She redirects her gaze to her reflection and begins to apply foundation to her face.
“I understand.” I won’t insult her by denying it.
I move toward the door and pause, turning back to her. “We never meant to hurt you.”
“You didn’t. Nothing can hurt me now.” Her words hang gravely in the air as she continues with her face, and I quietly exit the room.
40
Hell in a handbasket.
That’s where this is going. I finally have everything I wanted—friends and a purpose. Fuck, I even have adragon. And I’m screwing it all up for a guy.
I cannot believe myself.
No more, I promise myself. And this time, I mean it.
Night four of King’s Fair is canceled out of respect for Sorscha and Ilsa’s family. I stand at river’s edge, between Zadyn and Marideth, our friends gathered close by.
The turnout for Ilsa’s sendoff is overwhelming. Hordes of High Fae nobles and courtiers gather behind us for the service.
My eyes snag on the princess down the line. Her face is removed and stoic beneath a sheer black veil. Jace stands at her side, dressed impeccably for his new role as Hand of the King. His posture is not so easily shed—hands folded behind his back—still the captain at heart. They stare forward, and I wonder if Sorscha had a similar talk with him about the nature of our relationship.
I pry my eyes away and glance down at the floatingplatform staked to the water's edge. It is fashioned entirely from gathered sticks and flowers. Beneath its ethereal archway rests a white bed where Ilsa lies, small and still. She is dressed in a simple white gown with long sleeves, her silken platinum hair arranged perfectly around her like an angelic halo. Her skin is dusted with color to hide the blueish decay already setting in. She looks peaceful as sleep itself atop the float, surrounded by mementos and the most beautiful floral arrangements I’ve ever seen.
The High Priest leads the congregation in a prayer in ancient fae. Then a female in robes similar to his steps forward and begins to sing, her voice pure and angelic. The crowd joins in the sad and ancient song, cracking something in my soul.
When it concludes, and the echo of their joined voices has faded from the air, a fae couple, I assume to be Ilsa’s parents, carry a burning torch over to the float. They gently bend to light it together. The rope is loosed from the stake, and the float begins to drift away. Flames slowly engulf the altar as her parents hold each other, heavy sobs wracking their bodies.
Then it begins to rain.
The droplets fall onto my cheeks, mingling with the onslaught of quiet tears. A wave of anger washes over me for the innocent life taken.
So wasteful, so unnecessary.
Jace once said that one day, when the time came, I would be able to kill. I didn’t believe him until I was dagger-deep in those creatures. And now I can safely say that to protect my friends, to protect my loved ones, I would kill and kill and do it gladly.
If it means preventing innocent lives like Ilsa’s lost.
Drained and depressed,I sneak away after the service, needing distance from everything and everyone.
I sit on the cool cave floor, back propped up against a massive crystal stalagmite, watching Furi munch on the squirrels I caught for her. I stare at the grotesque sight, feeling nothing but numb. She swallows and lets out a loud burp, and I gasp.
“Furi! Where are your manners?”
Excuse me.
It’s okay, girl.
She eyes me keenly.
The Blackblood is sad.
My friend is dead.
There is more you mourn. The captain.
What are you talking about?
