The door slammed shut behind them, plunging them into semi-darkness. Damp air clung to them, thick with mildew. Luna kept moving, one arm locked around Clyde’s waist as he stumbled beside her, the other keeping his arm secure across her shoulders. Faint beams of light slipped through cracks above, barely lighting the narrow corridor. Her dress dragged through the grime, but she pressed on, focused only on escape. Then, her foot smacked against wood—a door. She grabbed the handle andtwisted, but it didn’t open.
She tried again, but the door simply wouldn’t budge.
“It’s stuck,” she wailed, her throat tightening.
Clyde grimaced and summoned the remnants of his strength to throw himself against it. It gave, groaning on its hinges.
Behind it was a small safe room, furnished with a bed, a cabinet, and a lantern.
Luna helped Clyde over to the bed, and once he was settled, he instructed her to wedge a piece of wood under the door handle. She obeyed, then did the same to the second door across the room.
The silence after the battle was jarring—too sudden, too complete. Outside the safe room, not a sound stirred. Luna took deep, steadying breaths, trying to quell the nausea curling in her belly. The iron-rich scent of Clyde’s blood clung to the air, suffocating her like a second skin soaked in death.
Searching for a distraction, she rummaged through the cabinet and found a spare cloth, what she thought was a bandaging kit, and pincushion with several needles. Quickly, she set it beside Clyde and examined his injury. Dark blood oozed from a deep puncture, and the flesh around it was already swollen and bruised.
With shaking hands, she soaked a towel in alcohol and dabbed it around the wound.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted, putting even more of the pungent liquid on the towel before pressing it again. “I know the basics, but I’m no healer.”
Clyde met her eyes and managed a weak smile, but there was no warmth in it. “At least I’ll die with the one I love,” he said. “Not many men get to say that.”
A sharp pang shot through her ribs, his words landing somewhere deep and unsteady. She didn’t answer right away—just pressed the bloodied towel harder against his leg, then tossed it aside and reached for a clean one.
“You’re not going to die,” she said, sharper than intended. Whether it was fear or frustration, she couldn’t tell. She still cared. How could she not? Some part of her, buried and stubborn, still loved him . . . might always love him . . . but that didn’t erase what he’d done, nor did it make her trust him. It certainly didn’t make this easier.
He nodded faintly, then he lay back, tugging her hand to draw her close. His lips met hers in what might have been a tender kiss if not for the blood between them and the ballroom screams still ringing in her ears.
She stiffened. “What are you doing, Clyde?”
“Enjoying my last moments with the love of my life.” He reached for her again, but she pulled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. As if that could erase the kiss, the moment, and the wrongness of it.
“We need to focus.” Her eyes darted down to the grotesque sight of the arrow. “Should I pull it out? Tell me what to do.”
“I wanted you to be mine . . .” he whispered, his hand seeking hers. “I was going to ask you after the ceremony—”
She crossed her arms. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
He let out a breathy sigh and curled his hands against his chest. “Everything went so wrong.” His voice was weak; he must have lost too much blood.
“Clyde,” she repeated, with more urgency. “What do I do?”
His fingers fumbled along his chest, squeezing his heart as if it ached. But he said nothing, his eyes drifting closed. Dread twisted inside of her.
“Clyde!”
“Nothing,” he mumbled, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Only magic can save me now.”
She looked down at her hands as if her powers were there. They weren’t, only useless trembling fingers. She tried to summon it anyway, but nothing answered her call. “I can’t just make it happen,” she said quietly, her eyes burning. “I don’t know how.”
Clyde’s hands fell to his sides, his body going completely limp. A deep red stain had spread across his tunic, dark and uneven.
“Skies above,” she gasped, her breath hitching. How had she missed that?
Frantically, she fumbled for the scissors in the bandaging kit and with unsteady hands, she snipped the fabric away, peeling the blood-soaked cloth from his skin. The sight made her blood run cold.
“When did this happen?”
There was so much blood. It coated his skin, pooled in the hollows of his ribs, and dripped onto the sheets beneath him. Forcing herself to move instead of gawk and freeze, she grabbed more towels and pressed them firmly against his chest.
