Atilia’s eyes spark with a flicker of interest. “Yes. After she died, Lord Luceran had every image of her removed from the castle.” She lifts her hand as if weighing memories. “It pained him too much to look upon her. It still does.”
“She was very beautiful,” I say, barely audible.
Atilia nods. “Even now, she is considered one of the greatest beauties to ever grace the Sundered Kingdoms. But more than that, she was kind and generous, beloved by Fae and humans alike.” She leans forward, then adds plainly, “Not words often used to describe the Fae.”
I nod in quiet agreement, but my teeth worry at my lower lip. The question gnaws at me.
“But…” I start, doubting myself, hating the tremble in my voice.
Atilia finishes the question for me as she leans back.
“But what? Why would he mourn the wife he murdered?” She holds my gaze, unblinking. “Is that what you were about to ask?”
My breath snags. My fingers tighten around the warm cup.
Because yes. Thatwasthe question, and hearing it spoken aloud sends a cold shiver through me that even the fire cannot chase away.
“And the servants,” she adds quietly. “Don’t forget them. He murdered them all with his bare hands.”
A violent shiver rakes down my spine. The lump in my throat swells until I can barely swallow. I grip the teacup with both hands before I spill it all over myself.
“That is the story, isn’t it?” Atilia sighs. “And you believe it?”
My breath catches mid-inhale. “I… I don’t know. Is it true?”
Atilia rises from her chair. She does not look at me as she moves away, past the circle of firelight, into the dim cool shadows of the room. Her silhouette softens the closer she gets to the door.
“When something awful happens,” she says, “the world needs a monster to blame, because the alternative…” She pauses, her hand resting lightly on the door handle. “The alternative means ordinary people might be capable of extraordinary cruelty.”
I stare at her. “So… you’re saying he didn’t kill them?”
She glances over her shoulder. Her expression is unreadable. Not denial. Not confirmation.
“I am saying,” she murmurs, “do not believe everything you hear, Neve. And believe only half of what you see.” Her eyes narrow just a fraction. “And for once, child, do as you are told. Stay away from Lord Luceran. At least for a day or two.”
I grit my teeth. “It will be my pleasure.”
She slips through the door, closing it with a quiet click that feels far too final. I’m left alone with the fading warmth of the hearth and the snowstorm howling against the boarded window. Her words churn inside me, unsettling as the dark water beneath the lake’s ice.
Could it be true?Could all the cruelty, all the coldness, all the terrifying stories whispered about him be nothing but… lies?
I swallow hard and take another sip of tea, letting the heat steady me. The fire pops, casting sparks that flare and die in an instant.
Does his ruthlessness come from grief, not a frozen blackness where his heart should be?Have I misjudged him?Haveallof Brunemar?
Have I been wrong about the monster all along?
12
For once, I do what I’m told.
I avoid Lord Luceran at all costs.
I rise before dawn and head straight to the tower before I can even risk hearing his footsteps in the hall. I bury myself in numbers, ledgers, and ink stains until the sun sinks low. Then, when the castle’s shadows grow long and blue and the cold creeps beneath the door, I tidy my desk and retreat to my room.
I do not cook for him.I do not set his table.I do not step foot near the dining hall if I hear the faintest clink of silverware.
Atilia has changed her schedule to accommodate this arrangement, her way of shielding me, I suppose, but what I thought would be a relief, what Itold myselfwould be a relief, becomes something else entirely.
