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Breathlessly, she waited for another figure to emerge.
A flash of silver hair. Pale amaranth eyes. A daughter stolen back from death.
The fey wolf only looked at her with mournful eyes, then lifted its snout to the castle that lay beyond the forest’s edge.
“It cannot be her,” she mumbled to the wolf as if it might reply. And even if it was, she is already gone if that graveyard of restless skeletons has lured her in.
Still, the woman gingerly reached out to let the wolf memorize her scent, resolute that she would not give up again. Lifting her lips until those long fangs gleamed bright, the wolf nuzzled into her outstretched hand.
thirty-one
Ruined Dreams
The doors to the throne room closed behind them with a thunderous groan. For a moment, the music and voices of the Blooded Court faded into nothing but a distant vibration beneath Elarian’s feet. The corridor beyond was colder, quieter. Shadows stretched along the walls, curling lazily around the carved pillars as Lucan led her away from the spectacle he had created.
Or perhaps she had created it.
Thoughts had become far too complicated to hold onto.
Elarian leaned heavily against Lucan’s side as they walked, though she told herself it was only because the fever still clawed through her bones. The halls blurred. Dark wood. Darker banners. Elarian could scarcely keep her head up as they at last entered the council chambers from that morning.
“Your guest from Aurelion’s court,” Ataen said behind them as the door closed. “You should not underestimate him.”
Lucan’s shoulders tightened.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
Elarian blinked, staring at the floor beneath her bare feet. Black marble reflected distorted versions of them as the two vampires exchanged words. A prince in velvet and gold. A moon elf dressed in nothing but her own humiliation. A lord beside them who looked entirely too comfortable insulting the most feared vampire in the southern realm.
Strange.
Everything was strange.
Wisps of light danced across her vision, world narrowing to only bright colors and distant sounds. If she focused until her bones ached, she could almost make out the conversation happening around her.
“…lays these failures at your feet, Luc.”
A cold thread slipped through Elarian’s exhaustion.
“Why does that concern you?”
Ataen was silent for a moment.
“Because I have known you for a very long time, Luc.”
The name again—intimate, yet absent of love. Elarian wondered, distantly, what it would feel like to say his name without venom coating every syllable.
The thought disgusted her.
Mostly.
“You are not as careful as you believe yourself to be.”
The room tilted. Colors faded to gray, and the familiar taste of ash settled over Elarian’s tongue. No, please, she tried to whisper, but her lips could not move. She slumped forward; Lucan caught her before her face slammed into the edge of the table. His arm wrapped around her waist, steadying her with irritating ease.
She should have pushed him away.
