The man in white scrubs at the smear of blood his robe as if he’s wiping away an inconvenience rather than the proof of his cruelty. Then he lifts a hand, gesturing for the team of guards to move.
The girl’s body sways in their grip, arms slack, head lolling, dragged toward whatever fate awaits her as they disappear into the forest. The shadows stretch long, greedy fingers, swallowing the last flicker of movement, the last glimpse of her pale limbs vanishing between the towering trees. Only the faint rustling of pine needles and the metallic clink of steel-plated boots remain.
And then nothing.
“I think that’s the same man from yesterday.” My words are a whisper, brittle and trepidant, like saying them too loud might bring him back. “The man with the queen. The one who was chanting—he was wearing that mask.”
Alder doesn’t look at me. His gaze stays locked on the tree line.
“Droskyn Vayne,” he murmurs. “A priest.” A beat of silence. Then, lower, rougher, “He should be…” Alder exhales through his nose, jaw tight, throat working likethe words are strangling him. “He should be dead.”
I swallow hard, forcing myself to push through the fear, through the revulsion curling in my gut. “Now do you believe me? That it wasn’t all some emotion-driven hallucination? That I really did watch him and Queen Rothmore kill Clara?”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Are you kidding?” A sharp laugh catches in my throat, and I shake my head. “I did. You wouldn’t listen.”
Neither of us speak.
The waves crash below. The wind batters the cliffs.
Alder exhales. A slow, heavy sound, like he’s absorbing my words, like they landed somewhere deep. His jaw flexes. The silence between us stretches, taut and thin, straining under the weight of something unspoken.
My pulse stumbles. There’s a shift in him, not big, not obvious, but enough. A flicker in his eyes, a tension in his shoulders. Like he knows something I don’t. Like he’s been waiting for me to figure it out.
I take a step closer. “What aren’t you telling me?”
The bushes rustle behind us, and I whip my gaze over my shoulder. There’s motion between the trees. There, then gone.
Alder tenses. His stance shifts, sharp and ready. His eyes scan the shadows, narrowing as another branch sways.
Then I see it.
A flash of red hair, vibrant and unmistakable, catching the light before vanishing into the green.
My breath hitches. “Sylvie?”
No. No, it can’t be her. She wouldn’t have followed us. She shouldn’t even be out here.
But I know what I saw.
My mouth goes dry. I’m still buzzing from the maid’s abduction, from the knowledge that danger is closer than anyone wants to believe. And now Sylvie’s out here, alone?
“Sylvie?” I call again, louder now. “Are you—are you okay?”
No answer. Just wind and the whisper of leaves.
Another rustle. A shadow shifts deeper in the brush.
My pulse kicks. Something’s wrong.
She wouldn’t run from me. She wouldn’t hide. Not unless she had a reason. Unless she saw something. Unless someone saw her.
Panic flares, sharp and sudden. If the guards even suspect she’s spying on them, they won’t hesitate. They’ll give her to Delphara like they did Clara, like I’m sure they’re going to do to this girl.
We can’t save the maid I don’t recognize, not with the Masked guard crawling over the beach like maggots on a fresh kill. But Sylvie? We still have time. We still have a chance.
“Sylvie, wait!”
