The wings. The eyes. The predator that lived beneath the king’s cold mask.
“And then,” he said, “you’re going to tell me everything. Or I’ll find out myself. And you won’t like my methods.”
OLWEN
The guards asked their questions.
I answered them. Shaken bride, terrified wife, helpless human who had cowered while her monster husband dealt with the threat.
The last of the stolen life burned in my blood, painting my cheeks pink, making my hands tremble in a way that looked like fear instead of chemical overstimulation.
I performed shock. I performed gratitude. I performed the fluttering helplessness they expected from a woman who had nearly died.
Cador stood beside me through all of it, one hand resting on the small of my back. Warm through the ruined velvet of my gown.
Burning, even now, but I leaned into it anyway, stealing what I could from his touch.
The captain wrote everything down. The body was removed. The courtyard was swept for evidence of accomplices. And through it all, the ravens watched from their perches, eyes glittering, waiting.
They knew what I was.
They’d known since the moment I crossed the Veil.
When the last guard finally left and the heavy doors of the Keep swung shut behind us, Cador released me.
“Go to your chambers,” he said. “Rest. We’ll speak in the morning.”
I didn’t argue or ask questions. I didn’t do anything except climb the stairs to the east wing, one hand braced against the wall for balance, my legs already starting to feel distant and strange beneath me.
I felt the last of it draining out of my bloodstream. The simulated warmth receding, degree by degree. The frantic pulse slowing toward silence.
I made it to my chambers. Closed the door and locked it. A lock wouldn’t stop him, but the motion felt necessary, an illusion of safety. The pretense of control.
Then my knees buckled, and I went down.
The floor was cold.
Good cold. Proper cold. The kind that seeped up through the stones and into my bones and felt like coming home after a long journey through hostile country.
I pressed my cheek against the marble and let the chill spread through me, replacing the last traces of borrowed warmth with the temperature I was meant to be.
This was what I was. This cold thing. This creature that had crawled out of a grave three months ago and hadn’t had the decency to stay dead.
I lay there for a long time. Minutes. Maybe longer. Time moved strangely when you didn’t have a pulse to measure it by.
My breath stopped fogging in the cold air, because my breath had stopped being warm enough to fog.
I was fading.
Not dying; I’d already done that. This was something else. Something slower and more insidious.
The gradual erosion of whatever force kept me tethered to this body, this world, this existence I’d never asked for and couldn’t seem to escape.
The petals had been holding it back. The stolen heat from the assassin had bought me a few more hours. But now both were gone, and I could feel myself slipping away.
If I stayed here, I would stop.
It wouldn’t be dramatic, with pain or struggle or any of the theatrics the living associated with death. I would simply... cease.
