“I ask only truth,” I murmur, and draw my blade.
The cut across my palm is deep and clean. Blood spills freely, pattering onto the Eye’s surface. The artifact drinks greedily, warming as it awakens, its crimson veins blazing bright and then forming the familiar swirling pattern.
Pain lances through me—and with it, the Blood Lust roars awake, hot and sharp, clawing at my control.
Worth it, I tell myself grimly. I must make sure Julia is all right.
The patterns stop as the Eye opens, showing me what I need to see.
There she is—Julia—inside the carriage. She’s pale—too pale. Her arm is wrapped tightly around her friend, Hanna, who is shuddering against her, crying softly. Fear saturates the air like a sour fog. I also smell wine, heavy and cloying. And beneath it all?—
Death.
Yes—I sense a grave-cold residue that has no place touching what is mine.
You should never have sent them alone.
The guilty thought strikes me like a blow. Rage coils instantly, vicious and protective, tightening my fists and clenching my jaw. I am already reaching for the Obsidian Reliquary beneath the floor—a forbidden device that would rip me across the Realm at catastrophic cost.
It would drain me for weeks but in using it, I will be able to get to my beloved’s side immediately.
I am halfway through the activation sigil when my doors burst open.
“My Lord!” a guard calls urgently. “The carriage has returned and the driver signals that there is trouble!”
She’s back! Relief crashes through me so violently it nearly steals my breath. But as for the trouble—we’ll have to see about that.
I don’t answer the guard—I’m already on the move.
The carriage has barely stopped before I tear the door open.
“Julia, are you well?” I demand. “Come here—let me see you!”
I pull her toward me, my hands skimming over her arms…her shoulders…her waist, searching for any injury.
She sways, unsteady, her skin cool beneath my touch.
“I’m fine—I’m all right,” she protests, but the words lack conviction.
The scent of wine clings to her—too much of it—but fear coils beneath it, sharp and unmistakable.
Hanna looks no better, her face drained of color, her body trembling as she clutches at the carriage rail.
“What is it? What happened?” I demand.
“Excuse me, my Lord.”
It is my bodyguard— Caelen Virex. His expression is grim as he steps forward.
“My Lord,” he says to me, “The Lady Hanna was attacked by some kind of entity or wraith while we were at the vineyards.”
“Attacked—in what way?” I scan Hanna as she shakily climbs down from the carriage. Caelen steadies her, his grip firm but respectful. Both women are swaying now, the wine unmistakable in the air.
“Are the two of you drunk?” I ask, disbelievingly.
“You’d get drunk too if a ghost attacked you in an outhouse!” Hanna exclaims and bursts out crying.
“Attacked by a ghost?” I shake my head. “What does that mean?”
