Because ofme.
Venna stands up from her sister’s side, silently looking at me, appealing. As if there’s something I can do, something I can offer. But what can I say?
This was all my fault—because of my decision to claim this throne, because of the enemies I’ve made.
Venna’s face changes as I stare helplessly back at her, tears streaming senselessly down her cheeks, expression shifting between grief and wrath.
Finally, I close the distance between us, taking her into my arms. She clasps her arms around me tightly, and something breaks open in my chest.
I cry.
It might be minutes or hours later that I sense Anassa’s presence approaching, her claws scratching against the floor. Venna’s wolf, Skaia, pads behind her.
Venna and I break apart, both going to our wolves, clinging to their coats for some semblance of comfort.
But no direwolf magic can heal this pain.
18
MERYN
Two days later, I watch from my bedchamber as Nocturna’s nobles depart Sturmfrost Castle.
The scene is fuzzy and dreamlike through the rippled panes of glass in the window. Cold fog has descended from the mountains this morning. It coats everything I see, dampening the landscape and dulling the colors.
It’s like my grief made tangible. A blanket of sorrow, heavy and thick and cold, reaching icy fingers into my flesh and bones. I wonder if I’ll ever be warm again.
And there’s so much to do.
I need to check in with Siegrid and Tormun on the progress with Killian, the bracelet on my wrist a constant aching reminder of his menace. I need to get a status update on the war front. I need to check on my sister, who has remained in her bedroom since the coronation, terrified that she’ll be the next target.
But I can’t move from the window, the inside of my head a dull buzz.
It’s an endless parade of horses and carriages. Wagonloads of trunks full ofball gowns and pearls and perfumes. All the traces of a royal coronation, slowly emptying out of the castle and leaving nothing but sorrow behind.
What’s happened to Izabel’s clothes? All her beautiful party dresses.
Her riding leathers, the new jacket her parents had made for her for the Trials still barely broken in.
The thought rises in my throat, making it hard to breathe. I press my face to the frigid windowpane, screwing my red-rimmed eyes shut. The freezing glass smarts against my tight, tearstained skin.
I half-heartedly suggested to Matron Alienor and Siegrid that I be present as the nobles departed, to leave a last impression, but they both agreed the impression I left them with was “suitable” for now.
An impression of violence, nobody had to say out loud.
Of swift, ruthless retribution.
I don’t regret killing the councilor; he deserved what happened to him. But his family? I killed them without a thought. Just pure emotion made lethal by my shadows.
Is this the kind of ruler I am to become?
Is this what it takes to wrest this kingdom from the grasp of Killian and Alistair Brightbane?
The parade of departing noble guests continues, but I turn my face away.
I’m staring sightlessly at my sister’s room when a knock sounds on the door.
Stark, here to escort me to Izabel’s funeral. He’s insisted that he accompany me as guard whenever I leave my chambers, at least in the immediate aftermath of the poisoning.
