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Her eyes glow silver.
“You’re a caster.” Surprise fills my voice. And she’s with Jarek—a legionary. I’m reaching for my sword when a searing pain slams into my chest.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
ROMERIA
Atticus drops to the ground as people around us scream and scatter. They have no idea they’re looking at their fallen king.
“That landed true and will likely be merth.” Jarek’s attention is still on Kazimir, who stares with a mix of shock and horror.
Atticus isn’t moving.
“Fuck!” I rush to his side. The arrow protrudes from his torso, right where his heart would be. I check for a pulse. It’s barely there.
Atticus deserves to die for all the mortals he’s executed, but I know Zander wouldn’t want this. “I’m doing this for your brother, not you.” I reach for Aoife’s healing thread. But Lucretia’s words come back to me. I don’t have time to knit this idiot’s flesh back together with one affinity. I have to do this quickly or not at all.
“If you want him to live, I suggest you focus your energy on the enemy about to run out that door,” Jarek warns Kazimir a moment before a dark-haired man dashes out.
Kazimir charges him.
“Hurry up!” Jarek barks at me.
“Then get this thing out of him!”
He rushes to my side and yanks on the arrow, pulling it free. Even covered in crimson, the metal gleams, silver and deadly.
Without the arrow to plug it, blood pours out of Atticus’s chest in a steady rivulet. Gritting my teeth, I clamp my hands over the rush and summon all my affinities, allowing them to coil together in one thick silver thread. The sound of clanging steel fades from thought behind me as I sink my power into his fatal wound.
In seconds, the still body beneath me shudders to life. Atticus gasps for breath.
“The king’s guard is on its way!” Jarek shouts.
Hyacinth-blue eyes that remind me of Annika’s blink before focusing on me. “You.”
He has no idea who I am. “I think you’ll live, though you don’t deserve it. Get Wendeline to fix up anything I missed.” Horse hooves pound against cobblestone, warning me that we’ve run out of time. But on impulse—or maybe because a spiteful side wants Atticus to know who saved his life—I lean in to growl in his ear, “By the way, I don’t even know how to play draughts.”
Jarek yanks me away, and we run for the alley.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
GRACEN
My dress is covered in spit-up, snot, and urine, and my back aches by the time I tuck in the last of the restless children, a four-year-old girl named Nora whose parents were taken to the execution square. She wouldn’t stop sobbing until I promised her she will see them again.
I pray that wasn’t a lie.
Corrin meets me by the doors, her hands on her hips as she surveys the ballroom of sleeping bodies. “I visited a barn much like this once.” She picks a piece of straw from her lips with a grimace. “I will be smelling and tasting hay all night.”
“It’s better than them sleeping on the hard marble floor.” When the guards first opened the doors, I was greeted with children huddled in clusters—the older ones cradling hungry babies in soiled diapers. They weren’t making a sound, terrified.
The sight made my eyes well instantly.
My first order of business was to send the guards off to haul in hay bales. They did so without complaint. Then I enlisted the castle staff for food, supplies, and comfort. It’s taken the entire day, but everyone has settled, and perhaps they’re a little less frightened.
“This was a difficult task, Gracen. You did well.” Corrin wears grim satisfaction.
It’s not often she praises anyone, and my heart swells with pride. “It was a team effort.” Dagny and the seamstresses scoured the castle for blankets. Fikar lugged in jugs of water, taking breaks in between to play jester, wearing away the children’s fears with card tricks and silly faces. Sabrina led groups to the latrine and distracted the little girls by braiding their hair and singing songs. Corrin went on a hunt for suitable milk for the babies. I nursed two who aren’t my own.
“They gobbled up those wedding sweet cakes of yours quite happily.”
“Better to go to children than the soldiers, I thought.”
“I agree. They’ve got plenty of barley and wheat flour to make their flatbread.” She worries her lip. “Still, we have three hundred and seventy-four mouths to feed here and, I’m sure, more coming tomorrow. We will run out of wedding cakes.”
“Then I will bake bread.” I squeeze Corrin’s shoulder. “I am staying here tonight in case anyone needs me.” Or until Atticus summons me to his chambers. A nervous flutter stirs in my stomach at the thought, but I push it aside. I have too much to focus on here with these children to allow heady thoughts to intrude.
