More guards poured in. Eliam caught one with thorns that erupted from his palm, but another's blade found his thigh. Blood immediately soaked through his trousers.
"First blood to my guards," Malus noted. "Though your lover is doing better than expected."
The vines Eliam summoned were thinner now, the thorns smaller. A guard with a mace caught him across the ribs. She heard something crack. He went down to one knee, hand pressed to the floor, trying to call more growth from stone that wouldn't answer.
"Oh, broken ribs. Those are miserable." Malus sounded delighted. "Makes every breath agony."
Eliam forced himself up, thorns sprouting weakly from his knuckles like a wounded animal's last defense. He dropped another guard, but two more took his place. Thainewas pressed against a pillar, bleeding from multiple cuts, barely keeping three guards at bay.
"Your huntsman won't last much longer either," Malus observed. "Look, he's already favoring that leg. Hamstring, perhaps?"
A blade caught Eliam's shoulder—the same one Malachar had injured. He couldn't suppress the sound of pain, and his left arm dropped, useless. The thorns on that hand withered instantly, falling like dead leaves.
"Stop," Briar whispered.
"What was that?" Malus asked, though she knew he'd heard.
Another guard struck Eliam across the face with a pommel. Blood poured from his nose, and he stumbled. He pressed his palm to the floor, trying to summon vines, but only managed a few weak shoots that a guard crushed underfoot.
"The Drak has the right idea," Malus noted, and Briar saw Karse standing apart, watching but not intervening. "No point fighting a lost battle."
Eliam tried to grow thorns and managed only regular vines, thin as grass. Tried to stand straight and swayed. A guard's boot caught him in the stomach, and he doubled over, coughing blood.
"Please," Briar said louder.
"Please what?" Malus asked mildly.
Thaine went down, a guard's blade at his throat. Eliam saw it, tried to help, and took a mace to the back. He hit the floor hard, his magic failing entirely—no thorns, no vines, just blood on stone.
"Please stop!" The words tore from her throat.
"Why should I?" Malus asked as a guard raised his sword over Eliam's exposed neck. "He attacked my guards. The punishment for that is death."
"Please!" She turned in his lap, grabbing his shirt. "Please, I'll—"
"You'll what?" His attention shifted to her fully, one hand staying her desperation while guards held Eliam down, blood pooling beneath him.
"Anything. I'll do anything, just don't kill him."
The sword stayed poised above Eliam's neck. He was trying to rise, but three guards kept him pinned. His eyes found hers—furious, desperate, already knowing what she was about to sacrifice.
"Anything." Malus tested the word. "Such a foolish answer. You should never offer anything to the fae. We tend to take it literally."
He caught her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Kiss me."
"What?"
"Kiss me. Here, now, in front of him. In front of everyone." His thumb traced her lower lip. "And mean it. Make me believe you want it, and I'll let him live. Fail, and I'll tear his heart out while you watch."
The throne room had gone silent except for Eliam's labored breathing. Everyone watched—the court, the guards, Thaine frozen mid-fight.
"That's sick," Karse said from somewhere to the left.
"That's power," Malus corrected, still watching Briar's face. "Choose quickly. My patience is not infinite."
Briar looked at Eliam, on his knees, blood running from too many wounds, shadows still trying weakly to reach for her. The warmth in her chest was screaming, pulling toward him with desperate intensity. But the bargain, the autumn-touched marks at her throat, they recognized Malus's authority.
She turned back to Malus, and before she could think too much about it, pressed her mouth to his.
