With a snarl, Lore lunged around the corner. The same protective fury that had burned through him in the throne room blazed in his eyes.
Bellows rang out, followed by the roar of Lore’s rage, followed by footsteps pounding down the hall in the opposite direction. I wanted to go after him, but Moira…
Sputtering, she peered at me, her face losing all color, her hands scrambling across the blade embedded in her belly. She clawed at it, slicing her fingers on the edge, before she toppled over onto the floor, driving the blade deeper with the fall.
“Moira,” I cried, stooping down beside her. I rolled her onto her back, and she flopped, her hands still clutching the blade, her eyes so full of pain meeting mine. “Moira,” I whispered again.
Blood seeped through her dress, blooming beneath her fingers. Her lips moved, trying to form words, but only a wet, rattling breath came out.
“No, no, no—just stay still, please?” My hands hovered over her uselessly. I didn’t know what to do. I’d been trained in simplewound care, but this was no simple wound. “You’re going to be fine. Lore’s here. He’ll—he’ll fix this.”
Could his magic heal her?
I’d seen others die from smaller wounds than this after raids, and it was never pretty. If there wasn’t a healer nearby, the odds of the person surviving such a blow were nonexistent. But Lore could heal. And Lord Briscalar once told me he had an affinity for things that were once alive and those that could be brought alive in a different way. Surely a skill like that could make a difference now.
“Lore,” I cried out. “Lore?” Where was he?
Moira blinked slowly. I found her hand and held it, her fingers chilly in mine. Her skin had always been cold, but holding her now was like clutching an icicle.
“You look awful,” she croaked, her voice thin as paper.
I struggled to keep my expression reassuring. “You should see yourself.”
A smile cracked her pale lips, and her fingers twitched against mine. “Dulvade. You tell him… I said yes.”
My throat closed off. “Did he ask you to marry him?”
“Not yet but…he was going to,” she breathed, tears tracking down into her hairline. “Tell him… Tell him yes.”
“I will,” I promised.
Tears poured down my face as the scent of iron choked off my lungs. I brushed damp hair from her forehead. My hand shook. All of me shook.
Her head lolled. I guided it gently back, resting her cheek against my thigh. Blood soaked into my clothing, warm and awful.
“I wanted to get married…in the garden,” she said, her voice fading. “Under the red ploomala tree. I planned to wear my…favorite gown.”
“It made your waist look tiny,” I said, biting back tears.
“He didn’t care…what I look like. He…cared about me for who I am,” she whispered, grinning faintly before it slipped away. Like her. She was slipping away from me and there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it. “Now it’s too late.”
“I’ll help you with your hair. And cry the whole way through the vows.”
Blinking, she struggled to focus. “If only…I could trade places with you. You shouldn't have to carry this burden. It should be me…facing the curse.”
She was dying and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. And here she was, feeling bad for me.
Where was Lore? He should be here now.
“You have to run, Reyla. Promise… Promise me you'll run…from here. From him. Do it now.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“King Lorick.” Her eyes widened with panic. “Not…what he seems. You…deserve someone who…never gives up.”
The agony was driving her out of her mind.
Memories flooded back. Moira dancing with Farris, stuffing herb sachets under my pillow, pressing a flower into my hand after my coronation. Whispering, “You will rule with justice and heart.”
