Darian’s head snapped toward her, wild and furious. “No.”
Isara looked at him, eyes wide and glassy.
“Save the girl,” Darian shook his head. “Not me.”
“No—”
“Save her,” he said again, louder this time. “Don’t you dare pick me. I’m already dead if you do this.”
Another slash, fast, across the other shoulder this time. Darian hissed.
“It’s not your choice to make,” Xyliria said coldly.
The girl sobbed behind them, high, keening sounds of undiluted fear. She was shaking all over, curled into herself like that could stop what was coming.
Isara cracked.Not all at once. It was slower than that. Her mouth trembled. One hand lifted toward the girl, almost instinctively, as though she could reach through this, find a different answer.
Isara’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
She couldn’t seem to breathe properly, each breath uneven. Her gaze darted to the girl, then to Darian, then back again, caught in the endless loop of an impossible decision.
Ashterion had seen this before. That desperate calculus of survival—what could be lost, what must be spared, what might be forgiven.
And he could see it. Already.
The decision had been made.
It hadn’t reached her lips yet, but it was there. Written in the way she looked at Darian, pleading, apologetic.
Something that said,I’m sorry I’m choosing you. I’m sorry you have to live with this.
“Darian,” she whispered. “I want him to live.”
Ashterion’s chest tightened.
Fuck.
“No, no, no,” Darian rasped, but the words were futile.
Xyliria smiled. “You want him to live?” she said. “Then say it properly. Say who dies.”
Isara stood frozen.
A tear slipped down her cheek. “The girl.”
Xyliria turned, eyes already on the girl. “Very well.”
The girl screamed. It was shrill, pure terror. She thrashed against the guards holding her—kicking, sobbing, yanking at the restraints with everything her too-small body had.
Xyliria smiled. “One more thing,” she said, sweet as rot.
Ashterion’s stomach dropped.
He’d forgotten. This was a test for him too.
What the fuck was she about to ask?
“You get another choice, my dear,” Xyliria said, sauntering back to her throne. “You can kill the girl yourself—oryou can let my husband do it for you. He’s well-practiced, after all. Blood suits him.”
