Isa.
The coven.
The heretics waiting beyond the wards.
The heart of the stronghold had gone silent.
Rhen drove one fist into the stone floor.
The impact split it beneath his hand.
It changed nothing.
Nothing could.
He remained on his knees beside the bed, Leena locked against his chest while blood soaked through his clothes and branded him to the wrists.
Mary stood several feet away, one hand covering her mouth.
Grief hollowed her face.
The birth medic lowered her bloodstained hands.
Neither woman tried to take Leena from him.
The baby cried again.
The sound cut through the chamber, small and furious, demanding the mother who would never answer.
Mary looked toward the cradle.
Then toward the phone resting on the table.
Someone had to tell the king.
Her legs nearly failed before she reached it.
Mary lifted the receiver and called Sule.
He answered before the second ring.
“Mary?”
His voice was sharp and immediate, already threaded with alarm.
Mary opened her mouth.
Nothing emerged except a broken breath.
“Mary.” Sule’s tone hardened. “Talk to me.”
She stared at Leena’s face where it rested against Rhen’s chest.
The stillness.
The blood.
Rhen’s empty eyes.
