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“I don’t know!” I scream back. A set of teeth rip a chunk from my thigh and specks of darkness appear in the edges of my vision. “I don’t . . . I don’t know.”

And the fear is too much. The pain is too much. I’m released—from caring, from fear, from the fight. It breaks me.

And deep in the dark and dormant corners of my broken heart, a truth emerges. It rises from my chest and through my lips in an aching whisper. “I prefer the Dark. It’s where I can hide.”

The distant sound of the bell of the clocktower, its single ring, is the last sound I hear as I tumble into oblivion.

Five Hours Till Dawn

LONAN

The sound of her scream breaks me. My heart nearly fails at the sound, the fear in it. Vesper is not easily frightened.

The truth—why would she not just share the truth? Is there something she’s hiding that she would rather die than reveal? What could be worth her life?

I don’t care what secrets you hold, I want to tell her. I don’t care. I would be your shield in any life, secrets or not, war or not, my brother’s bloodmate or not. I would still protect you.

I don’t care if she loves him, if destiny has strung them together. I will protect her. I will keep her alive. If she doesn’t look at me for another second of her days, it will be worth it. If she breathes. If she lives. If she loves.

It will be worth it.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Iam sick. My stomach lurches, and I heave onto the floor as stars sparkle behind my eyelids. Buzzing. I feel like a feather floating in the wind. And then I open my eyes.

I’m on my back, bent backward painfully against the grasp of the floorboards, still trapped in the strange room of the second trial.

But the teeth are gone. The paint is gone, and my feet are free. My thighs and hands are still bleeding. Wooziness threatens to send me back to the darkness.

But I am here. I survived.

It takes several seconds to realize the trial has moved on, that another one of our cohort is under attack. I blink several times and see a stream of liquid paint surrounding Orla. She stands stiffly, her hands clenched at her sides as teeth chatter and lash toward her.

Her lips are pinched tight as she stares down at the teeth.

“Come on, sister,” Ollinde pleads. “You have to. Please.”

Orla’s chest heaves several times. She swallows before she begins to spill truth. “I . . . also resent Vesper. Because she holds us captive as inheritor of the estate. Because our stepfather always loved her better. Because he thought I was vain.” Her eyes open, and as she stares at the ceiling, they well with tears. “I wish I was like her. I wish I was carefree. And funny. And effortlessly charming. I wish . . .”

The paint streams faster, teeth lashing at the hem of her black dress.

“I wish Lonan cared for me the way he does her,” she blurts, eyes closed. “I’m so, so jealous and angry at how much she’s taken. I want to . . . I want to be at Gossemort without feeling like I’m living in her shadow. I want Lonan to see me as more than another tool to protect her.”

The paint and the teeth recede, the floorboards spit her out, and my stomach sours further.

This is so cruel. This is goodness? This is what the Light wants? It’s humiliation and shame. I can’t believe this is what’s right. Some things are meant to stay hidden.

Orla hides her face in her hands—a girlish act so unlike her. Lonan’s gaze is set on the ground, and he doesn’t notice when the eyes of the portraits land on him. Behind him is the long-necked woman, severe and imperious.

“Lonan,” I whisper.

He looks behind him to watch the visage of the woman bear her monstrous teeth and then melt down the wallpapered wall. He sighs, looking up toward the ceiling, eyes closed. The teeth emerge and start to gnash, and Lonan delivers his truth without a fight, resigned to the exposure of the Ridding.

“I am a villain,” he begins as teeth chatter toward him. They seem hungrier with him, as if he has more secrets to bare . . . or possibly worse ones. “I am a traitor, just as my brother says. I have been trained in the Dark—its chaos and secrets and destruction. Saints help me, I love it. I don’t—can’t—regret it. The Dark is my freedom. An outlet for my anger.”

The paint swirls closer, teeth shuffling, leaping toward him. He continues as if he doesn’t notice. “It’s true—Galvin is my brother. I’m his twin.” His eyes cut toward Galvin condemningly. “But I am no prince.” He says it like the title is a sin.

But the teeth snap closer to him, nearly at the hem of his pants now, and my chest tightens. “Lonan,” I plead. Because I can’t watch him endure what I just did.