Then I hear Arax’s voice at my ear. “Your Highness. The family. What do you want done with them?”
Death Singer fades from my grasp, vanishing into ash.
My silver eyes snap open.
“Give them food and water,” I say at last. “Keep them safe.”
Arax slams his fist to his chest, his head bowed in submission, but my reply startles him as much as it does me. Still, he does as he is commanded.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
***
After her.I never believed I was worthy of love. Not once.
A wicked, cursed thing, born of death, wrapped in shadow and regret. I thought that was all I was. What I would always be. No light could touch me, no warmth could thaw the ice that had wrapped itself around my soul. I didn’t deserve the simple joys that others had. The quiet moments, the laughter, the softness of a kiss, the feel of a child’s hand curling around your finger. Not with the things I had done, the mistakes that haunted me, the blood that stained me, the deaths I had caused.
And yet, somehow fate has thrown my curses aside and given me blessings I could never have imagined.
A wife. A daughter.
For the first time in my life, I am a part of something good and pure.
I had never imagined this. Never thought I could have this. The feeling of Amara beside me, her soft breath, the warmth of her skin against mine. The tender gaze she gave me, the way her smile lit up the dark. And then our daughter. Our perfect daughter, so tiny, so fragile, her small hand curled in mine. Her soft, dark hair, her little eyes, gray like mine, her skin the perfect shade of tawny like her mother. She is our love made flesh, a promise between us, a child of two worlds, a princess of both.
I can’t even wrap my mind around it. The three of us, together.
I gaze at them both now. Amara’s peaceful form, our daughter resting in her arms and for the first time, I feel something more than guilt, more than despair. I feelwhole.
My hand reaches out to touch Amara’s cheek, the warmth of her skin grounding me, reminding me that I am not the monster I believed I was. I am her husband. I am the father of our child. I am worthy,because of them.
And I will never take this gift for granted.
I carry my wife to a small cabin below deck and tend to her while our daughter sleeps, swaddled and warm, in a makeshift crib Reon and Orios fashioned from a hewn barrel.Time passes, though I cannot say how much. Hours, perhaps. I have not left Amara’s side. I refuse to.
Slowly, the color begins to return to her cheeks. The ashen cast lifts. Her breathing grows deeper. The warmth of life creeps back into her skin, chasing out the cold that nearly stole her from me.
I cleanse her carefully, cloth and water in hand, wiping away the blood and sweat still clinging to her. Her body shivers beneath my touch, the tremors of agony still echoing through her limbs. I long to kiss away the hurt, to draw it from her bones and bury it in my own flesh. But I can’t. I press my lips to her forehead instead, brushing aside the damp strands of hair that cling to her skin.
Her gown, which I imagine was splendid once, is ruined, soaked through in blood. I remove it with care, reverent in the way I slide the fabric from her limbs. My fingers graze her skin as I dress her in a soft linen nightgown.
She stirs faintly, her eyes barely opening. No words, only weak murmurs that seem to leave her more spent. She has endured enough. Let the world wait. She deserves peace.
A knock at the door draws a scowl to my face. When it creaks open and our daughter stirs in her crib, it takes everything in me not to rise in fury.
“What is it?” I snarl under my breath.
Reon clears his throat. His voice is quiet. “Daedalus. There is a matter above deck that requires your attention.”
I exhale, the sound rough and reluctant. I already know what he means. Still, leaving this room feels impossible. I have waited so long for this. To have them. To hold them. And now that I do, I would trade every throne, every crown, just to remain here.
Reon speaks again when I don’t answer. “We could kill him if that’s what you want.”
I believe he would, without hesitation. It would save me the trouble. The Golden Son does not deserve a trial. He does not deserve mercy. We could hang him from the mast for his crimes against the Fae and be fully justified.
But one question burns on my tongue, and I cannot let it go. If I let Reon take his life now, I will never have the answer.
I need to know what happened in Driftspire.
