Reborn by Seth Haddon

Author:Seth Haddon [Haddon, Seth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fantasy, Romance, gay
Publisher: Blind Eye Books
Published: 2023-10-23T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

Izra was in the palace at Doskor, though every time he tried to leave, he would be guided hastily back to the throne room where the empty marble seat sat taunting him. He had no concept of how long he had been doing this; staring at the throne, turning on his heel, opening another door only to find it led straight back here.

It frightened him because it felt like blasphemy. As if Suoduny were urging him to sit in it—which was treason, and upsetting, and something he absolutely would not do.

This was no fantasy of his. This was closer to a nightmare. The True Commander would wake and would reclaim his throne. There was no future, in Izra’s mind, that would ever lead him here.

So he traversed the maze of the castle, whipping open doors, turning in circles for many hours. Eventually, he came to a window. Izra tried to stare out of it, but the sun glare was too intense. A silhouetted figure stood in the distance, his fated man in a corona of light, only he was not walking away from Izra.

Oren Radek stalked toward him.

As soon as that thought crystallized, the window threw itself roughly open, and Oren’s voice carried up in a shout. “You have to come back with me.”

Izra turned back from the window to find he was once again in the throne room. No. This was not right, and he told Oren just as much.

Oren pleaded with him. “We will—figure it out. The two of us. Just wake up.”

And behind Oren, the scene resolved into a snowscape, a rural mountain town, and an insurmountable gate locked tight by magic. Izra’s heart twisted. He had seen those gates before, seen the town. It was Wicjezst. He had been there once before, under the orders of the High Priestess Neala. He had committed a crime then—to try and bring the True Commander back from the astrok-mer. Was he to return there? Was he to face his crimes?

“Wicjezst. All of this has happened before,” Izra whispered, terrified by the implication.

“That doesn’t mean it has to happen again,” Oren said, and then the whole room tilted.

Oren disappeared, and Izra was on the ceiling, clutching the window frame to keep himself from dropping. But this was childish, now. Suoduny was telling him what to do in no uncertain terms.

There was nothing left to do but drop.

Izra let go, and the room righted itself. He dropped slowly to the ground and climbed the steps of the throne. He ran his fingers over the cold marble, felt the smooth hardness of the seat. He shook, his body hating every moment, anxious with blasphemy. Izra Dziove lowered himself onto the throne with his heart in his mouth, and waited for punishment; for Suoduny to curse him for the wickedness of his overreach.

Instead, he heard his name booming around the throne room, an invisible crowd cheering, a circlet heavy with the burden of a nation coming down on his shoulders.

“Emperor Izra Dziove,” he heard.

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