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His gaze bore into Anileta’s widened eyes. She nodded almost imperceptibly; the shadowed hand tossed her to the side. Silk and strewn pillows broke her fall. The countess scrambled upright, clawing her clothes to her chest even as she scurried for the door.
“F-forgive me, my prince,” she whispered, eyes downcast as a trickle of black blood coursed down the side of her temple.
“Leave. Now.”
Lucan did not breathe again until his bedchamber fell quiet. It felt too large and small at the same time, as if he might get lost in its endlessness and suffocate all at once. Fog clouded his vision, thoughts thick and unsteady. His body began moving before he could summon a command. An iron blade, smelted with a trace of silver, found his hand.
Somehow, it felt colder than the touch of undeath gripping his soul.
The world narrowed as Lucan fell to his knees. Only his breathing remained, the blade in his grip, and the hollow pressure behind his ribs that never quite resolved into pain or relief.
His fingers tightened.
A breath passed, and then another.
His shoulders trembled, sharp and involuntary, until the raw flesh of his fresh scars tore anew. His jaw locked tight until it ached. The blade gleamed in the amber warmth of a witchlight behind him as he slowly raised it.
Something in him resisted, like a door being pressed upon from both sides.
Weak. Too weak to save them. To save yourself. To save fucking anyone!
A single teardrop slipped from his crimson eyes. It fell in silence, striking the blade like a glint of shaved metal.
Lucan stared at it as if it did not belong to him.
As if nothing in him ever did.
ten
A Thread
The black corridor swallowed Elarian whole. Only the thin, blue light of her starflame broke the crushing nothingness.
Overhead, stone groaned and creatures skittered through unseen cracks. A cool wisp of air blew across her face every so often. The castle became a slumbering beast with ribs of stone ready to devour her whole. Gooseflesh prickled her skin each time the passage narrowed and her arm brushed against frozen rock. The darkness yawned on, its gentle slope upward the only indication she was even moving.
Sewer filth clung to her skin beneath the stolen clothes. It had begun to dry in places, tightening into a foul-smelling crust that made every shift of the fabric scrape against her skin. Each breath carried it deeper—rotted blood, feces, and decaying flesh—until it felt as if she herself was death.
Elarian’s jaw tightened. She raised a torn piece of fabric to her nose and inhaled anyway.
At long last, light broke ahead. Bright amber warmth spilled into the corridor, bleeding through an arched entryway carved into the seemingly endless, smooth stone. Golden filigree curled along its edges, too refined and elegant for this place of rot. Elarian forged ahead, eyes locked on the glow as it widened in her vision with each stride.
One step.
Copper laced with vanilla wafted through the air—sweet, cloying. Shivaem.
Another step.
Muffled voices pricked her ears, distorted by stone.
A third step, and she could brush her fingers against the threshold. Cool stone greeted her fingertips, the promise of warm air on the other side drawing her in.
Laughter. Soft, almost human.
Perilously carefree.
The sound set Elarian’s skin on fire. Her fingers twitched. One hand slowly reached toward the throwing knives slung around her waist. Their smooth touch sharpened her thoughts. As silent as a dormouse, the huntress crept forward, low to the ground until the darkness folded around her like a second skin. Her breath held until only the slow beating of her heart remained.
Silver flashed—
