She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling it pulse with newfound strength. Not comfort—it was too angry for comfort. But solidarity. It hated him too. Hated what he'd done, what he'd made her do.
"Tomorrow," she whispered to the warmth, to herself. "Tomorrow we find a way to stop this."
The warmth pulsed agreement, and for the first time since entering Malus's chambers, she felt like she might survive this. Not intact, not unharmed, but unbroken.
She was damaged but not destroyed. And that made all the difference.
"My lady?" Síocháin's voice was soft, those pearl-like fingers already reaching for the washing basin. "I came to prepare you for evening court, but—" She stopped, seeing the bruises blooming on Briar's throat, the blood on the sheets.
"There is no evening court," Briar said, her voice hollow. "He cancelled it."
Síocháin moved closer, her strange fingers gentle as she helped Briar sit up. The sheet slipped, revealing more bruises, bite marks, the evidence of what had been done. Síocháin's expression didn't change, but her movements became even more careful.
"Let me help you," she said simply, guiding Briar toward the bathing chamber. "The water will ease the aches."
Briar let herself be led, too exhausted to resist kindness. Síocháin drew the bath, adding something that made the water shimmer faintly and smelled of mint and something that cut through the lingering scent of autumn.
"I remember the old days," Síocháin said quietly as she helped Briar into the water. "I was young when the Night Court fell. Young enough to survive the transition, old enough to remember what it was like." Her fingers worked through Briar's tangled hair with inhuman gentleness. "The blood-lettings. The hunts that ended in death, not sport. Humans kept like cattle, bled slowly over months until they were husks."
"Why are you telling me this?" Briar asked, sinking deeper into the water.
"Because Lord Malus speaks of returning to tradition as if it were golden." Síocháin's voice carried old pain. "But I remember the screaming. I remember humans begging for death as mercy." She paused, her hands stilling. "Lord Eliam was harsh, yes, but he didn’t believe in the old ways. His cruelty had limits."
Síocháin helped her from the bath, wrapping her in soft towels. The fae woman's impossible fingers worked through Briar's tangled hair, each pull making her scalp ache where Malus had grabbed her the night before.
"Where is Karse being kept?" Briar asked suddenly. The thought of the Drak, unpredictable but fierce, sparked the first hint of hope she'd felt. "The one who came with me from the Star Court."
"The east wing." Síocháin's hands didn't pause, but Briar felt her tense slightly. “Why?"
"I need to speak with him." Briar turned, water dripping from her hair onto the stone floor, pooling around her feet. "I need to find a way out of here."
Síocháin set down the ivory comb, those pearl-like fingers folding carefully in her lap. "My lady, there's something you should know. Lord Malus has instructed me to prepare you tomorrow evening. For a private dinner. Just the two of you."
Briar's stomach turned, bile rising in her throat. She knew what private dinnersmeant. What would come after.
"Can you get me to Karse?" Her voice cracked, her desperation was palpable. "Tonight?"
"The wing is watched by Withered." Síocháin reached for the comb again, her movements deliberate, careful. "Even I don't go there unless I must. Their touch, it ages anything living."
"Then a message—"
"My lady, even if I could..." Síocháin said, resuming her work on Briar’s hair. "The castle is sealed. Withered at every door. The forest itself obeys Lord Malus now. There's no clear path out. What plan could you make that Malus would not intercept?"
Briar stood abruptly, the towel slipping. She didn't care. She paced to the window, her bare feet leaving wet prints on the cold floor. Outside, autumn had spread further, leaves the color of dried blood stretching as far as the eye could see. The forest looked diseased.
"There has to be something." Her fingers pressed against the glass until her knuckles went white. The cold seeped through, numbing her fingertips. "Poison. Something I could slip into his wine when he isn’t looking."
"We wouldn’t know which wine until he selects it, should we poison them all?"
Of course. Everything planned, controlled. She turned from the window, pressing her palms against her temples.
"I just need him unconscious. Or distracted. Something. Anything." She looked up at Síocháin, saw something flicker across her face. "What? What are you thinking?"
"Nothing. I shouldn't—" Síocháin stood, moving toward the wardrobe. "Let me find you something to wear."
"No, wait.” Briar crossed the room. “Whatever it is, tell me."
Síocháin's hands stilled on the wardrobe's carved handle. For a moment, Briar was afraid she had pushed too hard. When Síocháin spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
