“Do shut up whenever the mood suits you, Samuel,” I grumble, yanking open a drawer and pulling out a bottle of rum. I pour a generous measure and hand the glass to Sam wordlessly, before taking my own pull straight from the bottle. The liquid burns my throat as it slides down, and I shiver as some of my unease burns away with it.
She’s only a woman. A beautiful one, admittedly, but there are plenty of beautiful women, even in such an isolated place as this kingdom. I’ll just keep my distance while I figure out what to do with her, and everything will be fine.
Regrettably, my death doesn’t appear amenable to the idea of distance. Since storming from my throne room, the ribbons have yet to settle, winding restlessly around my arms and throat, sliding over my desk. Spiraling and shivering with what is undoubtedly pleasure. With a grunt, I yank them back toward me like they’re on an invisible leash and take another swig from the bottle as the familiar pain of them—each one edged like the sharpest of blades—slices through me.
My neck muscles go taut, and I grit my teeth until the wave of agony passes. Whatever it is about the woman that’s excited them will also have to be avoided, as my death’s wishes and my own are inextricably linked, and I’m having a hard enough time without having to keep them tethered to my body at all hours of the day.
Sam plops down in the chair across from me and takes a demure sip of his drink, watching me struggle with my death with an infuriating look of concern. I take another large pull from the bottle, mostly to keep myself from knocking that endless kindness off his face, before pouring another measure into a glass.
Shaking my head, I attempt to gather myself, shooting Sam a conciliatory look though I hadn’t spoken my annoyance aloud. More often than not, the pain of my power turns me into the worst version of myself, even around someone I love like a brother. The endless ache, the constant agony, pierce holes through me until I am little more than an empty vessel. All my energy drains through them, and on the most trying days, none remains for something like kindness. There is only enough to plug a few of the wounds in a desperate attempt to hold myself together.
I take a deep breath and sit up straight, digging my fingers into the wooden desk to ground myself back to the task at hand.
“What of the wards? How did she manage to break through them?”
Sam shrugs. “She seems to have fallen, sir.”
The honorific chafes at my neck, and for a wild moment, I consider shouting at him to knock it off. Sam’s been my friend for more years than I can count, a confidante close enough to do away with any royal pleasantries. But no matter how many times I insist he call me Niko, habit always has him reverting back to when I was only his captain and not his king.
I’d rather him call me nothing at all than be reminded of those years on the sea. The few years in my life I experienced pure freedom; before everything went to shit and I’d gotten myself chained to Letum.
“The wards have been too thick to fall through for years,” I mutter more to myself than Sam. “The plague practically solidified them into stone. I don’t know how she would have managed it without someone on our side opening them first… Or how she would have survived it, even if someone had.”
Swirling the rum, I watch the amber liquid for a few long moments as I mull over what this means for the kingdom. What this means forme.
The pixies’ dust has been dried up for over a century and the only person that possessed the sort of magic needed to open wards at will has been dead for twice as long. A sudden thought spikes through me like a knife to the heart.
“Unless…” When I raise my eyes to Sam, it’s clear his thoughts have arrived at the same conclusion as mine, and probably far quicker. Dread and hope mingle so furiously in my stomach, I feel lightheaded.
I don’t finish the sentence, out of respect or superstition, I’m not even sure. The events of tonight have left me feeling raw and vulnerable—two things I despise—and somehow, speaking of the possibilities of the woman’s arrival feels far too delicate. Like uttering one wrong syllable will upset the precarious balance I’ve bled to maintain and send the entire island collapsing into the sea.
“Learn everything you can about her. I want her name, her history. I want every detail, down to the color of her fucking bones. Do you understand?”
My death vibrates in approval, sending another shockwave of pain up my spine. Sam opens his mouth, most surely to make a highly unwelcome observation. His sense of decorum has only ever been limited to titles, never in keeping his opinions to himself. I silence him with a quick shake of my head.
“This is delicate, Sam. And if we play our cards right, the universe may have just granted us the first bit of luck in centuries. We cannot waste it. And we can’t let anyone else find out she’s here until we know exactly what we’ve got.”
I push myself to standing, barely keeping a groan of pain trapped behind my lips as my death winds tighter around my arms.
“If I’m correct about who she is and how she got here…” I cut myself off with a muttered curse. If the woman containsthe bloodline I believe she does, her arrival will have the entire island in an uproar.
Had that boy on the beach suspected what she was? Or had it been pure chance he stumbled upon her?
My death lashes over my wrists and a fresh wave of icy anger engulfs my chest as I remember how close he’d come to her. Far too close for my liking.
Sam crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair, furrowing his brow doubtfully. “With respect, sir—the winter wind whispers to whoever it pleases. And she fell straight into the sea. I’m sure the sirens are already spreading word of the stranger all over the island.” His eyes glint. “And even if those wretched sea spirits haven’t yet told the entire kingdom, that boy was a Strayed. They’ll find out you’ve killed him and they’ll come. For you and for her.”
“Let them try,” I snap so viciously my death spears from me in sharp spikes. The ribbons ricochet off the walls, before careening wildly into the nearest window and shattering straight through the glass.
Sam doesn’t even flinch, instead, eyeing me as he would an unruly child. Concerned, and slightly pitying.
I clench my jaw, my teeth clacking together so hard my skull rattles, as I struggle to draw my magic back to me. The ribbons fight against my control, thrashing wildly, like the mere thought of a threat against the feral woman is enough to send them on a murderous rampage through the island. I squeeze my eyes shut as pain overwhelms my senses, lashes of burning heat and ice alternating through me in turn.
Sam rises from his chair to help, tendrils of his own power sweeping toward me. I shake my head tightly, refusing his silent offer to ease the pain.
“I have held the Strayed at bay for two centuries. I won’t lose my throne now. Alert Adira of the woman’s arrival. Silenceeveryone else who dares speak of her,” I manage roughly, as nausea climbs my throat.
I feel Sam’s hesitation, his wish to stay and help me through this. But he learned long ago—thereisno helping me. So instead, he sets his drink down on my desk with a soft clink and says, “Yes, sir.”
