Page 38 of Blade of the Nightking

And yet something inside me soured. Once again, the claws of doubt raked through my heart. How could he be so gentle one moment, then condemn a woman to death the next? How could he tell me he loved me, then stand by while the Full Circle sentenced me to torture?

No. That wasn't true. He hadn't stood by. He'd fought for me—I knew he had.

So why couldn't I find my footing? Why did every answer only seem to breed another question?

I wrapped my arms around myself, searching for some fragment of the woman I'd been only weeks ago. The woman who'd fought for love and been willing to die for it.

There was nothing. Just an ache where certainty used to live, and the quiet, disorienting feeling of being completely lost.

At some point, a tray of food appeared. A thick stew fragrant with beef and barley, still steaming faintly. Chamomile tea, no doubt chosen for its calming properties.

I ignored all of it.

It wasn't until I opened one of Aedric's cabinets and found his wine stores that I finally stirred from my daze. My stomach churned at the thought of food, but the wine... that I could manage.

I tipped my head back and drank deeply, never bothering to pour it into one of the ornate crystal glasses lining the shelf.

Bottle in hand, I drifted into Aedric’s study. I hadn’t yet ventured inside.

The walls were lined with shelves of thick books. A mahogany desk sat immaculate against one wall. An unlit fireplace rested opposite it. The moment I stepped inside, the hearth flared to life with a cheerful crackle, making me jump.

The desk was impossibly orderly. Papers lay stacked in precise piles, quills arranged beside gleaming ink bottles with such deliberate symmetry that the entire thing looked less like a workspace and more like a display.

I put down the bottle and pulled a heavy tome from a shelf.

The moment I opened it, I knew it had never been read. The pages were pristine, the spine unbroken. I tried another. And another.

All the same.

I ran my fingers along the strange, unfamiliar characters inked across the pages. I wished, fleetingly, that I knew how to read. At least then there might have been something to occupy my thoughts. There weren’t even any illustrations.

“How’s the story?”

I nearly leapt out of my skin.

Hamish stood in the doorway, his broad frame filling it entirely. His stance was solid, feet braced apart, hands clasped behind his back. Always a soldier. Always ready.

My gaze caught on the knife at his belt. Had he used it to slit Saerena's throat?

My stomach lurched.

"I wouldn't know," I said, unable to keep the frost from my voice as I snapped the book shut with a dull thud. His shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

I wanted to hate him—this cold-hearted executioner who carried out his lord's will without question. Who'd murdered an innocent healer simply because Aedric had ordered it.

Hamish was always stoic, always reserved. But in that moment, he dragged a rough hand down his side, as though Saerena's blood still stained his skin, and it was enough. Enough to betray the regret buried beneath duty. Enough to tell me that carrying out the order had cost him, too.

Her blood was on my hands as much as his. Another death. My fault. He might have been the blade that fell, but I was the hand that wielded it.

Whatever anger I'd clung to dissolved beneath the awful weight of that truth.

I lifted one shoulder in a weak shrug. "I can't read."

His brows lifted just slightly. Barely a reaction, but enough to send heat rushing to my face.

He stepped forward and gently took the book from my hands, studying the cover. “You wouldn’t like this one anyway.” He read the title in gold lettering on the cover. “The Codified Lineages and Tax Obligations of Lesser Flame Holdings, Third Revision.”

I made a face.