Harmless.
“Join me for a walk.” A command, not a request.
He strides away, expecting me to follow blindly.
And I do. I play the part.
I catch up in the hallway, falling into step just behind him, my guards trailing me. With a flick of his hand, he waves away Gregoran and Freynk. The heavy thud of their booted feet fades away, and I resist the urge to crane my neck and glare at them for abandoning me.
Does Varad know? Am I marching to my death?
Anxiety ravages my nerves in a vicious tide, dragging away any semblance of peace. My heart hammers against my ribcage, hands wringing together. I wait for him to speak, but the bastard wields his silence like a weapon.
He takes me to a room I’ve never seen before, concealed by two stately wooden doors. Inside is a narrow hallway—a gallery of sorts. Large paintings encased in intricate gold frames line the walls, an ornate lantern embedded between each. Varad’s eyes bore into the side of my face as we walk down together.
They’re all portraits of the royal family over the centuries.
Arbinj’s version of the Hall of Ancestors.
“My great-grandfather Zeramaar and his wife Luna,” Varad says, stopping before a painting. The man looks eerily similar to Zev. “Stormwielder and earthwielder. A formidable union.”
He names each royal as we pass their painting. Some of the men stand alone—they took no wives, just bred children from powerful noble wielders, then discarded them afterward on a sizeable plot of land.
My steps falter.
The painting before me steals my breath.
The man is clearly Arbinji—tanned skin, slate-gray eyes, and a deep, green tunic. But the woman…
It’s my grandmother.
Turmah, with her icy blue gaze and pale skin. She wears the proud blue and white of Tundrayn.
My eyes drop. She has both hands.
“Ah, yes,” Varad says, hands clasped behind his back. “Turmah. Cousin Fareynz was never quite the same after she left.”
I whirl to face him, willing my tongue to behave.
It doesn’t.
“Neither was my grandmother. After he chopped off herhand.”
Varad gives me a strange look. “Hmm. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised about the lies they’ve fed you.”
He walks farther down the hall. My shoes clack against the floor as I keep up. “What do you mean?”
Varad gives me a sideways glance. “Turmah was happy here with Fareynz. In love. I witnessed it myself. But your great-grandfather changed his mind. Sent his warriors to bring her home. Against her wishes. They breached the palace, infiltrated their rooms. Fareynz tried to protect her—they sliced offhishand with an ice shard. Turmah agreed to return to spare his life. But she cut off her own hand first.” He sighs deeply, shaking his head. As if the false storygrieveshim. “It was the last time a waterwielder set foot in Arbinj.”
Anger coils inside me, tighter and tighter, with every word. I want to spit in his face. Does he truly expect me to believe my grandmother sliced off her own hand? Out of a twisted sense of love?
Hemustsee the rage I can’t conceal, in my clenched fists and frightful grimace, but surprisingly, Varad doesn’t reprimand me. Instead, he waves his hand and continues down the hallway.
“I didn’t bring you here to debate Turmah’s fate. I wanted to show you”—he stops in front of a painting, concealed by dark velvet fabric—“this.”
I stare at him dumbly. With all the patience of a starving snow wolverine, he gestures for me to remove the fabric. It pools to the floor in a dark puddle.
My breath stutters.
