Page 94 of Blade of the Nightking

I shivered as the air turned colder, the last of the sunlight gone now, and cursed myself for not having a cloak. I turned from the water’s edge, my gaze lifting to the castle perched along the low cliffs at the edge of the bay. No one had come to find me. No one had bothered to drag me back to my room.

They weren’t worried about me escaping—not on an island where there was nowhere to escape to. And with the bargain hanging over my head and Aedric's life in the balance, I was hardly a concern to the Dark Prince.

I wasn’t even useful to him.

The control I had over my magic was laughable. I didn’t know how to wield a knife. Couldn’t read. I’d been good with a bow, but even then my father rarely let me do any killing. He’d been the blade. All I’d ever been good for was telling him whose head to take.

I’d survived in the human realm. Always found a way through. But had that been skill? Or had it just been instinct—the kind that came when there was nowhere left to go?

I’d certainly thought myself clever when I’d gathered the iron ash. When I’d poisoned Veylan and slipped free. When I’d tricked the Moiraithe. But maybe I’d never been anything more than that—just a trapped rat, gnawing at whatever it could until it broke free.

It was the sound that finally drew my attention: a lively tune carrying from somewhere nearby. I followed it along the edge of the docks until I reached a low building near the shoreline, its frame slightly crooked, its sign worn to nothing. Not that I could’ve read it if I tried.

Light brightened the windows, warm and inviting in a way the streets hadn’t been. I hesitated only a moment before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

Raucous laughter greeted me, along with the stench of sour ale. A fiddler sat in a corner, drawing his bow hard across the strings while a group of bawdy males sang along, their voices loud and off-key, tankards sloshing as they swayed in time with the music.

I supposed even in the saddest places, music still found a way to bring people back to life.

I wove my way through the crowd, the floor sticky beneath my feet, and paused just long enough to take it in—the low beams hazed with smoke, the narrow tables crowded with drinkers, the fire burning steadily in the hearth. Only a handful of seats remained, scattered along the walls, and I slipped into one before anyone else could claim it.

The fiddler drew my attention, his shoulder-length blond hair shifting with each movement, his eyes closed, his bow sawing over the strings with impressive speed. Sweat gathered along his brow, but there was something in the frantic pace of the tune that set my nerves on edge, that wound tighter instead of easing the tension already sitting in my chest.

A Fae woman with a weathered face dropped a tankard of ale in front of me, the tin hitting the table with a dull thud. I offered her a small smile in thanks, but she didn’t return it.

“Food?” she barked over the music.

I shook my head, but she was already gone before I finished, pushing through the crowd toward another table.

I lifted it toward my lips—only to stop as the scent reached me. I held it there for a moment, the pull of it immediate and strong enough to make my grip tighten. I could already imagine it, the way it would take the edge off, the way everything would soften again, blur, quiet.

My hand trembled.

Slowly, I lowered the tankard back to the table.

I didn’t let go right away. I sat there with my fingers still wrapped around the handle, staring into the thin, amber liquid as the music rose and twisted through the room, louder now, faster, pressing against my skull in a way that made it hard to think past it.

I wanted it. I needed it.

Rìan’s voice echoed in my mind, thick with distaste and repulsion.

Drunk.

The word lodged in my mind, drowning out everything else.

When had that happened? When had I become this way?

Solmire, maybe. The fire, the chaos, the death. The strident note the fiddle struck sounded like a woman screaming, and my throat thickened around the memory.

And after Solmire… Aedric.

Oh, Aedric.

That memory came hard, too. Solmire had broken us both, and whatever had been left of us had split cleanly apart. The imprint of his hand on my skin…

And Calantha, that terrible sight, the blinding pain of torture⁠—

My palms began to sweat. The pieces started to come together, slowly at first, then all at once. I didn’t want to feel any of it. The grief. The guilt. The pain.