Straight into the Ashwater.
Below, the river roared past, churning, frothing—like a beast waiting to swallow them within its jaws.
“Leaving so soon?” someone asked just behind them. The voice was slurred and thick, as if the speaker’s tongue were too large for their mouth. But it was unmistakable all the same.
Charlotte whirled around to face Mariana, shock coursing through her. Edmund had said he gave his witch of a wife a vial.
But there she was, leaning heavily against the stone archway, her golden eyes glassy and unfocused. Beside her stood the towering bulk of Igor, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed into slits. She looked at the witch, then at her son.
“You gave her a brown vial?” she hissed, the betrayal slicing through her deeper than the cold. “Not a green?”
The brown vial was a mere sedative. A strong one, yes, but not fatal. He should have given her a green. He should have killed her.
“She is pregnant, Mother,” Edmund sighed, stepping betweenher and his wife.
The world seemed to tilt. Her knees threatened to buckle. Pregnant?Thatcreature? Carryinghergrandchild?
Mariana stumbled forward, pushing herself off the wall. She swayed, her hand fumbling at her belt. “I tried…” she mumbled, her words running together like melted wax. “Tried to be…understanding…to show mercy. For Edmund’s sake…”
She drew forth her witchblade, the prismatic jewel in its pommel pulsing.
Charlotte recoiled, her stomach twisting.
Mariana raised the blade, the tip wavering in the air as a strange laugh lilted from her throat. “None of us know what happens…when a soulblade strikes a woman. But I suppose…we shall find out.”
With a scream of rage that defied her drugged state, Mariana lunged. She moved faster than she should have been able to, a blur of silk and steel aiming straight for Charlotte’s heart.
Charlotte froze. She couldn’t move. She could only watch the black metal coming for her.
“No!” Edmund shouted.
A body slammed into her. Hard hands shoved her sideways. She hit the cold stone of the walkway with a bone-jarring thud, scraping her palms.
A wet, sickening sound tore through the roar of the river.
Charlotte pushed herself up on her elbows, her hair whipping across her face as she turned to see what had happened.
Her eyes fixed on Edmund. He now stood where she had a second ago, Mariana pressed against him, her hand gripping the hilt of the black dagger.
The dagger now buried in Edmund’s stomach.
Time stopped. The rushing of the river faded. The wind died.
Charlotte stared. She blinked, waiting for the image to make sense. This was not right. This was not the plan. Edmund was—was king. He was her son. He could not be stabbed.
He could not be killed.
Mariana slowly released the hilt of her blade and stumbled backward until she bumped into Igor, where he stood in the shadows, silently watching. Lifting her hands to her mouth, the witch covered a sudden scream.
Edmund looked down at the dagger protruding from his gut, his expression one of mild surprise. “Oh…” he exhaled, quiet and calm.
And then he staggered toward her.
“Edmund?” Charlotte whispered. She scrambled to her feet. “Edmund, what are you doing?”
This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. This must simply be another trick of her mind. Another dream down in the dungeons. Any moment now, her son was going to pull out the dagger. He was going to laugh. He was going to kill the witch.
