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My lips part. A stunned breath flees my mouth.
A Queen under the mountains. Forever.
Did every bride who survived accept the shadow-mark, including Gryzelda? No. All the Feyal-Ithydeir royals, including their direct family, become immortal. But not their brides. They simply achieve a longer life-span as all Feyal-brides.
I seek more clarification, cautious. “The only way to end my life, our lives would be to surrender our souls to Aryahn Kryach.”
“Yes. Provided Kryach is appeased after our wedding, you may never leave here. Your life will only end if and when mine does. And your soul is bound to mine. For all eternity,” he solidifies without missing a beat. Does he even possess a heart?
I flick my eyes to the bowl of celestial fruit. I lick my lips. Then gaze at Allysteir’s mask. My lower lip trembles with the knowledge. It means Franzy will grow old. Her soul will be her own?free to join her ancestors in paradise. And she may leave the mountains, travel the world as she’s always longed while I...I will never see sunlight, my family’s farm, the tickling grass, the stars...
I will be a prisoner of the God of Death. Of the Corpse King.
I purse my lips and ask my second question. “Allysteir...why did you save me in the Skull Ruins?”
Does he blink behind the mask?
“Ahh, I wondered if you would raise the question. My power is not exactly inconspicuous. And if you caught my parietal skull bone, it left little doubt as to my identity.”
I swallow any urges to tell him the truth. Not yet. Not now.
He breaks from me to pace, and I release the breath I’ve been holding. Relieved he doesn’t suspect I peeked.
The King’s robes cast a deep shadow upon each pass, the seeds swirling in the bowl to rouse their fragrance as he continues, “Nor do I fault you for running off after I passed out. I never could have conceived in my wildest dreams you would volunteer.
“Perhaps you may believe I am damned. A monster. Heartless, even.”
He turns his mask to me from the side where I’m bathed in his darkness. Kryach’s shadows curl beyond my blanket, weaving around my flesh like cold, black feathers?tempting me, beckoning me, summoning me. Despite my swelling chest and my flesh prickling, I set my jaw and refuse to shiver. Refuse to give the God of Death a foothold.
He will never earn me.
Allysteir unleashes a deep exhale. “Every song, poem, book, legend considers me a heartless demon as all Corpse Kings. Nor will I afford you any inkling for your suspicions. Nothing but the coldest, hardest truth, my Isla. I mean to keep you here with me. For all eternity. Or until we wish for Death to claim our bound souls so we may travel the afterlife together. The most I can offer you is a crown, every jewel in my kingdom, Kryach’s protection to roam this Underworld, and above all...” he trails off, and I almost gasp when the shadows wrap my chest in a shade of a claim. A deathly omen. Kryach touching what is forbidden before the wedding.
“Above all?” I arch my neck, parting my lips, waiting with bated breath. Will he say his heart? Love? I don’t think I’m quite ready.
“Truth,” he concludes, advancing toward me.
My stomach flutters at the thought of his hand beneath my chin, but instead, he sinks to one knee. Oh, gods!
He takes my palm in his, rubs his cold-bone mask lips upon my knuckles, and proclaims, “Death cannot lie, my Lady. I have secrets to fill the seas, and I will love the opportunity to spend our lives revealing them to you. You will tremble. You will fear. You will break, my dark rose. But you will know such truth as you have never known. And...” his breath cleaves and heaves through the mask, his robes shifting to betray the effort of his words. “Beauty, Isla. For only in the realms of death is there beauty to make the gods in their golden Isles envious.”
My heart howls in my ears. Somehow, I contain my gasping gushes. I clench my fingers?the ones in his hand?so I don’t rip off the mask here and now. I lower my eyes to the fleshy jewels in the bowl. My tongue screams for the fruit, for the burst of sweet, bold juice of my namesake.
Why do I long for it so much? Do I not have the strength to resist this forbidden territory? Resign myself to a lesser fate as a Feyal-bride and a longer lifespan as a human to own my soul?however haggard and ruined after Kryach is done. It will be mine. I will dance with Franzy’s spirit in the afterlife.
Unless this is the only way I may survive Kryach. Lose my soul’s freedom to save it.
I open and close my mouth, but my heart doesn’t sink from this truth. My appetite is not lost. No, it’s more ravenous than ever. Ravenous for heaven and hell. For the temptation of the Isles. Ravenous for the secrets Allysteir spoke of. The beauty. This truth.
If love is as strong as Death, I must believe it lives in this deep darkness. Perhaps this is not simply my undoing. Instead, it will be my glorious redoing.
I avoid squirming when the Corpse King cups my cheek, brushing one tear I hadn’t realized was there. He raises the bowl till it’s in line with my chest. “You have only one chance to accept this gift, Isla.”
A gift, I breathe and purse my lips, lifting my fingers to hover. They tremble above the bowl. I meet his mask eyes. Could the Corpse King himself be a gift? Not once does the Nether-mark stir. It offers me no warning. It does not haunt my flesh.
In one last act of desperation, I grip his gloved hand, battle my bone-dry mouth, and plead, “Let me see your eyes. Please. Just your eyes.”
He doesn’t move a muscle, a bone, or a single thread of his dark robes. My heart bleeds, aches, begs for the siren seeds singing into my hovering palm. But first, I must know. His eyes were closed when I’d removed his mask. If I surrender this, surrender my soul to couple with his, he must grant me something: a truth shown and not spoken.
