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“Of course I don’t,” he said, his eyes ghosting over, “but I must.”
“What will you tell her when she wakes?”
To this, he had no answer. His sword struck the stone above her head, biting into the rock, the terrific blade gleaming like a shard of moonlight.
He wasn’t holding back. He was trying to kill her.
But if there was one thing Juliana was good at, it was fighting back.
She kicked him in the stomach. He wavered backwards, winded but grinning. Juliana lashed out again, sword aiming for his middle. He kept smiling, darting out of reach, moving closer and closer towards the coffin.
“I’ve taught you well,” he said. “You’ll be the greatest swordsman in Faerie one day. The finest knight.”
Juliana barely heard him. She barely heardanything.She didn’t stop to think or process what he was saying, her mind narrowed on the blade, the goal.Swipe. Stab. Move. Stay alive. Hurt him. Left. Right. Duck.
He was stronger than her. He always had been.
But not faster.
Her sword jabbed towards his side. His blade caught hers, hilts grinding together. He didn’t try to shuck her off, not even when he had the advantage of strength. He buckled beneath her weight, moving her blade not out of range, but further towards his chest.
If she wondered what he was doing, she didn’t falter, didn’t pull back, didn’t stop pressing.
Didn’t think about anything until he dropped away his blade and let gravity drive her own straight through his heart.
Juliana screamed. Briarsong slid from her grip as Markham stumbled backwards, hilt protruding from his chest.
It seemed to take an age for him to fall.
He smiled the entire way down.
His body crashed against the coffin with a thud, blood pooling into the circle beneath, crimson against brown.
He stared at the blade in his chest like he’d won a great victory, and then stared at Juliana the same way. His hand went to her cheek.
He couldn’t speak. No one could with a blade through their heart, but she swore she heard his words anyway—some sickening mix of pride and joy.
Well done, daughter.
The candles flickered. The circle glowed with golden light. The life in Markham’s eyes flickered and finally extinguished. The crystal seemed to heave and sigh, but as soon as Markham stilled, so did everything else.
There is only one way to make this right.
But sitting in that cavern on the cold hard floor, Juliana wondered if anything would ever be right again.
ThisbodyJulianacouldbury. This one she could lay to rest. As a weak sun rose over the woods, Juliana tugged her father’s remains into the shade of a tree, closed his eyes, washed the blood from his hands, and started to dig with her fingers.
The roots of a nearby tree trembled around Markham’s body, hesitantly, carefully, as if they were waiting for an instruction, permission to help.
Juliana looked at her hands, and the tiny patch of earth she’d managed to scoop away with them. It would take hours to make even the shallowest of graves.
“Please,” she said, “thank you.”
The roots dug into the earth, clearing a space, criss-crossing around Markham’s body. Then, with a reverence she wasn’t prepared for, they pulled him gently into the ground.
Juliana watched as he vanished from sight, and set his sword in place of a headstone.
She shouldn’t find the strength to utter the words she’d given Dillon. Couldn’t find the words to do much at all.
