In the dim moonlight, the darkness of his skin worried me—bruises, I hoped, not old blood pooling. He didn’t yell or push me away, a sign of his acceptance. I brushed the hair around his head, checking for swelling or knots on his skull.
“How long has it been like this?” I hissed.
“A few days—I don’t know. Gods, El. It hurts.”
“You need a healer.”
“No!” His gaze snapped to mine, fear flickering in his eyes.
“Lyana needs care. How will we convince her to accept help if you’re too scared to let anyone near you?”
“I’m not afraid,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “You weren’t here.”
“And you were sleeping. We all messed up. Now play the hand you’ve been dealt and I’ll fetch Gilead.”
“No, I can handle it!”
“Perhaps.” I rocked back on my heels, throwing my hands up. “Maybe you’ll lose an arm! You might notdie, but do you think Niena will grant Lyana the same luck? Have youseenher? She’s not going to make it.” Fresh tears welled and spilled over. “Her body is broken. Her spirit is crushed. She won’t fight unless we force her.”
Ethyan crumbled, his anger collapsing into a sob—his mask shattered. I moved to his uninjured side and wrapped my arms around him. We held each other, tears mingling, the weight of our shared grief pressing on us. We couldn’t undo what happened—and it would change us all forever.
Chapter 22
Isent for Gilead that night, the only one I trusted near my friends. She entered, her voice a soft murmur as she dimmed the lantern, casting a warm, flickering glow around the room. The scent of herbs clung to her robes, and she gave Ethyan plenty of space until he calmed.
The darkness along his arm I’d been concerned about revealed deep bruising, but no internal bleeding. When asked if he would regain full range of movement and control, Gilead pressed her lips together, and told us it depended on the gods.
With her assistants kept at the door, I helped set his arm. The sharp tang of antiseptic stung my nose as we cleaned him and bandaged his wounds. Once he was mended, we started on Lyana.
Her refusal of anyone’s touch tore my heart. We couldn’t honor her wish. She lay in bed for days, too traumatized to rise and relieve herself. The sight of her, pale and trembling, made it impossible for me to leave her like that.
Ethyan understood the need. Tears streaked his face, mingling with sweat as he grimaced in pain, helping me tend to his sister. The metallic reek of blood and bodily fluids was hard to stomach. Gilead kept her distance, only stepping forward to examine the cuts on her sides and inner thighs.
Ethyan threw up twice, adding the stench of bile as we struggled to care for her. She fought and kicked, her screams piercing the air, teeth bared as she bit at our fingers.
Sainte stayed near the door, arms crossed, hands away from his daggers, gaze fixed on the wall. Now and then, his eyes met mine, sharing in my misery.
I pushed the horrors of that night to the back of my mind, ignoring the sight of her deep cuts, the dark bruises, the burns tarnishing her legs. The acrid stench of her state lingered in my senses, even now. I buried those memories, lettingthem resurface in quiet moments, when silence echoed with her faint haunting cries.
When I departed for the council meeting, Ethyan stayed with his sister under Urien’s watchful eye. He made no apology for stabbing the Wynterian, but accepted his presence. Apparently, when Lyana left to meet my brother, Urien faced ten guards to intercede. When more arrived, she begged him to let her go, and he released her to them. I didn’t hold him any more accountable for what happened than I did Sainte.
I scanned the table, my face a rigid mask, examining the council members’ expressions. They allowed this to happen within their walls, hiding behind the pretense of her willingness, claiming no laws were broken. How many of them watched her torture, choosing silence over intervention?
Anderz withheld the names of the few witnesses he knew, but their power was evident—no one would question their word.
What sickness lurked within this castle that men would stand by, witnessing such horrors, only to speak of them later? What kind of fiendish ruler did they follow, someone capable of such heinous acts who strolled freely, as if untouchable by vengeance?
Leihim lounged in his chair, his gaze locked on me with a subtle intensity. His proposal still hung between us, a delicate thread connecting our ambitions. His backing in exchange for information regarding the Dire Wolf. Yet, my path to the throne stretched far beyond passing the next Rite, an event ordained by divine whims. I needed to garner support from the nobles. Though the common peoples’ superstitions would sway many to my cause, if I would end my brother’s life, I required a widespread alliance. And Leihim Hinyte held the key to persuading the majority.
As the high court droned on about trade routes, my finger tapped against my temple. Anderz’s advice lingered in my thoughts—he urged me to stay attentive, to make a spectacle of interest even when my mind wandered. The charade of caring was crucial—but the only thing I cared about was removing my brother’s head from his shoulders.
“And what of the merchants traveling through Gladiers?” someone asked.
“They’re moving with confidence,” Leihim said. His gaze slid along the counselors until he found who spoke. “There’s tension, and the Glades are wary, but Wynterians are traveling without hesitation. It appears our princess has not only taught King Reid a lesson, but our citizens as well.”
“You have won the faith of the people, Your Highness,” said Aliea, the slender noblewoman to my left. “When are the God Stones to arrive?”
“Careful, Counselor,” Reuthland warned.
