Dread crawled up Brynn's spine. On the wall, the death tapestry seemed darker than before. The drowning woman's hand had risen, reaching toward the surface that would never come. "And the others?"
"Most fade bit by bit. But some..." She moved toward the door, then stopped. "There was one girl who thought she was different. Thought she could change the rules."
"What did she do?"
Naia's back was still turned, but Brynn could hear the tension inher voice. "Tried to seduce him. Thought if she got close enough, pretty enough, he'd let her past all that distance he keeps."
"What happened?"
When Naia looked back at her, her expression was haunted. "She learned why everyone calls him The Reaper. And why the distance isn't cruelty. It's the only thing keeping you alive."
Brynn's mouth went dry. "What does that mean?"
"It means his control isn't perfect." She met Brynn's eyes, and for a moment she looked completely solid. Afraid. "The distance is mercy. Remember that." She moved to the door. "I'll return in an hour to help you dress for court."
The door closed behind her, leaving Brynn alone with the sound of her own heartbeat and the death scenes shifting silently on the walls.
She forced herself to eat. Bread, fruit, tea. Though she barely tasted any of it, her mind was elsewhere. Girls who got too close and learned hard lessons. The way The Reaper's jaw had clenched when she'd stepped into his space. The way his shadows had seemed to reach for her before he'd jerked them back.
She checked her vest draped over the chair. Her fingers found the hidden pockets along the inner seams. The two small tools were still there. The delicate probe and the tension wrench that warmed in her palm. Good.
She moved to the wardrobe and stared at its contents for longer than she cared to admit.
Three gowns hung inside, each more elaborate than anything she'd ever worn. Deep purple velvet with silver threading that caught the light like spider silk. Black silk with bone buttons carved into tiny skulls. Dark blue with sleeves that would trail past her fingertips.
All of them screamed Death Court nobility. All of them would mark her as either trying too hard or entirely out of place.
She picked the blue. If she was going to stand out in a room full of purple shadows and death imagery, she might as well commit to it. Let them see she wasn't trying to blend in.
The fabric felt strange against her skin—too smooth, too expensive, nothing like the rough cotton she was used to. The neckline waslower than she preferred, but higher than the others. The sleeves were fitted to her wrists, leaving her hands exposed. She wondered if that was intentional, if everyone would be able to tell she wasn't wearing gloves like he did.
She was struggling with the back lacing when a knock at the door interrupted her frustration.
"Come in," she called, grateful for the help.
Naia entered and moved behind her without being asked, her translucent fingers surprisingly quick with the intricate lacings. "Blue was a good choice," she said. "Shows you're not trying to disappear into the shadows."
"Should I be?"
"No." She pulled the laces snug. "Hiding never works here. Better to stand out for the right reasons than the wrong ones." She finished with the laces and stepped back. "The Reaper has summoned you to attend morning court."
"Of course he has." Brynn took a breath.
On the wall behind her, the drowning woman had finally stopped sinking. Her eyes were open now, staring directly at Brynn with an expression that might have been a warning.
Or welcome.
VIII.
BRYNN
The throne room was even more overwhelming the second time.
She'd thought she'd prepared herself, but walking back through those femur-framed doors, stepping onto the floor of teeth that crunched softly beneath her feet, seeing the thousands of skulls watching from every wall with blue flames burning in their sockets—it hit differently in the silence of morning court.
The vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadows where bone chandeliers hung like the ribcages of giants. Death-woven tapestries she'd barely noticed last night now drew her eye. Battles, massacres, figures being dragged into darkness by hands emerging from the ground. Images designed to remind everyone precisely where they were and who ruled here.
And on the throne of reaching hands sat the Reaper, looking every inch the Lord of the Forsaken.
