Page 55 of Blade of the Nightking

Aedric’s gaze swept the chamber slowly, his expression darkening.

“This is strange,” he murmured.

Before anyone could answer, the click of a latch echoed somewhere to our left.

Sparks skipped from Aedric’s fingers. Hamish’s hand flashed to the hilt of his sword.

A door creaked open. Footsteps—quick and light, hurried toward us with unmistakable urgency. A young woman appeared, the darkness sliding across her skin as she approached, the firelight slowly revealing her.

At first glance, she seemed no older than me, though I knew better than to trust such things with the Fae. Her straight black hair, cut bluntly at her jaw, had been pinned half back from a sweet, heart-shaped face, revealing almond-shaped eyes tilted faintly upward at the corners. She was pretty in a quiet, almost timid sort of way. Though it was difficult to notice much beyond her nerves.

She looked thoroughly, painfully anxious.

Her gaze darted between us, widening faintly at the sight of Aedric before dropping immediately—only to snag on Veylan, wheezing at Hamish’s feet. Whatever color she possessed seemed to drain from her face, yet she said nothing of it.

Instead, she hurried forward and bowed.

Once. Twice. Then a third time, deeper than before.

“W-Welcome to the Court of Dusk, High Lord,” she said quickly.

Aedric frowned. His gaze swept past her toward the empty throne before returning to her again.

“Where is Levinica?”

Something almost like a squeak escaped the female’s throat before she quickly lowered her head.

“High Lord,” she said, her voice thin and trembling, “Lady Levinica will not be taking an audience this evening.”

Silence settled over the chamber. It pressed in from all sides, thick and heavy, until even the distant crash of the sea seemed to recede beneath it.

Then came the heat. It rolled from Aedric in sudden waves, so abrupt and fierce that I knew immediately it was not my imagination. His anger bled into the room, into the air around us, pressing uncomfortably against my skin.

“Oh?” he asked softly, though the threat beneath the single word was unmistakable.

The young woman swallowed hard. “I—I apologize, High Lord, but she⁠—”

“We travelled halfway across the continent,” Aedric cut in sharply, “to return her defecting hound to her side—and she does not even deign to thank us in person?”

The young woman looked as though she might faint. Her hands twisted tightly together in front of her, nails pressing so hard into her skin that small crescents bloomed on her palms.

“The Lady is… unwell, High Lord.”

“I am aware her health has declined,” Aedric said tightly.

“It’s more than that.” Her voice wavered. “There are days now that she cannot… she cannot…”

“Spit it out.”

The words broke from her in a rush. “She cannot tell the difference anymore!” she cried. “What is real and what is not. And on days like today…” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Her mind is not here. There is no use speaking to her.”

Aedric stilled. “When will she be fit to receive me?”

“I—I do not know,” she admitted shakily. “It could be days…”

“Days?” His voice lowered, dangerous.

She nodded, panicked. “And even then, the window is narrow. When she returns to herself, she slips away again almost immediately. She searches, High Lord. She has never stopped searching. Not in three hundred years. Lord Dannis⁠—”