I meet Tomison’s gaze above Izabel’s still form. He’s ashen, shocked into a stupor.
Venna falls to her knees next to her sister’s lifeless body, and Stark and I both move out of the way. She wraps her arms around Izabel’s form, cradling her gently.
The primal wail that comes from her mouth is piercing. It doesn’t sound human.
Stark helps me to my feet. Penetratingly cold waves flood my body. My mind is frighteningly calm, like an icy frozen lake.
That emberwine was meant for me.
Izabel died drinking emberwine specially meant forme.
I shiver as another wash of cold settles deep in my bones.
It’s only then I notice how the shadows in the room have begun to writhe, pulsing in time with my heartbeat, twitching as my fingers flex. ThatpulseI felt in the arena echoes inside me like a dark heartbeat, urging me to give up, let it in.
As I instinctively tighten my hands into fists, threads of shadow curl up from all directions. They wrap themselves around my fingers, weave their way up my arms like an extension of the tattoos at my neck.
The power is heady, all-encompassing.
I flick open my right hand experimentally, and a thousand tendrils of shadow shoot out, climbing the walls and writhing around the chandeliers, finding every last flame and extinguishing each one by one, leaving more and more of the ballroom in darkness.
“Meryn,” Siegrid snaps from where she’s joined us on the dais.
Her disapproval doesn’t register.
My eyes cut to Stark, and he inclines his head. A nod, maybe… encouraging.
The darkness has taken over. Some small part of me registers that I’m not acting like myself, like the queen I want to be, but…
I don’t care.
I don’t care if I’m out of control anymore. I don’t care if I’m letting my emotions consume me, if I’m leaving myself open to something sinister.
The power gathering in my chest is wild and frightening and drives out any thought, any feeling apart from the sheerrushof freeing it. The darkness inside me is a deep, unending cavern.
Siegrid’s not strong enough to stop me anyhow.
I release the ball of shadow from my other hand. With violent satisfaction, I watch as every single door in the room slams tightly shut. The nobles flinch at the sound, and I drink in their fearful murmurs.
My voice is deeper than usual, calm and deadly. “Who is responsible for this?”
The hall falls silent, the only sound Venna’s strangled sobs.
“Who. Is. Responsible. For. Izabel’s. Murder.” I stride to the front of the royal dais, arms outstretched in a plea to the power that’s all around me, gathering the dark to me like armor.
I stare around the room, my vision sharpened, senses heightened as more and more magic streaks into my veins, through my very blood.
Nobody steps forward.
My mind races, replaying the moments before the toast. A server brought the goblet to me. The moment is sharp in my mind, the memory of the intricate cup, the face of the woman—it was someone I didn’t recognize, someone with fair hair.
Not one of my regular staff.
Deliberately, I step down from the dais and onto the ballroom floor, shadows streaming behind me like a living cape. My anger is bright and hot behind my eyes, white heat clashing with the icy, shadowy tendrils that curl around my wrists, my neck, tangle in my hair.
Nobles and Bonded and servants alike shrink back as I approach them.
I take my time, methodical. Nobody is leaving this room. Not until I say so.
