ELYSSARA
I can smellthe festering skin between my shoulder blades. Rotting flesh mingles with the perfume still lingering on my gown, and it feels like a mirror for my life—sinister rot covered with pretty illusions.
I can’t sleep.
I can’t eat—not that I want to eat the stale bread thrown onto the floor like I truly am a gutter rat.
Fever and nausea grip me, curling through my blood in the same way Kael did—insidious, intoxicating, and meant to undo me. Cool sweat slicks my skin in the frigid cold of the dungeons, but nothing can chase away the burn that spreads through my veins.
I know the wound is infected.
I need medicine.
Now.
I drift between here and the dreamscape—a haunting overlap of rough hands brushing my hair back. Muscled arms wrapping around me. Wicked lips tracing the column of my neck. A voice of a low, raw timber whispering pretty promises into my ear. Calloused hands gliding over my hip like I’m something sacred.Kael.My Starbound. My undoing.
My sickness and my solace.
But reality won’t let me go—won’t let me have more than a moment of peace. It drags me back by my hair into this forgotten, festering wound of Aevryn; Kryntar Castle.
Sounds warp.
Creaks turn into screams. Coughs into battle cries. Boot steps into lullabies.
I’m burning up—my skin blazes like the sun. Fierce and inescapable.
The iron gate of my cell screams loudly enough that it shakes me from my delusions, and through the haze of my consciousness that barely keeps its grip on me, I see Correk’s unreadable expression staring down at me.
“Come ‘ere, love. Drink this,” he says, hooking his hands under my arms to force me to sit. I almost topple over, but his hands catch me—steady, solid. He shoves a small vial to my lips and the pungent odor transports me to Rubi’s makeshift infirmary at Thornewood—aromatic elixirs and acrid tonics clinging to the air.
“What is this?” I slur, words thick on my tongue.
“Steeped lunabark and willowbalm,” he explains. “Drink it and by the gods’ mercy, sleep will claim you.”
“Voidroot and ale would’ve been better,” I try to retort, but it comes out garbled. “And, the gods have left us—I’m at war with the fates now.”
“No, love. No. You’re at war with yourself,” Correk says with certainty, shoving the vial back to my lips, and I drink it down hungrily, praying to someone—anyone—that sleep will take me. “This is not a question for the fates to answer, Princess—this is a choiceyoumust make.”
I cough on the tart medicine, “Bullshit. I chose to trust, to love, to let people in.” I grit my teeth, “Look where it fucking got me!”
“Deceit did that, Princess. Not love. Don’t forget who you’re fighting. Don’t forget what you’re fightingfor,” Correk pushes emphatically.
I know what I’ve been fighting for, but all of it—the prophecy, my family, my crown, my friends, Zerynthia,Kael—are lost to me now. I’ll never leave. I’ll face Vessira and Maldrak every day until my body gives out and the Stars claim me. There’s no point pretending otherwise.
Hope is for dreamers.
I rest my elbows on my knees, hanging my head. “Fuck off, Correk. I don’t need pretty words. So, unless you’re going to break me out, just leave me to rot in my cell and run back to your master.”
Correk exhales loudly, sighing with exasperation.
“Can I at least use this balm on your wound?” he asks, holding a jar in his hands, and ignoring my contempt.
I don’t say anything, and he moves carefully. My back is exposed with the revealing gown cutting low, and as Correk’s eyes lock onto the brand, he sucks in a sharp breath.
“Fuck,” he winces.
I huff a bitter laugh, “That bad, huh?”
