Outside, a gust struck the spire and made the windowpane tremble. Eliza felt the shudder in her ribs.
“Leave the tea,” she said. “Pull the curtains.” The signals worked both ways.We are observed.
When the drapes fell, dusk flooded the room in blue shadow. Eliza let it rest on her skin like a veil. Tears would have been a waste; she had none left to give.
Rakhal’s name was not spoken, but it lived between the words.Vivisection.Containment.
She slept because the body will take what it must. The dream came like a tide. Chains glinted. Shadows bled along the floor. Rakhal stood half in light, half in darkness, eyes black and wide. He said her name without moving his mouth. The sound crossed the space between them like a hand. When he lifted his palm, shefelt it at her throat—heat and cold at once. She reached for him, and her fingers met smoke that pulsed like breath.
She woke with her heart hammering. The wall was only stone, yet her skin prickled where the dream-hand had touched her.
In the morning Brenna returned, her hair poorly pinned, eyes rimmed red. She set the tray down, lips pressed white. “They say the queen grows weaker,” she recited. “They say your cousin Maeron has taken up the burden. He meets with the generals.”
Eliza stilled. “I see.”
“And—” Brenna’s voice faltered. “My brothers. They’ve moved their camp forward. Everyone says there will be another push.” Her fingers twisted in her apron until the skin blanched. “There were six of them. Two are already gone.” She swallowed. “From the walls you can see the fires on the plains. They say the orcs are massing again. They say Maeron means to strike first, before they reach us.”
Eliza felt the breath leave her lungs.
Brenna went on, words tumbling now. “There are rumours, too. About you. That you tried to end the fighting—that you were going to marry the orc prince, to make peace—but something went wrong. No one really knows what happened that day at the gates. Only that there was blood, and magic, and…” She hesitated. “They say the shadow poisoned you. Made you sick.”
Eliza’s nails bit her palm. “Rumours,” she said, though the word carried no weight.
Brenna’s composure broke. “I don’t want more war,” she whispered. “I can’t lose the rest of them.”
Eliza took her hands—cold, trembling—and held them firmly. “Listen to me. What happens below will decide what happens above. If they kill what they’ve taken, the war won’t end—it will devour everything. Maeron, your brothers, all of it. Do you understand?”
Brenna nodded, a small jerking motion, eyes wide and wet.
“Good,” Eliza said softly, releasing her. “Then we have our work.”
When Brenna left and the bolts slid home again, Eliza went to the window. The pull in her chest was stronger now, a thread tightening down into the stone. She could feel the heartbeat of the castle, the pulse of something vast and restless beneath it. It was like the first tug of tide on a grounded ship. Refuse it, and she would splinter. Yield, and she would move.
Below, Maidan stirred—flags snapping, carts rolling, the ordinary rhythm of a kingdom convinced its queen slept behind curtains and medicine.Visible, but erased.The phrase had become her heartbeat.
The pull deepened. It was not just memory calling her; it was recognition. Something down there knew her name as well as she knew his. She could feel Rakhal—torn, defiant, alive.
That night she did not pray. She lay awake, counting the guards’ steps, the hush of the castle when even fire dared not breathe. Panic never came. Only a slow, measured heat in her chest: fear sharpened into will.
When sleep finally took her, he was closer. The shadows around him shifted like wings. His voice reached her without sound, brushing her skin like a promise.
She woke before dawn, trembling but certain. Morning would bring the same lies, the same silver trays, the same guards pretending not to hear her breath. But morning would also bring Brenna—and with her, the first thread of a plan.
Whatever bound them—the queen above and the captive below—had become more than memory. It was a living tether, pulling her toward the dark.
Eliza sat up, smoothed the coverlet, and placed her bare feet on the cold stone floor. The walls listened. The air held its breath.
She smiled—small, dangerous, desperate—and began to plan.
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
Brenna arrived late.
The latch slid; the guard’s key grated in the lock. By the time the maid slipped through, the light had tilted toward evening, the room washed in the long, blue shadow before dusk. Brenna’s cheeks were blotched as if she had scrubbed them too hard with cold water. She kept her head bowed, hands folded primly at her apron—too prim—and when she straightened, Eliza saw the trembling she was trying to hide.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Brenna murmured. “The kitchens ran short of—” She faltered. Her sleeve shifted, a crisp, small sound. She moved closer to the table, lifted the silver lid from the tray with exaggerated care, and let the steam rise and cloud the space between them. Behind the veil of heat, her eyes met Eliza’s, wide and searching.
