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“Oh, Vane…”

Mother smiled down at me, her raven-black hair falling over her cheeks to hide the bruises. Her eyes welled again as she gently wiped away my tears. “Life comes at a cost, mi roche. Don’t let it defeat you. The pain, the fear… they’ll always pass. It is a season. A storm. Hold on to me. I won’t let them have you. I’ll never let them take you. And the day will come that they will bow to you. And I will applaud. Do you hear me, Vane? The day they drop to their knees before you, I will celebrate.”

“Th-thank you,” I gulped, trying to swallow the tears that wouldn’t stop. “But aren’t you ever afraid, Mama? Don’t you wonder what happens to the… the sacrifices? What if they come back? What if they’re angry or—” My voice had dropped to a whisper as I finally gave voice to the question that had niggled at me for years, and haunted me since my birthday.

Mother placed a finger against my lips, shaking her head. “Don’t torture yourself, Vane. Everyone has their role to play—just as you do. You remember your purpose?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts, son. You were made for this. You grew in my body for this very day. And you have met your responsibilities admirably, son. So, just as you were born to wield the blade, so the sacrifices were born to sheath it.”

My stomach dropped. I felt sick as my mind conjured the sensation of a blade sliding into flesh and—

I winced.

Mother bent herself over me, pulling me into a tight embrace. “Hush, hush. Don’t cry, son. When you are called to make the choice for someone else, you aren’t to blame when it’s your life or theirs. Do you hear me? You were made for this. Even though you know the shadows better now, you’ll still see the sun. I promise. Now, sleep. I’ll watch out for you. It will all feel better in the morning…”

I jerked out of the memory as Grace gasped, her eyes wide and one hand covering her mouth.

My heart pounded and my eyes stung, but I couldn’t move. Had to hold her gaze and face her with that frightening truth.

“Those words…” she breathed, then swallowed before she continued. “You said them to me, when I killed that man in the alley—”

“Sometimes… sometimes even evil speaks words that are true,” I rasped. “But there’s a difference, Grace. You never chose to harm anyone.”

Her brow furrowed and she leaned closer. “But… neither did you? To be taken into that chamber as a child—”

She cut off because I took her hand, my stomach churning and heart pounding in my chest. “I’m not finished,” I said hoarsely.

Shadows flickered in Grace’s eyes that stabbed my heart. But it was too late to go back. I could only pray that she’d find mercy for me when she knew everything. If she couldn’t, at least she’d know who we were dealing with. She’d finally understand precisely how dire our situation was, and she wouldn’t be so reckless.

I’d meant it when I told her I’d watch over her. That I’d protect her.

I would.

With my life.

Even if it meant losing her because she couldn’t stand the sight of me any longer.

The Gilded Girl

~ VOSKI ~

It was months before I could sleep through the night.

I lived two lives—one in daylight, that swelled my chest with pride as I grew in physical strength, as well as an intangible power. And one in darkness—saturated in shame and fear.

My days were characterized by a growing sense of entitlement and actual power. In the circle of the Cruormancers I was a prince. Expected to take the throne, raised, and regarded as such. Even animals—both human and otherwise—submitted to me.

I was eleven the first time I ordered a stablehand to harm himself because he forgot to water my horse. And he did it, taking the blade to his own flesh until my nerve broke, and instead I whipped him. Though the memory of watching him spill his own blood twisted my stomach, there was a thrumming high in it, as well. A triumphant thrill.

My mother insisted I held immutable power. On that day, I began to believe it.

And then the questions rose, uninvited, but compelling…

How far would a man go, simply because I told him to?

The year following that was punctuated with escalating events incited by my hand, and my ever-shrinking boundaries. Most often, the consequences were laughed off by my mother, but my father’s disapproval cut deep.