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Adrian studied me and then brushed his thumb over my cheek.
“I have brought you a pig to slaughter,” he said and stepped away, turning as Daroc and Sorin led a prisoner forward. His hands were bound behind his back, and yet I knew if he wanted, he could break those bonds, though the move would be futile given that his head was enclosed in an iron cage. It was eyeless and the weight of it kept his chin to his chest.
Despite this, I did not need to see his face to know that this was Gesalac—he was tall, and his shoulders were broad and stacked with muscle, unlike his thin counterpart, Julian, who was nowhere in sight.
Daroc and Sorin pushed Gesalac to the ground and removed the iron hood, revealing the traitor noblesse’s cruel face. His hair was soaked with sweat, pieces of it falling into his bloodred eyes, and as he looked at me from his knees, he shook—not from fear but from hate. I could feel it radiating from his body, see it in his soulless eyes. It felt like a physical blow.
It was the kind of hate that fueled vengeance and conquered kingdoms.
I knew it because I felt it too.
And Gesalac’s was about to be smothered.
“You are still a witch.” He scowled at me, and Adrian kicked him in the ribs. He arched, throwing his head back as a pained whine escaped his mouth.
“Do not speak to her,” Adrian said. “You are not worthy.”
I took pleasure in Gesalac’s few ragged breaths before he continued to speak. “She fucks you and you make her a goddess, such is her power.”
Adrian drew his blade.
“You cannot even see, so blinded by her magic.”
I found it strange and unnerving that Gesalac was accusing me of witchcraft, especially when I had no magic.
Adrian reared back and swung even as Gesalac continued to speak.
“She will be your death—”
He was silenced with a clean blow to the neck, his head dropping to the ground with a wet thud. His body followed. In the aftermath, there were no cheers like yesterday when the vassals were impaled, only a melancholy quiet.
There had been enough death today.
“Impale his body,” Adrian ordered, and he seized Gesalac’s head by the hair, tossing it into the blazing fire at the center of the courtyard before approaching me. “Have I pleased you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Where is Julian?”
His eyes grew dark at my question, and I knew he felt shame at not having found the second noblesse.
“Dracul is tracking him.”
I had questions, namely, what happened if he managed to seek refuge in Vela with King Gheroghe?
But Adrian already knew what I wanted to know and leaned forward, whispering, “Patience, my sweet.”
As he placed a kiss to my forehead, he pressed his hand into my back, a move that made me cry out in pain. He drew back and looked at his hand—it was covered in blood. His eyes met mine, and all he could say was my name.
“Isolde.”
“Adrian,” I whispered. “Let’s go upstairs.”
***
I entered the castle ahead of Adrian, his eyes pinned to my back, and I could feel the blood soaking through the fabric of my dress. When we made it to his room, he reached around me, throwing open the door and ushering me inside. I crossed the room to stand near the bed, putting distance between us.
“You were injured,” he said, his voice trembling, but I could not tell if it was from fear or anger—perhaps both.
“Yes,” I said, quiet.
