Chapter 40 Tamsin #2
Lord Viremont’s mask begins to crack. “You don’t understand. She’s one of the few chosen. Her bloodline—her potential—She was born for this—”
“You kidnapped a child,” Elsin says, steel in her tone. “From her court-sanctioned guardian.”
Viremont lifts his chin, voice tight. “She wasn’t taken. She was given by Lord Halveric himself! I was acting under his authority.”
“Enough.” Elsin’s voice rings with absolute command. “Lord Halveric does not hold sole authority over this court. His actions will be investigated—thoroughly—and if he overstepped, he will be dealt with accordingly.”
Lord Viremont’s mouth opens, but no words come.
A second voice now, another member of the Elder Tribunal, speaks up. Lord Telfair. “Yes, I think we’ve heard plenty.”
Viremont’s eyes flick toward the nearest exit, and then he straightens. Smooths his lapel. But he does not speak again.
Lady Elsin turns to Marienne. Her voice is softer as she asks, “Baroness. Is the girl harmed?”
Marienne kneels beside Imara and cradles her gently. “She’s asleep. But… no. She was supposedly given a draught. She should wake soon…”
I pull myself to standing, breath ragged, one hand pressed to the wall.
Lady Elsin’s gaze finds me. Cool. Steady. “All right, Ser Tamsin?”
I nod once. “Yes, my lady.”
Respectful. Controlled. Even if my ribs scream and my arm feels like fire.
She holds my eyes for a beat longer than necessary—approval, maybe. Or recognition. Then her attention shifts back to Marienne.
Where it belongs.
“We’ll see to Viremont,” she says, voice like final judgment. “And the Court of Eldermire will offer its apology… to you. And to your children.”
Marienne’s lips part. Her voice is soft, frayed at the edges. “What of Margot?”
Elsin nods. “She’s safe with my knights. For now, they’ll retrieve the children and return them to you tonight. We will reevaluate their custody at a later time.”
Marienne doesn't cry. But she does tremble—shoulders drawn, fingers twitching at her sides—as if her body has only now remembered it can come undone.
Relief. Or the beginning of it.
Back in the hall, Viremont is taken away and the court disperses in murmurs and steel-eyed shame.
I stay standing long enough to watch them take him. Viremont, eyes downcast now, shackled in silence and flanked by Eldermire’s guards. The weight of everything should feel like victory, but it doesn't.
Not when my blood is still wet on the stone. Not when Imara’s in Marienne’s arms in that white gown. Not when I still see red.
The pain crests—sharp, blooming.
My vision tilts.
And then I’m falling.
Not far. Not hard. But enough. My knees hit the ground. My sword clatters beside me.
“Tamsin!”
Marienne’s voice—ragged and high, unguarded in a way I’ve never heard before. A cry torn straight from the chest. Then she’s there, dropping beside me.
Her hands find my face. My shoulder. My arm.
I hiss through my teeth. The pressure’s too much. Everything is too much.
“You said you were alright,” she accuses. Her voice cracks on the word.
I try to answer. Really, I do. But the words stick.
“‘M’alright,” I manage. Barely a whisper. My body disagrees.
“Don’t lie to me.” Her voice breaks, not with anger but something more fragile. “You stupid, impossible woman. You should’ve let me—”
She doesn’t finish. Her hand moves too fast for me to stop it. A flick of her wrist. A flash of her fangs. And then—
Blood.
She holds it out to me—her wrist, slick and shining.
I recoil. “Marienne—”
“Drink.”
I shake my head. “It’s not—”
“Now.”
I meet her eyes. They burn with fear. With fury. With a kind of love I don’t know how to hold. And gods help me, I can’t say no to that face. Not when she looks at me like I’m worth every drop of spilled blood.
I lean in. My lips part.
The first taste hits like lightning—metallic, hot, alive. I gag. Instinct, revulsion. A human reaction.
But then something else pulses through me, warmer, deeper, as I swallow.
The pain in my arm… eases. Just slightly. Enough to breathe. Enough to stay.
I pull back, chest heaving.
Marienne cups my jaw with trembling fingers. “See?” she whispers. “Not so impossible.”
But I am. I know I am. And still—she chooses me.
Even now…
Her breath shudders. She leans closer, her face hovering above mine, hair falling around us like a curtain. The world narrows to her—green eyes shining with fear and something deeper. Something like love.
“You saved her,” she says.
I nod. Or maybe I just think I do. The pain blurs everything, but her voice cuts clean.
Her palm shifts to my cheek, the one without the scar. Then, slowly, she shifts, fingers trembling as they move to the other side. The ruined one. I brace without meaning to.
But she doesn’t flinch.
Her thumb brushes the edge of it. Reverent. Certain.
“You’re not who you were,” she says softly, as if it’s a prayer. “You’re who you choose to be.”
And gods, I want to believe her.
I meet her gaze. I hold it. There is no court, no blood, no past between us now. Only her, here, with me.
We’ve both spent our lives pretending. One of us with silk, one of us with steel. But neither of us is pretending anymore.
She chose me.
And I chose her back.
Somewhere behind us, I hear the shift of fabric. A breath drawn too quickly.
Then—
A gasp. Sharp. Panicked. Young.
Marienne lifts her head. I follow her gaze.
Imara is stirring.
She sits up abruptly, eyes wide, chest heaving, tangled hair spilling over her shoulders like water. The ceremonial white gown clings to her skin, too pale against the grime smeared across her face.
She looks around the room like she doesn’t recognize it. Like she doesn’t recognize herself.
Then she starts crying.
Not the silent kind she’s trained herself into. Not the choked, buried shudders of a child trying to be brave.
Real sobs. Loud. Guttural. A sound that splits something inside me wide open.
Marienne jerks upright. I can feel the instinct in her body before she even moves: Go to her. Hold her. Shield her.
But I feel it too.
I brace my hand against the stone and rise.
My side burns like fire, and the world spins, but I do it anyway.
We reach her together.
Imara’s arms shoot out—not toward one or the other of us, but both. Desperately. As if we’re her only anchor in this crumbling world.
Marienne drops to her knees and pulls her close, arms wrapping tight around the girl’s trembling frame.
I lower myself down beside them. Slowly. Every movement hurts, but I don’t care.
Imara doesn’t resist. Doesn’t shrink.
She leans into us.
Head pressed to Marienne’s shoulder, one hand gripping the edge of my sleeve like she’ll fall without it. She’s sobbing into Marienne’s blouse, shaking so hard I can feel it through the floor.
I rest a hand gently on her back, fingers splayed over the thin fabric of that cursed white gown.
“You’re safe,” I whisper. “You’re safe now.”
Marienne rocks her, humming something soft. Her voice is raw, broken—but steady. Like it was always meant to be used for lullabies and soothing.
Imara lets us hold her.
For the first time, she lets herself be held.
And in that ruined cellar, blood and moonlight on the floor, something new is forged between us.
Not duty.
Not obligation.
Family.
Marienne looks over Imara’s head, meets my eyes—and I see it in her.
We will never let them take her again.
Any of them.
Not while we still draw breath.