“I didn’t want this,” Isara whispered. “I didn’t?—”
The words choked.
She plunged the blade into the girl’s chest.
A gasp. A high, sharp breath. The girl stiffened, body jolting against the restraints, and then collapsed.
Ashterion’s hands clenched into fists so tight his nails split the skin of his palms.
Isara clung to the girl as she died. Held her long after her breathing stopped.
She didn’t let go. Not even when the blood soaked through her sleeves, through her pants where she knelt in the spreading pool of it.
Isara cradled the girl’s body, fingers tangled in dark, blood-slick hair, her own forehead pressed gently to the girl’s temple like they were sisters, like they’d known each other before this.
And then, faintly audible above the echoing silence?—
She began to hum. A lullaby. Soft. Crooked. Tattered with grief.
It took him a moment to place it. An old song, meant for rocking children to sleep when the nights were long and cold and full of wolves.
Her voice cracked on the third line. And still, she didn’t let go.
Just kept singing.
Until Xyliria finally sighed. “Oh,enough.”
She waved her hand lazily, and the guards moved in. Isara didn’t fight when they dragged her away. Her arms slipped from the girl’s body, falling limp at her sides. Her head lolled slightly forward. Eyes open. Empty.
The blood on her knees left smeared prints across the marble as they hauled her past him.
Xyliria let out a delighted sigh as she sank back into her throne, wine glass swirling casually between her fingers.
“Well,” she said, “you’re not as useless as I thought.” She turned her smile on him. “It seems youarebreaking the thing after all.”
Ashterion said nothing. Because if he opened his mouth, something would crawl out that wouldn’t be compliance. And once it escaped, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to put it back in.
65
Xyliria had found the weak point, the fracture in my resolve, and she pressed against it again and again and again.
Every day, she put me in front of her. Every day, she made me choose.
Choose who to save.
Choose who to kill.
And every day, I did it.
One day, it was Fenric or a middle-aged fae woman, her dark hair streaked with silver, her face lined with years of wisdom and love. She trembled as she stumbled before me, her wide eyes darting around the room.
“My wife,” her voice broke as she raised her hands in a feeble attempt at defence. “She’ll be worried… waiting for me.”
Her words faltered as I moved, her instincts taking over despite the ache in my soul. It was quick. But the memory twisted my heart.
Another time, it was Brynelle or an elder fae male, his face weathered but serene as he knelt. His gaze met mine, steady and knowing.
“I understand,” he had said, a resigned smile on his face.
