“No,” she breathes before she even gets there. “No.”
And that’s when he cracks.
A roar rips from Kael’s throat like a cut beast, haunting and raw.
His fists clench in unfettered rage, but the sound continues. The rasping, straining howl that tears from his chest in blind grief.
She reaches for him, hands gripping his coat.
He doesn’t respond.
Every vein and sinew in his neck bulges under the strain of his pain, his roar reverberating through the vault like an endless chorus of grief.
She drags her eyes to the alcove.
No.
No.
NO.
Three bodies.
Propped against the filthy vault wall like slaughtered animals.
Throats cut from ear to ear.
And words drawn in crimson blood across their chests.
Not a warning. A lesson.
Kiva.Comply.
Laryn.Or.
Rhaema.Die.
The same hands that stitched Elyssara into silk now hang limp at her sides. Rhaema had known. Had known helping them might cost her everything.And she’d done it anyway.
The words were written with meticulous precision. The work of someone who took their time. Diligence in death, if there was such a thing.
And she knows with absolute, bone-chilling certainty that Maireth is the only one callous enough to apply precision to such a thing.
The blood has not dried, still clinging to the skin in thick, gelatinous streaks.
Rivers of ichor spill from their open wounds, dripping down their necks and pooling in the hollow notches at the base of their throats.
And in the center of their abdomens—weapons.Their weapons.
Kael’s twin swords protrude from the bodies of his aunt and uncle. Elyssara’s Starforged Blade hangs from the soft flesh below Rhaema’s sternum. A precision slice.
“No,” she breathes, but the words feel pointless.
She drags her gaze up to meet Kael’s face.
His jaw is set, teeth grinding together with a force that threatens to crack his molars.
“Look at me, Kael. Look at me,” she pleads, voice desperate and strained.
