“No. I need your word that you won’t seek out your brother.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Save that for after your coronation, Princess.”
Sainte wouldn’t let me leave until Anderz secured my oath. He reassured me that once I ascended the throne, my actions would be my own. Until then, I was bound by law and his status as regent.
We walked through my silent corridors. The air felt thick, almost suffocating. A draft stirred the hall, but it couldn’t dispel the lingering sense of evil that hung about like smoke.
At Lyana’s door, Anderz stepped in front of me and knocked lightly. The room beyond remained quiet, nothing to rouse suspicion. When the way cracked open, and Urien peeked through, he took a long breath, his eyes darting over our group before he allowed us entrance.
As soon as I passed the threshold, my feet stopped working, shock freezing me in place.
Lyana lay on the bed, curled into a ball, a blanket pulled to her chin. She seemed so small—frail.
Ethyan sat on the floor, hunched against the bedframe. His dark, resentful eyes fixed on me over his knees. Bruises marred his face, his arm hanging at an unnatural angle at his side. Dried blood and scabbed wounds littered his body.
“Who did that to you?” I asked.
He raised his head and spat at me. “Your watchdog.”
I spun on Urien with the fury of a thousand gods in my glare. He slumped against the door, wincing as he folded his arms across his chest, showing a fresh bandage beneath his tunic.
“That wasafterhe stabbed me.”
My fingers curled into fists as I turned on Anderz for an explanation.
“Would you rather him be dead,” his gaze flicked to Lyana’s unmoving form, “or worse?”
I ground my teeth together, biting down on my fury. If my brother was so vile as to abuse Lyana in such a way, he wouldn’t have been above torturing Ethyan as well.
“Why didn’t you send for a healer?!”
“We tried. He threatened them.”
“If any of you Wynterian scum come near me, I’ll kill you all.” Ethyan’s words hissed past bloody lips, glower locked on me.
My heart writhed as fresh tears burned my cheeks. I rubbed at them with my sleeve and headed for the bed, giving Ethyan a wide berth. My breath caught as I looked down at Lyana.
Her ocean eyes were dull, unseeing. Inflamed bruises stained the space beneath them. A gash near her temple seeped into her hair. Flecks of crimson shrouded her crooked nose and swollen split lips.
“Lyana?” I whispered, scared to breathe.
Her blanket concealed further carnage, and with trembling hands, I lifted the fabric, revealing the full extent of her injuries. A delicate white silk robe clung to her body, now a macabre canvas painted in crimson, filth, and unnamable fluids. The stench was overwhelming, a nauseating mix that threatened to choke me as I struggled to process the sight before me.
A surge of blistering fury welled within, a visceral response to the brutality inflicted upon her. The sensation battled with the raw ache of loss that tore at my core, a pain not for myself, but for her.
Her robe hung open, allowing a glimpse of the devastation beneath. Bruises mottled her skin, a cruel tapestry of violence. A jagged wound snaked from her ribs, disappearing into the fabric, its edges inflamed and oozing a sickly yellow discharge.
Hot tears streamed down my face, scorching trails of remorse. Guilt gnawed at my insides. Every ache and injury bore the weight of my mistake.
This was all my fault.
I slipped into the bed beside her, a futile attempt to absorb her pain with my presence alone. If only I could shoulder her suffering, I would do so in an instant, without reservation. I reached out to stroke her hair, studying the emptiness in her gaze.
“No!”
Her scream shattered the silence, and I reeled back as she thrashed. She yanked the blanket close, curling into herself. The wide-eyed terror in her glare pierced through me with unfamiliar intensity.
