Page 126 of Fallacies

Godsdammit.

I’m about to try my hand at illusioning myself as a plant when a scuffle breaks out in the center of the group.

“Back up!” a guard orders, pushing his arms out in an attempt to part the crowd and shoulder his way through. “I said back up!” he shouts louder, and the group finally parts.

They’re leading someone out of the dungeons.

I can see a man’s bare feet through the legs of the guards escorting him, thick shackles locked around his ankles, and a long chain connecting them to the ones around his wrists. The guard has a hold on the chain, wisps of black smoke bleeding from the Rogue’s fingers and dancing over the metal he holds.

They’re headed this way, an entourage of guards trailing behind them, so I tuck myself against the wall, doing my best to look unsuspecting. Fortunately for me, no one seems to care about one of the Umbra’s servants. They’re all too focused on the slow steps of the man in chains.

His head is hung low, his clothes torn, and his skin is dirty. Despite the hollow of his cheeks and the obvious signs that he’s malnourished, he’s held onto some muscle somehow. They must be feeding them just enough, and he must be spending most of his time trying to maintain some kind of strength.

His hair is dark, streaked with grey, and each step he takes looks painful.

“Faster!” A guard shoves him from behind.

The man lifts his head.

I stumble backwards.

The resemblance is uncanny. They might be sunken and dull, but I’d know those eyes anywhere. Grey, but they used to be silver. I know it. And their bone structure is the same—a strong brow, straight nose. Even the shapes of their mouths are identical.

I think I’m going to be sick.

He was right. He was right the whole time.

The man sees me in the same moment I see him, his expression instantly softening. Then I watch something spark in his lifeless eyes. Recognition, I think. But I get the feeling it’s more than that. Much more.

Despite his many escorts, despite the chains binding his wrists and ankles, and despite the pain I’m sure he’s in, Callan’s father winks as he trudges past.

31

Lucina

I’m lost in my own thoughts, unable to think about anything other than what I witnessed earlier, when the Countess throws her head back, laughing, the sound more like a cackle than anything else.

The full decanter of wine jolts in my hands.

She just sat down at the head of the table, every inch filled with a plate, platter, or glass of wine. Her hair is black as night, her skin as dull and lifeless as the Estate walls, and her robes are such a deep purple that they might as well be black too. Her red-stained lips and her yellow eyes are the only colorful things about her.

Every seat around her—but one—is taken. Occupied with what I’ve gathered to be her high table. Fifteen potential sources.

The Umbra thought putting Alesi on dinner and breakfast duty would serve as some kind of punishment. While I’m sure that for the actual Alesi, it might have, it couldn’t have worked out better for me. The only issue is, I can’t linger in the great room to eavesdrop. I can only enter if I have a plate to clear or a glass to refill.

“Any news on our guest, Gwendolyn?” A round man at the opposite end of the table asks the Countess, a knowing smirk on his face.

She spins her wine in her glass, replying without looking up from the dark red liquid. “My father hasn’t replied to my letter yet.”

“Perhaps you should send another.” A tall woman with a pointed nose and sharp chin replies, glancing warily at the door before turning her attention back to the head of the table.

The Countess’s stare narrows on the woman, her grip on her glass tightening. “While the King does owe me an explanation, I’m more than capable of handling the situation on my own. He wouldn’t have gifted me this kingdom if he thought otherwise.”

“Alesi!” The Umbra hisses my name from the servant door, and I try not to look frustrated, quickly searching for an empty glass to refill while the Countess continues to boast about her capability in ruling this place.

My search for a drink to refill is deemed a failure when the Umbra snaps her fingers from the kitchen door, and I walk back as slowly as I’m able. I’ve nearly reached the threshold when the main doors to the grand hall swing open, and if it weren’t for the abrupt end to the table's conversation, I might not have turned back.

“Sorry, I’m late.”