the shattered heart.”
A knock sounds at the door.
“Why don't they ever leave me alone?” A huff escapes me, pure annoyance scraping my throat. “Enter.”
The door opens a cautious crack. The young priest who wed me slips in, face drawn tighter than that day. His eyes flick first to Daron—on the bed, pale and still—then to me and the papers spread across the desk.
His mouth tightens. “Your Majesty called for a priest?”
“Close the door.”
He obeys, though his fingers linger on the latch as if he’d rather be elsewhere. “How can I assist, Your Majesty?”
I tap the parchment. “Translate.”
His brows lift. “Your Majesty?”
“This.” I slide the top sheet toward him. “The old tongue. I want you to read it to me in the common language.”
He steps only as close as he needs to scan the scribbles. “Your Majesty, there alreadyisa translation right beside it. It says it right there in the title.The Stanza of Death’s Heart.”
“I’m aware. Read it about twenty times now, and I still want the original read to me as you translate.”
“The crown’s rites were translated centuries ago,” he says carefully. “This particular document might only recently have re-emerged, but I assure you the translation was?—”
“Ordered by men greedy enough to trade lives for power,” I finish and flick the parchment. “I don’t trust a single thing in this castle unless I see it with my own two eyes. And even then, I might still be suspicious of it.” Another tap on the parchment, harder this time. “Read this to me.”
The young man looks as if I’ve asked him to swallow a dagger. “This is not a simple?—”
“Do not talk to me about simple.” I sit back, forcing myself to breathe. “Just…read.”
His gaze flicks to Daron, as if trying to remind himself there are more sacred things than monarchy. Then his eyes return to the parchment.
“Your Majesty, this language is dead.” His voice is careful, almost reverent. “Even in the chapel, even among priests, it is no longer spoken. I…I cannot simply read this.” He hesitates. “If you give me time, I shall provide you with a new, true translation,” he says, only to add quickly, “Unadulterated.”
Strength leaks out of my spine, making it curl against the backrest of the chair. “How long?”
“The language is dense, often…often metaphorical,” he says, his voice rubbing itself thinner on each syllable. “Diacritics change not only pronunciation, but references in their entirety.To re-translate the entire… It requires cross-referencing with texts kept in the lower vaults to?—”
“How. Long.”
He swallows. “Days,” he admits. “Perhaps a week. It depends on the condition of the reference material.”
Days. A week.
Nausea churns my stomach, more violently when I look over at Daron. “Start tonight. If I find you sleeping, I hope it’s in a position where you lean slumped over your lectern.”
“Y-yes, Your Majesty.” He quickly gathers the parchment and scrambles backward with several bows. “I will translate it as quickly as I can.Faithfully.”
He turns and practically runs, his robes billowing behind him. The door clicks shut, sealing the room once more in its suffocating quiet.
I let out a long, ragged exhale, pressing my fingers to my temples. I feel stretched thin, like rope frayed to the breaking point. The encounter with Vale—the violence, the pleasure, the strange, terrifying intimacy of it—still hums beneath my skin.
A distraction I can’t afford.
And now this.
“I was beginning to worry,” a rasping voice creaks from the shadows, “that the priest was here to measure me for the box.”
