A vicious snarl rumbled from behind, prompting me to turn just as Adastrus’ chair scraped against the dais. On instinct, I stepped away, finding Sainte at my side, his presence a shield.
Grimm, gripping the back of my brother’s seat, brandished his sword, bringing it down in a forceful swing. Adastrus, being no fool, deflected the attack with a deft movement of his dinner knife.
The rest of the world slowed to a crawl, the chaos fading into a distant hum.
Grimm’s strike fell short, lodging into the wooden tabletop. Blood stained my brother’s hand, his face an emotionless mask as he stared up at his Valahant, the one soul that was sworn to protect him. Grimm’s features, once pinched with rage, softened as he staggered, his fingers wrapping around the knife embedded in his gut. He turned to Lyana and gave her a weak smile.
Then he fell.
The abrupt thud echoed through the hall, jolting me to the present. Castle guards rushed to their regent as my gaze shifted to Lyana. Shock and horror plastered her expression, lips parted and eyes wide.
I grabbed her, shattering her horrified daze. She screamed and struggled against me until Sainte intervened. He snared her arm as she clawed and kicked, twisting against his hold, gaze fixed on Grimm’s lifeless body.
Without a word, I stormed out of the hall with Sainte dragging her behind. Her wailing screams echoed in my wake.
Lyana was escorted to her rooms, still reeling from the night’s traumatic events. Once there, she retreated into herself, motionless. I arranged for a calming brewto induce sleep, and after I watched her drink the entire thing, she succumbed to rest.
I sat in my receiving room, my head buried in my hands. Sainte hadn’t budged from his spot in my chambers since we arrived. Though visibly shaken, he managed to mask his turmoil better than Lyana. I couldn’t fathom how long he’d known Grimm, but their bond was evident enough for him to entrust the task of returning me to Wynterborne.
A knock interrupted the heavy silence. Neither of us made a move to answer. When it sounded again, faint and polite, I groaned into my palms.
“Who is it?” My tone carried the weight of my exhaustion and disbelief, a reflection of the chaos that ensued.
“Counselor Dyre.”
“Come in.”
Anderz slowly pushed open the door as Sainte rose from his seat, moving toward the entrance to stand guard. The door clicked shut, leaving an eerie stillness within the castle walls.
“He’s dead?” I forced the question out, needing closure. I had to confront this reality.
“Yes.”
A wave of grief slammed into me, a visceral punch to the gut that doubled me over. He would have never been free, forever bound to my brother’s tyranny. Death, in a twisted sense, was a release—a mercy from the perpetual torment of his existence. But for Lyana, who fought so fiercely to save him, it was a cruel blow—a heartbreaking end to her efforts.
“His body will pass through the fire,” Anderz said, his tone cautious.
Sainte’s reaction was immediate and fierce, snapping me out of my sorrow. Rage radiated from him, his usually calm blue eyes ablaze with fury. “Did the priests sanction this?” he snapped, every word edged with anger.
“They… did not.” Anderz placed a small parchment on the table. “It was the prince regent’s command.”
A growl rumbled in Sainte’s throat, as if the words physically pained him. His hand clenched the hilt of his sword as his nostrils flared—a visible sign he struggled to contain his wrath.
“What does that mean?” I leaned forward, a nagging suspicion that there was a crucial detail I was missing.
“The people of Tilamuik bury their dead, do they not?” Anderz settled into a chair with a sigh.
“They do. Or they’re given a burial at sea.”
“Here, it’s different. The dead are offered to the wolves. An honorable death means the body is left exposed as a tribute to Nothar. A way for the flesh that once housed life to continue serving, even in death. Once the soul hascrossed the Veil, the body holds no more purpose. Burial isn’t an option in grounds that are frozen year-round.”
“And burning?” I pressed, swiping at my wet cheeks. “What does that mean?”
Anderz’s gaze held a stoic intensity as he traced the lines of the parchment before him, his golden eyes reflecting the gravity of the situation. “When a body’s burned, it’s a disgrace—a curse, if you will. The soul is seen as so worthless, so tainted, that people fear its wickedness might somehow infect the wolves that feed upon it. The body is wasted.”
I threw my hands up. “That’s a bunch of pig’s dung!”
“Wynterians are a religious folk, Princess,” he said, gaze fixed on the parchment.
