I watched a bead of water fall onto my lap, staining the delicate lace in an inky bloom.
“I am the king of Radaan,” he said, his rage palpable. His gaze locked with mine, cold, fierce. “I fought at the front for eighteen years. Faced countless attempts on my life.”
He knelt, leveling himself before me, his glacier-hued eyes aflame with conviction. “Let them come. Let them try to reach you.”
He pressed the chilled cloth into my hand. The coolness seeped into my skin, grounding me as my fingers curled around it, trembling against its rough weave.
“Now,” his tone hardened, controlled but barely, “do me a favor and assure me that isn’t your blood before I lose what little sanity I have left.”
I dragged in a ragged breath, the air catching in my chest. He didn’t flinch. His gaze burned with a brutal intensity, sharp and unrelenting, demanding my truth.
“It’s not mine,” I managed, my voice breaking.
No, it was Scythe’s. The assassin’s. My palms, still stained with the evidence, trembled as guilt and horror clashed inside me.
“Prove it,” he growled, the calm veneer shattering, exposing the fury simmering beneath. “Or I shall have to take matters into my own hands.”
Frantic, I scrubbed at my skin with jerky strokes. Red streaks mixed with water, smearing the story of my survival. His gaze bore into me, no longer cold but searing, the assassin’s attack leaving cracks in the mask of indifference he had worn so well.
The cloth dragged over the cut on my palm, and pain flared. I flinched. Kallias’ fingers closed over mine. His thumb grazed the edge of the wound, rough yet steady, anchoring me to the moment. A shiver ran through me at thecontact. When his grip on his sword tightened, I yanked my hand back, but his focus never wavered from the door, every muscle poised for an attack.
I resumed scrubbing the grime from my hands, each stroke harsh. Kallias stood unmoving, a dark silhouette framed by the dim corridor beyond. He was a barrier of steel and resolve, planted between me and whatever threat lurked in the shadows.
The cloth, once pristine, now carried the night’s horrors—its white fibers streaked with ash-gray smudges and dull red stains. The scent of iron clung to it, bitter and metallic. Scythe’s lifeless face burst into my mind: her gaze empty, her body crumpled. The sensation of the pencil driving into flesh resurfaced, the primal terror of survival clawing at my chest.
Grief coiled around me, crushing, suffocating. Tears stung the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Her vacant stare wouldn’t leave me. A ghost scorched into memory.
We weren’t in Draconia. There would be no burial at sea, no dragonfire to carry her soul skyward. Here, her body would be buried or burned on a pyre—both choices felt like a desecration.
The decision rested on me. A princess was supposed to have answers, a spine unbent by grief. But as her friend, neither path was enough.
Worm food or funeral pyre. Dragonfire left no trace behind, its heat erasing everything. I wasn’t sure I could watch her soul drift in a haze of ashes and smoke.
Silent sobs tore through me, ripping at the fragile barriers I’d tried to build. My teeth sank into my lip until the metallic tang of blood spread over my tongue. The air around me felt hollow, stripped of her laughter and the sly edge of her teasing. I could almost hear her sharp wit, the echo of her voice under the stars during stolen moments of rebellion. All of it was gone.
She wasgone.
Kallias dropped onto the bed beside me, his weight tilting me toward him. I buried my face in his shoulder, the tears breaking free in an uncontrolled torrent. His arm wrapped around me, anchoring me as my body quaked with grief.
“This is your first,” he murmured.
I couldn’t answer. My throat constricted, blocking my attempts to speak. “Assassins don’t–” My voice broke. “Draconis don’t get attacked.”
I wanted him to pull me closer, to shield me from the reality crushing down on me. But I clung to myself instead, keeping some fragile barrier between us, even as my sobs consumed me.
His hand pressed to my waist, his grip firm, fingers digging in as if to keep me grounded. “Because of the dragons,” he said.
“Because of our magic,” I spat, the bitterness sharp on my tongue.
Magic defined Draconis—ours to wield for weeks, months, even years. My father held it like an unyielding fortress. I couldn’t hold it for a day.
“And yours?” His tone softened, curiosity threading through his words, void of judgment.
“Gone,” I whispered. “I gave it to you.”
Kallias turned, his face unreadable, but I didn’t meet his gaze. My focus stayed on the tears streaking his skin, slipping down to stain his clothes.
“When I bestowed the Dragon’s Kiss, that was all I had left.”
