Chapter 26 #2
"Do you know what it's like to feel a Whisperbound die?
" His voice dropped to barely above a whisper.
"Not the slow fade of illness, or the shock of violence.
But to feel their mind fracture. To watch them bleed from their eyes while their consciousness tears itself apart, trying to see too far, too deep.
To feel the bond—that perfect, impossible connection—shatter like glass. "
He looked down at the blade in his hands.
"She died in my arms. I felt every second of it. Felt her slip away while I begged her to hold on, to stop, to let the vision go. But she was trying to obey. Trying to serve her king until the very end."
His expression stayed flat, but something cold and broken radiated from him like winter wind.
"The king came to see her body afterward.
Expressed his regret. Gave me a title—some meaningless honor that was supposed to make her death worth something.
Then he moved on. Attended a feast that same evening.
Smiled and laughed while I sat in empty chambers where her presence used to fill every corner. "
He set the blade down carefully, then selected another.
"He expected me to move on, too. To accept that she died in service to the realm. That her sacrifice was noble."
He selected the iron blade again. Inspected it.
"I've spent three hundred and fifty years pretending to be loyal.
Eliminating 'threats' to the throne. Seers, telepaths, mind readers—anyone with gifts the king might use and destroy the way he destroyed her.
" He walked toward me slowly, savoring each step.
"At first, I told myself I was protecting them.
Giving them quick deaths before the king could wring them dry. A mercy, really."
He crouched in front of me again.
"But that was a lie. I was angry. Broken. And I wanted him to feel what I felt—loss, helplessness, the exquisite agony of watching everything you love die while you stand there, powerless to stop it."
He studied my face, looking for a reaction.
"I started with his wife. Fifty years ago.
" His voice took on an almost dreamy quality, like he was remembering something pleasant.
"A slow-acting poison. Elegant, really. Six months of watching her fade—losing weight, losing color, losing strength.
The healers couldn't figure out what was wrong.
I brought her medicine every day. Held her hand. Offered comfort."
A cold smile crept across his face.
"The medicine was what was killing her, of course. Tiny doses, carefully measured. Not enough to raise suspicion, just enough to ensure she'd never recover."
My stomach turned. Kieran's mother. He'd killed Kieran's mother while pretending to help her.
"I thought..." He paused, and for the first time, something genuine flickered across his face.
Pain, maybe. Or disappointment. "I thought he would understand then.
That watching his wife die slowly, inevitably, would make him feel what I felt.
The loss. The helplessness. The way time stretches out endlessly when you know someone you love is slipping away and there's nothing—nothing—you can do to save them. "
His jaw tightened.
"But she wasn't his Whisperbound. Just a political marriage. Duty, alliance, convenience. He mourned, yes. He was appropriately solemn at the funeral. But two months later, I saw him laughing at some courtier's joke. Six months later, he'd moved on completely."
The blade pressed against my cheek, cold and sharp.
"That's when I understood. One death—even a slow, cruel death—isn't enough. One loss won't make him understand what it's like to have your soul ripped out while your body keeps breathing. To have the bond shatter and still be expected to wake up every morning and pretend to be whole."
He stood and began to pace.
"So I changed tactics. His kingdom. His legacy.
His sons. If I couldn't make him feel my pain through one death, I'd make him feel it through a thousand cuts.
" The blade traced down my throat, stopping at my scar with delicate precision.
"The southern gate attack? Mine. I hired the assassin, forged the sigil, planned the route.
Wanted to test Prince Kieran's security, yes, but also to plant seeds of doubt.
The king gave his favorite son Morathen—the Crown Province, the capital itself.
If I could make even that unsafe, what would it say about the kingdom's stability? "
He moved around behind me, blade trailing across my shoulder like a caress.
"The poisoning attempts in the kitchen? Also mine. Nothing fatal—not yet. Just enough to weaken the guard, create paranoia. Slow-acting toxins that made people doubt their own food, their own servants. Made everyone suspect everyone else."
My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it.
"Framing Elias was particularly satisfying.
" I could hear the smile in his voice. "Prince Kieran's loyal advisor, his most trusted guard.
I've been in his mind for months—such a tedious process, compulsion is so much cleaner—planting suggestions, making him do things he'd never remember.
Watching him fracture under the weight of lost time and inexplicable evidence. "
He came back around to face me.
"Each piece carefully placed. Each domino positioned. The southern gate, the poisonings, Elias’ fall from grace—all building toward destabilizing Morathen, weakening the king's precious Crown Province."
He laughed, and it was the first genuine emotion I'd heard from him besides the grief when he spoke of his mate.
"And then you and the prince went and became Whisperbound. I couldn't have planned something so perfect. A telepath—bonded to the king's favorite son. The future heir with a mind reader who can't be compelled, can't be controlled."
His smile widened.
"It was a gift. A beautiful, terrible gift."
He walked back to the table, selecting another blade. A smaller one. Studied it.
"The Exhibition was supposed to end you. Real blade, perfect accident in front of the entire Court. Tragic." He glanced at me. "But you survived. Again."
He tilted his head, surveying me with that clinical interest.
"Do you know how frustrating that is? I gave you that scar twenty years ago." His finger traced the line across my throat. I flinched before I could stop myself. "You should have bled out in seconds. Died in the fire with your parents. For twenty years, I believed you had."
He leaned closer, staring at the scar with something like fascination.
"Then I saw it at the Exhibition. That scar. And I knew—someone saved you. Someone lied to me. Someone's been hiding you for two decades."
I kept my face blank. Didn't react. Didn't think about Solis.
"I'll find out who," he said softly. "Eventually."
He picked up a torch from the corner, lit it, then used it to heat an iron brand.
"But first, I'm going to finish what I started.
And when I do, your Whisperbound prince will feel every moment of your death through that bond.
" The iron began to glow red. "Your prince was there, you know, when his mother died.
Over three hundred years old and still begged her to fight.
Held her hand. Promised her she'd be fine. "
He tested the brand's heat.
"He'll do the same for you. Hold your hand through the bond while you die screaming. And the king—finally, finally—will understand what it's like to watch his favorite son destroyed by loss. To watch him become as hollow and broken as I am."
He lifted the brand.
"If killing his wife didn't work, maybe watching his son's soul shatter will."
He turned, carrying the blade and the brand.
"You want to know why I'm telling you all this?" He crouched in front of me again. "Because I want you to understand what's coming. Why it's necessary. Why your death—and his—will finally make the king feel what I felt when I lost her."
He set the brand aside to cool slightly, then held up the iron blade.
"Iron. Fascinating metal. Burns Fae blood on contact. Your father screamed quite beautifully when I used this on him."
Nausea rose in my throat. I'd always reacted badly to iron—burns that hurt worse than they should, scars that took too long to heal. I'd never known why.
Now I did. My father was Fae. Half my blood carried that weakness.
And Tobias knew exactly how to exploit it.
"I've never tortured a mute before," he said, voice casual, curious. "I wonder what noises you'll make."
The blade touched my arm.
Pain exploded as he drew the blade across my skin—shallow, precise, just deep enough to hurt without being fatal.
I couldn't scream. My throat worked, trying, but nothing came out. Just a choked, broken sound—air forced through a damaged windpipe.
He watched like a specimen he was preparing to dissect.
"Interesting. Not silent after all."
The blade cut again. My other arm this time. The same shallow, burning cut. Tears streamed down my face, and I hated it, hated that he could see me cry, but I couldn't stop. A rough keening sound escaped me, breathy and jagged.
"Your mother made similar sounds," he said conversationally, making another cut. "Though hers were more... articulate. Begging. Bargaining. Threatening. You can't do any of that, can you?"
I tried to glare at him through the tears. Tried to put every ounce of hate and rage into my eyes since I couldn't put it into words.
He smiled. "There's the defiance. Good. I was worried you'd break too quickly."
The blade traced across my collarbone. Cut. Burn. Pain.
Again. And again. Methodical. Precise. Each cut exactly as deep as the one before. Not fatal. Not even close. Just pain, building and building until I couldn't think past it.
My throat kept trying to scream. Kept making those choked sounds, those broken cries that hurt almost as much as the cuts. Small whimpers escaped between hitched breaths.