I look around the room, and the fire is still burning, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
My eyes fall upon a folded piece of parchment on my bedside table. A paper that surely hadn’t been there before.
I open it, and a piece of gingerbread falls onto my lap.
If you ever find yourself in danger, call for me. I will answer. Malric.
Chapter 19
Summerpasses in a haze, and autumn is kind to us. Days filled with golden light and indigo skies, the smell of freshly cut grass and damp earth. But all seasons change, and so must we.
Tassilo has not been seen again. He lives, but he left for Italy as soon as he was well enough to travel. They say he has gone to his wife—but behind cupped hands, they whisper that he is with the Pope, speaking of borders and protection, of promises made and debts to be paid. No one was ever caught for the attempt on his life.
We return to Acheron when the first snow begins to fall.
The sound of hooves is muted beneath the accumulating layers, snowflakes settling softly over stone and roof and road alike. We move slowly. The cobbled streets are slick, the horses burdened with both cargo and exhaustion.
Thea and Ella are happy to be home. This is where they are at ease—rooms close to mine, a cook who knows their favorite meals, familiar faces never far away. I glance across the carriage at them, curled together on the bench opposite me.
Thea has struggled with the journey this time. The roads were rough, and she was sick more than once. Now she sleepsdeeply, dark hair fallen across her face, her mouth slightly open as she breathes, even and untroubled.
I know, just by looking at them, that whatever my legacy in this life may be, their existence will remain my greatest accomplishment.
The carriage comes to a halt, and I breathe out in relief.
Charles is already waiting. He has been in Acheron for three weeks now, while I have been closing the house in Passberg. Anticipation brightens his face as he strides toward the carriage and opens the door a little too forcefully.
“Where are my girls?” he exclaims.
I lift a finger to my lips and gesture toward the sleeping bundles of blankets and limbs.
His expression softens. He reaches in, lifting Thea gently into his arms. She stirs, wraps her arms around his neck, and buries her face against him.
“Hello, my love,” he murmurs to me. “May I have Ella as well?”
I lift her small body and place her into his other arm. They look impossibly small against his broad frame as he carries them into the palace.
I am taking my time stepping down from the carriage, stretching my stiff legs. My hands are numb from the cold, and I rub them together, trying to coax warmth back into my fingers.
Then I hear it.
A softthump.
The sensation hits me without warning—a sudden, violent hollowness in my belly, as though something vital has been torn loose. I double over, crashing to the ground, my hands barely breaking the fall.
The world spins. Panic surges, sharp and disorienting, unseen hands pulling at me from every side. Servants rush forward, voices blurring together, but I force my eyes open.
And there it is.
In the snow before me.
The ring.
Myring.
It lies half-buried in the snow, its dark red stone glaring against the white like a wound. A warning? Proof that I am only safe because of it—and that safety is fragile.
That time is running out.
