When I’m done with his fingers, I move to his feet, cauterizing each wound with the poker as I go. I don’t want him to die just yet.
I’m not rushing. I’m savoring each cut, every whimper, every fresh bloom of blood.
This is what I am. This is what they forgot.
When there’s nothing left to take, when Cowen is barely recognizable as human anymore, I crouch beside him. The huntmaster’s eyes are glassy, but still moving, still aware on some level that can’t escape into unconsciousness, no matter how badly he wants to.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “For the information. And for this.”
The blade comes down one final time.
The cut is clean. A single stroke through the neck, the edge passing through flesh, tendon and bone like they’re nothing. Cowen’s head rolls free, coming to rest against the wall.
I pick it up by the hair, walk to an empty hook between two mounted racks, and slam the head onto it.
Forty-four.
I take a step back to look at my work. The head hangs crooked, blood still dripping from the neck, Cowen’s eyes half-open and staring at nothing.
Not enough. Not nearly enough. But this is just the beginning.
I turn away, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the window. There is blood everywhere—on my hands, my face, and splattered against the thorned metal like war paint. But what captures my attention are my eyes.
Gold, burning, and utterly calm.
The scene fractures. The lodge dissolves into darkness, and suddenly there’s nothing but blackness surrounding me.
“Did you enjoy the show,Moirthalen?”
The voice echoes through me. He’s here … wherever here is. I try to pull away. Try to claw my way out of the dream.
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t care.” The words are soft. “None of you ever do.”
The strangest sensation goes through me. It feels like fingers rifling through memories. Flashes of the carriage ride to the Dell, the excitement I felt, and my first glimpse of him pass in front of my eyes.
“You were going to kill me.” He finds the memory of me standing in front of him, my bow drawn.
Shame floods through me. Hot and sick and impossible to hide. Laughter, rich, deep and dark, echoes through the blackness.
“You carry my blood. And now it seems you are tied to me. Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will know. I will see.”
“Please—”
“Sleep well,Moirthalen.”
I wake up screaming.
The door bursts open, and Nella runs in, face white, with two guards behind her, swords drawn.
“Alleria!” Nella rushes to the bed. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
I can’t answer. I can’t breathe. My heart is slamming against my ribs, and I can still feel him, the echo of his presence, theghost of his satisfaction.
“Just a nightmare.” I force the words out. “It was just a nightmare.”
The guards exchange looks. Nella waves them off, and after checking the windows and the room, they retreat, closing the door behind them.
