As if it were nothing more than an insignificant hiccup before the Trial truly began.
But I remember.
And the desperation to atone for it is somehow overwhelming. I should be punished for taking those lives like anyone else who’d commit so many murders, yet everyone chooses to overlook it. Because, just like Sibyls declared, neither I nor my sins belong to this realm anymore.
As if, by stepping into the role of a Champion, I now exist outside the laws meant for others. That should bring comfort. It doesn’t.
Instead, guilt settles in the pit of my stomach.
Curled in the corner of a filthy alley that reeks of urine, I press my back against the cold stone wall and trace the moments that led me here.
Was it when I bent to pick up those flowered bones? Or was it when Mael told me to close my eyes and wait for it all to pass, stirringsomething deep and dangerous within me? Or maybe it was earlier, days ago, when Peonica first questioned why I was willing to witness Brienne’s lashing so obediently.
I see it again—Peonica’s white braid whipping through the air as she unchained Brienne and led her to safety. That wild, reckless girl risked everything to save someone else.
And me? I took lives to save my own.
A sob rattles through my chest, and I glance down at my ungloved hands, at the blackened fingertips, noticing a thin ring—a forgotten gift from Kaelzar to control my magic.
Could it be why my touch didn’t rot him? And might it let me touch others too?
My questions die as I see my Godbeast is gone. Did he leave, unable to bear this display? I bury my face in my palms again.
A few moments later, the clicking of metal against metal makes me look up. Kaelzar appears at the alley’s entrance, a coachman cowering at his side and a large carriage waiting behind them.
“If you’re done sniveling,” he says with a curl of his lip that conveys his distaste for my outburst, “I’ve got us a ride.”
His phantom chains shimmer over his chest, cycling ceaselessly from ink to physical form in a most foreboding manner, and I feel sorry for the trembling man. I don’t have to guess that Kaelzar forced him to provide his services, and I now realize I have no coin to pay for his troubles.
A half-thought to refuse, to order my Godbeast to release this man, floats through my mind, but my body is already moving. The relentless brightness and chaos of the city dissolve into a quiet anticipation as I near our transport. A waiting carriage, its door agape in silent invitation, offers a brief sanctuary that I desperately need.
I climb inside, and before Kaelzar joins me, he orders the coachmen to ride for the Royal Palace, adding that if he even thinks about stopping, I’ll rot his carriage along with him and his horses to the bone.
I can’t muster enough strength to reassure the driver that I would do no such thing, that I hope he helps me out of genuine gratitude. Let him think what he wants, I decide, as my head leans against thewindow and my eyes drift shut.
The slam of the carriage door shuts out the rest of the world, and then the carriage moves. For a moment, I feel safe, and that one thought is all it takes for dreamless sleep to claim me.
I joltawake as the carriage lurches over uneven ground. I must have dozed off for a few minutes, because when I glance outside the window, we are still far from the Palace walls. Yet the sun is already sinking, which means we’ve been riding for hours.
Blinking away the remnants of sleep, I shift my gaze to Kaelzar. He’s sprawled on the seat across from me, legs spread wide, his fingers touching lightly between them in a contemplative gesture. The hood draped low over his face veils his expression, leaving me uncertain whether he’s watching me, resting, or lost in thought.
Though the carriage’s interior glows gold with the last light of day, shadows cling to him stubbornly, as if the very air around him is darker. The dimming light sharpens his edges making him appear less man, more specter caught between light and shadow.
The ink-black chains encircling his chest shift like liquid metal, melting into his skin with each bounce of the carriage. They pulse over his bare skin, coiling and dissolving in a slow, unsettling rhythm.
I brush my palm over my dress, noting with relief that it is mostly dry now. A soft creak from the wooden panels and the rhythmic clatter of the wheels punctuate the stillness, inviting me to break the silence.
“Why aren’t we there yet?” I ask, my voice hoarse and rough from exhaustion.
He doesn’t stir. “You were sleeping,” Kaelzar replies. “So I ordered him to ride until you woke.”
I don’t know whether that was an act of kindness or simply his way of delaying our arrival. I swallow the thanks that rises instinctively, just in case it was the former. He’s been rude on more than one occasion, so he’ll have to work much harder if he wants my gratitude.
I stretch, my muscles stiff and aching. But my mind, at least, feelsclearer. The events of the past hours replay in slow motion, as if they happened to someone else when the carriage rattles over another rough patch.
The jolt mirrors the torrent of questions I’ve been shoving aside. But I don’t expect the very one I most want to avoid to slip from my lips first.
“Why can’t I call you mine?”
