I look at her.
She is leaning against the bookshelf, pale and trembling, unaware that she has just stripped a High Lord of his god. Shethinks she has merely stopped a cruel spell. She does not know she has stopped the screaming.
I should kill her. To exist without The Serpent is to beDfam. It is to be hollow.
But as I gaze at her, I realize with a jolt of horror that I do not want the noise back. I do not want the god back.
I want this. I want this clarity. I want to be able to hear the rain.
I steep my fingers, pressing them against my lips to hide the tremor. The repulsion I felt yesterday—the nausea of feeling pity—is still there, a faint, sickly aftertaste. But thesilence...
It is worth any price. Even my soul.
I walk around the desk. She flinches, squeezing her eyes shut.
"Open your eyes," I command. My voice sounds strange to my own ears—deeper, steadier, stripped of the manic edge that usually sharpens my words.
She obeys. The blue is back, wary and defiant.
"You are not a dampener," I say softly, the words tasting new. "You are a counterweight."
"My Lord?"
"My magic thrives on chaos. You..." I gesture vaguely to the sleeping rats. "You project order. Calm. You are a temporary antidote to the poison I drink."
My mind races. I can use her. She stifles my magic, yes. But she sharpensme. I will keep her close for the strategy work. And when the time comes to summon The Serpent, I will lock her in the deepest dungeon of the estate, far enough away that her influence cannot touch me.
I reach out and tuck a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. She trembles, her breath hitching, but she holds her ground. The contact sends a jolt of that sickly warmth through me, but I grit my teeth and accept it.
"You will not go to the servants' quarters," I say.
"But Rina said?—"
"Rina is a slave. I am your Master." I lean down, bringing my face close to hers. "You will stay here. In my chambers. You will sleep at the foot of my bed if you must, but you will not leave my side."
Her eyes widen in horror. "For how long?"
"Until I have dissected you," I promise. "Until I understand how a fragile little human thing can silence a god."
I turn away, walking back to my desk. I pick up a quill, dipping it into the ink. The intricate political strategy is flowing out of me, demanding to be written.
"Sit," I command, gesturing to the rug. "And be quiet. I have work to do."
She sinks to the floor, radiating shock.
I begin to write. The obsidian ring on my finger is cold and dead, a useless stone. It is a terrifying weight to bear, this defenselessness. But the clarity is a drug, and for now, I am willing to risk the silence.
6
LEORA
Fourteen days.
I have counted them by the rhythm of the rain against the single pane of glass and by the slow, agonizing erosion of my own will.
Fourteen days of being a human shield. Fourteen days of being a filter for a man who is terrified of his own mind.
I stand by the window, pressing my forehead against the cold glass. Below, the estate of House Imas is waking up to another gray, weeping morning in Lliandor. The stone walls of the courtyard glisten like wet bone. I am exhausted. It is a fatigue that sleep cannot touch, a heaviness that has settled into the marrow of my bones.
