The sound of the roaring fire fills my quarters as Eve pulls yet another piece of wood from the crate and stacks it upon the fueling mound. With a sigh, she dusts her hands on her pants as she steps backwards, reclaiming her seat on the couch beside me.
Staring through the dancing flames, I tighten the comforter about my shoulders as my mind continues to spiral. I had already burned through the night recountingeverymoment of what happened in the courtyard—tryingto understand, to gain some semblance of sense and understanding.
I couldn’t sleep.
And the little sleep I did find wasn’t restful.
It was plagued with dreams—of me standing in a clearing of a cold, dark forest with veilflower vines creeping out of the shadows. I awoke cold and struggling to breathe, tearing at my throat to free myself from vines.
Ryc was reluctant to leave this morning.
But with the deaths of four researchers and six guards to address, he couldn’t stay.
The courtyard is a mess.
The vines have become a tangled, near impassible web of silver thorns and massive stalks pressing against the ward. I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s triggered the sudden wrath or growth. The onlysemi-logicalconclusion I’ve come to is it has to do withher.
The other half of my soul.
While Cyran has been arguably less prickly as of late, even at his dourest, death by thorns isn’t the kind of death he deserves. Somehow, whether by Nektos’ doing, or the whole of the universe itself, he escaped the twisting mess relatively unscathed.
But those who did die—those guards and researchers… I neither saw nor felt them. And while I may not be particularly invested in their lives, the remorse I battle despite that is unrelenting and sharp. I am not unfamiliar with being thereasonfor death, but it is unfamiliar for it to sit so heavily on my chest.
My fingers tighten, crushing the soft comforter.
I… I tried to warn them.
No one will be going near the center courtyard any time soon. The ward has since been reinforced, Cyran leading the charge in ensuring the vines remain contained. And I do not envy the Captain of the Royal Guard. In addition to keeping Ollora secure, he’ll be informing six families of their losses today.
“How are you feeling?” Eve asks, her voice so soft and quiet, I could have imagined it.
The dancing flames regain focus.
“Fine,” I answer and I canfeelthe intensity of her disbelieving stare on the right side of my face. “I’m fine,” I repeat, meeting her eyes.
It’s a statement I’ve said a lot this last week.
If the wordsI’m finebrand my skin in Malbolge by the day’s end, I won’t be surprised.
“I’m going to assume you’re not going with Ryc to meet the council,” she says, shifting in her seat to perch an elbow against the back of the couch. She props her cheek against the heel of herhand.
A couple details, one more obvious than the other, catch my attention.
When did Eve start addressing Ryc by name?
“I didn’t know he was meeting with them,” I reply, brows furrowing. “I’m not upset by not being invited.”
I’m in no hurry to meet Ganus again.
And Ryc likely feels the same.
Eve’s dark brows lift. “He has to appeal for permission to approach Illa Ysari,” she says. “Apparently a Sovereign King setting foot upon it without council consent is viewed as aggression.”
My face pinches. “Why?”
Eve huffs a dry laugh. “Why do fae kings do anything?”
Power.
