Page 105 of Adversary to the Villain

Clare’s lips parted, and she gasped. Wish it all undone? That Trystan had never become The Villain? That their family had never splintered? That she had never made the mistakes she’d made to get here?

How different their lives would all be.

It was tempting. So,sotempting.

So Clare shocked herself when she said firmly, “No.”

“No?” the voice questioned.

“I love my brother,” Clare whispered, “and as much as I wish he’d never had to feel the pain of this…he did. To erase it, to undo it—by the gods, what a hypocrite I’d be all over again.”

“You’re certain?” the voice asked.

Gods help her, she was. “My love is not contingent on his never having done bad deeds. I will take my brother exactly as he is now. I should not like to change anything about him.”

The voice was not attached to anything Clare could see, but she was certain she heard it smile. “Congratulations, Ms. Maverine. You passed.”

And when Clare awoke with a jolt, a cold sweat beginning behind her neck, she felt lighter than she had in years. She stared at Moira, who was smiling, glowing, waiting for Clare to piece it together.

“You’re no librarian,” Clare started, with two fingers hovering above her mouth.

Moira nodded, then gestured to the others, who were wrapped in leaves and vines sprouting up from the open book, eyes closed. Clare knew each was in their own test, which only they had the power to get themselves out of. “What am I, Clare Maverine?”

Clare breathed.

“Fate.”

Chapter 51

Blade

Blade wondered why people so feared the ghosts of the past when they could just as easily fear the ones already present.

It was clear he was in a vision, a dream. His father had scolded him enough over the years for his lack of attention that Blade had trained himself to fixate on every word, every detail, in case he was asked to repeat something. Anything to avoid the shame he’d feel when he was wrong.

So he was certain now: Moira was no librarian, her game that of the mind, so Blade reminded himself to stay sharp as he watched his father, a grayer version than the last Blade had seen, entering King Benedict’s office, slamming papers down with a fervent cry of, “You’re finished.”

His father was seething in a way Blade had never seen. His stern face was red with anger, his fists clenched, every muscle in his face strained. They strained somehow further when Benedict smiled. “Now, now, Iven. Let us not be hasty. Come, have a drink.”

“You attacked Massacre Manor. Twice. My son could have been in the cross fire, you self-serving bastard.”

His father’s accusation, and the fear in his voice as he said it, forced Blade back a step, his mouth parting, his heart picking up pace at his shock. He wondered if his father was saying it merely for his benefit…until Benedict went to open a window and practically walked rightthroughhim, and Blade realized the king couldn’t see him.

Meaning neither could his father.

So that fear, that protectiveness was real?

“Rest assured I had my reasons for those attacks.” Benedict folded his arms, staring out at the kingdom.

“I don’t care any longer. When we began this farce, you swore to me it wouldn’t go this far.”

Benedict turned abruptly, grabbing Iven by the neck. On a cry, Blade ran for them, reaching out and touching…nothing. He could only watch.

Horrified, Blade began yelling, “It’s not real. I know it’s not real.”

A voice whispered above, “I do nothing but reveal.”

His father clawed for Benedict’s eyes, but the king held him in place. “It is tiresome for you to grow a conscience this late in the game, Iven.” Then he released the man like he’d just patted him on the back, looking unruffled. “Lest I make your son remember it for you.”