Page 92 of A Dance of Lies

And yet that line, the jewel it refers to . . .

There are coincidences,Emilia had said when I asked her how she knew where to put her faith.Then there are revelations that hit you so hard they leave a dent on your soul. Those are truths, my love.

So I speak my truth. “Illian serves the Fate of Morta.”

“If he doesn’t yet, I suspect he will soon. And regardless of the prophecy, it’s clear his intentions are destructive to Miridran. Help me minimize the damage. Please, Vasalie.”

It’s then that I realize he’s begging me.

Me.

But what could I do? There are times when I can barely stand. Times when walking, let alone dancing, feels like my bones are splintering one by one. I’m so exhausted by the effort required to stay upright. I am hanging by a thread—one single thread that keeps me from lying down and never lifting my head again.

More so, my neck is noosed by Illian’s leash, cinching ever tighter. I am caged, wounded. And even if I weren’t, how could I ever trust Anton? He paints himself a hero, yes, but Illian was once the hero, too. I can’t forget the rumors of his Glory Court, the women that never return—including Copelan’s partner, I’m willing to bet. Not to mention his lechery, his constant carousing. The copious expenditure of wealth.

My words are tired, despite the kernel of anger glowing within me. “I suppose I’ll end up in your dungeon if I refuse?”

Anton rises, then comes to kneel before me.

“I won’t force you,” he says quietly. “But Iwillwatch you.” I think of the tunnels, the mosaics. “If you try to harm anyone else on his behalf, believe me when I say I will make it my personal quest to remove you from Miridran at any cost.”

Then he stands, straightens his cloak, as if he didn’t just beg for my help and threaten me within the span of a few breaths. “It seems we are finished for the time being.” He slides an open palm into my line of sight.

Tentatively, I take it. His hand engulfs mine, and when he pulls me up, he tugs until I stumble toward him, his breath dancing over my cheeks. “You can choose to be his victim, Vasalie. Or, when you walk from these halls, you can deny him the permanence of such a gift.”

It’s difficult not to stagger back at that.

I want to argue, to make him understand that I could never be anything else. How could I? The constant knot of pain tightens inside me, and I gulp, grasping for the relief of knowing Laurent and Marian are safe. That I am, too.

And yet—I came here tonight at great risk to myself. Maybe it wasn’t much, but it did feel like reclaiming a splinter of something Illian took from me.

Anton paces to the pane in the wall leading to the tunnels and slides it open. “Should you find yourself with information that could save another life, you know where to find me.”

When I reach its threshold, I pause, finding myself offering him a single nod.

Because if I’ve learned anything today, it’s that I don’t want to hurt anyone else. I can’t grow numb to it like I thought, not when I think of Emilia. What she did for me.

And whether Anton is a scoundrel or a saint, there’s something about him. Something in his voice, the way he speaks, the fire warming the cool of his gaze—that makes me want to fight.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Copelan doesn’t come for me the next day. No one does, not even Illian, though I suppose he’s content for now. I completed his task.

Annais is also gone. I assume she’s with the other seamsters, but I do find it strange that I haven’t seen her at all since last night. But she’s the last of my worries right now.

My body feels wrecked. My world tilts and sways, and I have so much to sort through: the prophecy, Illian’s plans, Anton’s intent. When I remember the way Laurent looked at me, another spike of nausea climbs my throat.

So I lie in bed, not bothering with food, not bothering to find Copelan and practice. He no doubt saw what I did. There’s no telling what he thinks of me now. If anything, I’m sure it’s provoked his ire. Again.

That evening, the sound of soft footfalls draws my attention, especially when they pause at my door. I brace for a harsh knock, for Copelan’s voice. It isn’t until the lock pops open and the door stretches wide that I realize who it is.

His breath gives him away.

Does he know where I’ve been? I curl into my pillow and pretend I am asleep.

Will he graze my jaw? Brush his knuckles against my hair? He might not touch me while I’m awake, but what about while I sleep?

Something lowers onto the table next to my bed. The tread of his steps fade after that.