Only the weight of what we’ve just witnessed—and the certainty that whatever blade Fenloris wielded was never meant to wound only once.
With a knock at the door, we all brace ourselves for the worst.
A junior healer enters, slipping past the guards under their watchful scrutiny. He trembles as he delivers the news.
“He is stable—for now. We’ve never seen a wound like this. The next few hours will decide it.”
The gravity of his words crushes the breath from me. When he leaves, the four of us share an unspoken vow: none of us will rest until we know Ace’s fate.
“This is all my fault.” The anguish tears from me before I can stop it.
“Don’t you dare,” Vale says sharply. The others shift, ready to echo him. “It was that coward who wielded the blade. The blame lies only with him—and whoever placed it in his hand.”
I can’t meet their eyes. With Soria at my side—steady, grounding—Vale and Odrin move to the hearth, speaking in hushed tones.
“He’s not one to have orchestrated this,” I catch Vale saying.
“Pawn,” Odrin replies, low and grim. The word chills me.
As he rises to leave, Vale calls after him. “Bring Daerin. We need his eyes now more than ever.”
Odrin nods and departs, purpose already taking shape in his stride. Vale remains, the weight of command and grief pressing equally on his shoulders.
Soria coaxes me to eat. There’s nothing we can do for Ace but wait, and caring for others is how she survives the waiting. It’s how I do too. I take a small bite and drink the water she offers. A hollow effort—but enough to appease her.
The hours crawl. Odrin returns, exhaustion carved into the lines of his face. He sinks into a chair near the door. Soria drifts into a restless doze on the settee by the hearth, her hand still clutching mine even in sleep.
As midnight draws near, I take refuge where I can—held in Vale’s arms, every breath a prayer that dawn will bring good news.
The knock comes.
We all freeze.
A guard stands in the doorway. His face carries grave news before he speaks.
Only three words follow.
“He is dead.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
The words don’t land all at once.
They strike—and then there is nothing.
Cold floods me, sudden and absolute, as if the warmth has been ripped straight from my blood. My knees give without warning. The room tilts violently, the edges blurring, sound collapsing into a high, merciless ringing.
I cannot breathe.
Not because I’m crying—because my body has forgotten how.
Hands catch me before I hit the floor. Soria. I register the pressure of her arms, the familiar scent of her skin, but it’s distant—wrong—like sensation arriving through water.
Someone is saying my name.
I can’t answer.
My heart hammers once, hard enough to hurt, then stutters—misfiring, searching for a rhythm that no longer exists. My fingers curl into the fabric at Soria’s side, desperate, instinctive, as if holding on might pull the world back into alignment.
