managed to make them her home. The Palace, though, was an entirely different matter. It seemed like the walls themselves were judging her. This mirror certainly was. The woman who stared back at her was gaunt and exhausted. Her burn scars were visible beneath the loose drape of her nightgown. A new scar now ran from her cheek down over her jaw, a gift from the collapse. She now had to mask a permanent limp, too, and a headache that had followed her for the last three weeks straight.

  Still. She was lucky.

  Unlike—

  She pulled her mind away. No. She had to walk.

  She put on a robe, careful to wrap it tight enough to cover the burns at the base of her throat, and slipped out the door. She padded barefoot down marble-floored hallways. The portraits on the wall seemed to follow her with disapproving stares.

  She went to the throne room. It was a beautiful space. Massive stained-glass windows adorned the far wall. During the day, they cast glittering multi-colored sunlight across the entire interior. Now, the moonlight dipped the floor in a mournful blue, the world reduced to icy monochrome.

  Nura reached the bottom of the stairs and turned. For a moment, her heart caught in her throat. Then she swallowed and ascended the dais. Slowly lowered herself into the throne.

  The view from up here was stunning. She could see the entirety of the throne room laid out beneath her, the floor cast in immaculate mosaics. Through the windows, the moon was warped and fractured.

  It was utterly silent here. Silent save for the ghosts.

  The crown, a delicate creation of silver, sat beside the throne. Nura lifted it and placed it on her head.

  She had sat here, like this, earlier today. Then, she’d been so nervous, so jittery, she had barely been able to think. Now, she could do nothing but think. She wasn’t sure which was worse.

  She had done the right thing, she told herself.

  The Fey were coming — worse, they had already come. They had taken the lives of her people. Ara wouldn’t be able to survive this without strong, decisive leadership. She knew this. Knew it in her bones.

  She had done the right thing.

  Still, here, in the shadows, she felt a looming presence. Sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, she thought he was standing there. Max, wearing the same expression he had when she sentenced him.

  She reached into her pocket, deep, until her fingers hit the rough seam. Until they closed around a cold crystal shard. Morrigan’s Ice. Unfinished.

  She withdrew her hand and looked down at the necklace in her palm, and thought of the woman who had given it to her. That woman had loved her — loved her when no one else did, loved her when she had needed a mother so, so much.

  If that woman was alive today, she would not love Nura now. Not after what she had done to her son.

  Perhaps Nura did not deserve to be loved, anyway. Perhaps love was just another sacrifice.

  She pushed the thought away. She folded her fingers into a fist, tighter, tighter, tighter, until the crystal gave and cracked, slicing her skin. When she opened her hand, only bloody shards sat in her palm.

  She let them fall onto the floor.

  She had done the right thing, she told herself.

  And it was all worth it. Worth it to save her country. Worth it to win this war. She had what it took. This is what she had fought for. This was power.

  But there, alone in the moonlight, the last vestiges of her old life in pieces at her feet, Nura did not feel powerful.

  She felt nothing.

  END of BOOK II

  Tisaanah, Max, and Aefe’s journey will come to a conclusion in Book III, coming in 2021.

  Ashen Son: a 4-Part Prequel

  Get it Free!

  Maxantarius is a skilled magic Wielder and a military rising star. But in one terrible night, he has learned that glory is bloodier than he ever could have imagined.

  War has broken out, thrusting his family into the center of a savage conflict. In its wake, Max is chosen to compete for the title of Arch Commandant.

  The title is all he has ever wanted. But the competition is merciless, and victory will mean fighting against his love… all while he must navigate a war that threatens to destroy those he treasures most.

  As allies and enemies alike draw blades at his back, Max learns that no victor walks away with clean hands.

  It’s only a matter of how far he’s willing to go.

  Sign up to my mailing list to get all four parts of Ashen Son for free! Part 1 is now available:

  carissabroadbentbooks.com/ashenson

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve written a few of these at this point (crazy!) and Nathan, you will never stop being the first and most important name here. Thank you for being the love of my life, for being such an incredible partner, for literally keeping me alive during crazy writing benders, for giving me a truly (truly!) incredible breadth and depth of monster inspiration, and for generally being the coolest person ever. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me and I’m so excited I get to hang out with you for the rest of my life.

  Mas
sive thank you to my writing group, Stephen, Michael, Noah, and Tom, for generally being awesome and also for lending ongoing support and feedback for this story. It’s a huge bummer that our in-person meetings had to stop this year but so looking forward to meeting again “live” soon, and nevertheless, Tisaanah and Max’s story will always belong to you guys.

  In particular, Noah, I cannot thank you enough for the incredible amount of work you did on this story (seriously, no one should have to read this so many times). This book would not even be half as good without the input you provided. I’m so excited that you’re branching out into professional editing so that more authors can reap the benefit of your wordsmithing talent (hire him, y’all) — but I’m even more excited to see your books reach the world soon!!

  Thank you Anthony for the fantastic editing. I’m so glad that we’ve made this connection and I’m looking forward to continuing to work together!

  CodyAnne, thank you so much for the proofreading and I’m looking forward to working together again.

  To my fellow romfan authors and Romantic Fantasy Shelf authors — in particular Clare, Miranda, Nicolette, Jenn, and Jessica — thank you so much for the camaraderie, the invaluable advice, and for the part you’ve played in boosting Daughter of No Worlds. I feel so fortunate to be part of such an amazing author community!

  Nick, thank you for the Skype calls and the long email threads and general writing camaraderie.

  Rachel, THANK YOU for catching so many gosh-darned typos and taking the time to send all of them to me. Bless you. Seriously.

  Thank you to Mom, Dad, Elizabeth, and Michael, for always being supportive and also for being generally a pretty cool family!

  Thank you to Calcifer for being the cutest fuzzy distraction.

  And above all, thank you, thank you, thank you to you, and to all the readers who found some spark of joy in Tisaanah and Max’s story. I’m a teensy lil’ fish in the grand scheme of things, but one of the best experiences of my life has been watching these books gain a readership. I am flabbergasted by it every single damn day, and there is absolutely no better feeling in the world.

  About the Author

  Carissa Broadbent has been concerning teachers and parents with mercilessly grim tales since she was roughly nine years old. Since then, her stories have gotten (slightly) less depressing and (hopefully a lot?) more readable. Today, she writes fantasy novels with a heaping dose of badass ladies and a big pinch of romance.

  Carissa works as a cybersecurity marketing professional during the harsh light of day, and is also a visual artist. She lives with her partner, one very well behaved rabbit, one very poorly behaved rabbit, and one perpetually skeptical cat in Rhode Island.