Chapter 20 Bronwen
Bronwen
I didn’t sleep that night. I stared at the ceiling, replaying every word, every touch, every lie. He wanted me to believe it meant nothing. That it was the mark. But I knew better.
And if he thought he could push me away and hide on his throne like a coward, he had another thing coming.
Something shifted within him when he fed on me. I saw it—a crack in the wall he kept so carefully constructed—before he shoved it down, buried it like it meant nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. Not to me.
It had been days now. Days of near-silence unless we were buried in texts or hunting answers.
Days of his eyes skimming past mine like he couldn’t bear to look too long.
The space between us stretched wider by the hour, each inch lost like a pulled thread unraveling something I wasn’t ready to let go of.
I flipped through another tome from the endless stack on the table in the archives, usually only stopping when I found a drawing with a sword, but this tome seemed to be a log of different creatures.
One had long tendrils and rows of teeth.
Another looked like a giant cat with wings.
I turned to the next page and brushed my fingers over the face staring back at me.
She looked human. More beautiful than most. Almost perfect. But she had pointed ears.
“What is this?”
Benedict came to me. “That is a fae. The human-like faeries in Alentara.”
I nodded. “That’s what Carrow was.”
August leaned over the table, brows furrowed as his fist slammed on the table. “I can’t just keep digging through things and hope something will lead me in the right direction. Not now that time is limited.”
This is your fault, Winnie. That’s what he wanted to say.
A long pause passed between the two of them, heavy and uncertain.
Then Benedict said, “There’s someone who might know more. One of the old ones. He was locked away in the dungeons decades ago after he went feral. No one sees him. No one speaks to him. But I am certain he was there during the last ritual. He was close to Carrow.”
August stiffened. “You’re talking about Varric.”
The name alone made the room colder.
Benedict nodded once. “He’s not entirely sane, but sometimes he speaks in riddles that match pieces of the old texts. It’s possible he knows something about the blade.”
I looked between them. “Then why hasn’t anyone gone to him before?”
“Because he attacks anything that breathes,” August answered. “And he speaks madness. And if Carrow had gotten word that I was trying to stop him when he was here, he would’ve locked me up too.”
I bristled at the thought of a feral vampire, but we were out of leads.
And madness was better than silence. As we made our way back up through the winding halls, we stayed silent, careful not to alert anyone.
But just as we reached the landing that opened up to the main floor of the castle, a figure stepped into view.
Lavina.
She stood at the base of the staircase, her posture tight and uncertain, as if she’d been waiting for us—or perhaps trying to gather the nerve to walk the other direction. We hadn’t exchanged a word since the night I almost killed her.
My body tensed instinctively, bracing in case she lunged or tried something. I didn’t trust her. Not after everything.
August slowed beside me, his body stiffening like a shield raised out of instinct.
He’d never shown her kindness. Not once.
From the moment I’d arrived, his disdain for her had been unmistakable—cutting words, cold glances, a constant reminder that she held no favor with him.
He didn’t like any of his siblings. He tolerated Benedict more than the rest, maybe, but with Lavina, the hostility was unmistakable. It made me wonder why.
Lavina’s eyes flicked between August and me, then shot to Benedict as he came into view behind us. Her lips curled with something between amusement and suspicion. “Now, what are the three of you doing together?”
August stepped closer to her, a smile tugging at his mouth as he gave a low chuckle. “Go find something to eat. You’re looking a little… gray.”
She stiffened, and I couldn’t help but smile at the reminder of how she looked days ago.
“Oh, did I strike a nerve?” he mused, flashing her a grin before glancing sideways at Benedict.
Lavina huffed and turned away, and August watched her retreat with a pleased expression, scanning the corridor once more. Seeming satisfied that we were alone, he let out a low chuckle, but it faded quickly. His smile fell, replaced by something far more grim.
“Let’s go,” he said, gesturing toward the winding staircase that led below the castle.
The dungeon air was thick and wet, clinging to my skin like rot. The torchlight flickered against stone walls, casting long shadows that danced as we moved deeper. We stopped outside a heavy iron door. The guard posted there looked relieved to have company.
“He hasn’t spoken in weeks,” he warned.
August stepped forward. “He will now.”
The door groaned open, revealing a crumbling cell, and something stirred within the dark.
Varric was crouched in the far corner, long limbs curled in on themselves like a corpse half-forgotten.
The way he moved—sluggish yet predatory—made the hair rise on the back of my neck.
His eyes, milky and unfocused, snapped toward us.
His mouth moved first, lips twitching like they were forming words his throat hadn’t caught up with.
“Carrow?” Varric said, voice low.
August stood slightly in front of me, like he was trying to protect me. “No. He hasn’t gotten to me yet.”
Varric grinned. It was all gums and rot. Then he looked at me, his pale eyes seeming to search for something beneath my skin. “I remember you.”
I hesitated. “You do?”
“Who could forget those emerald eyes?” he rasped, leaning forward as if trying to peer deeper into me. His expression twisted, almost lucid for a heartbeat. Then his tone darkened, teeth bared in a grimace. “Those poisoned, evil spheres in your head.”
I squinted at Varric, trying to place what it was that unsettled me so deeply about him—beyond the rot and the madness. Had he come across me on one of my hunts?
My stomach twisted as I turned to Benedict, who stood behind us. “Why hasn’t anyone killed him? Taken him out of this misery?”
“Everyone is afraid to get too close to him,” Benedict said. “Afraid they’ll catch whatever madness is in him.”
I folded my arms. “I could always set the room on fire.”
August turned sharply, eyes wide. “Yes, Winnie. Let’s burn a room in a castle full of vampires and hope no one else goes up in flames.”
I shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen.”
Benedict gave a quiet chuckle but stayed where he was, hovering a safe distance back.
“Varric,” he said clearly, drawing the vampire’s attention. “We’ve come to ask about the Blood Moon.”
Varric twitched, glancing around the room like a bird spooked from its nest.
“Do you know the spell that is used to bring Carrow back?”
He shook his head violently, and for a second I thought he might lunge at us.
Then, with a guttural rasp, he said, “The blade wields the soul. For one to leave, you must sacrifice another.”
August sucked in a sharp breath beside me.
“What did you say?” I asked, barely above a whisper.
Varric didn’t respond. He just began rocking, clawed fingers scratching rhythmic nonsense into the stone floor.
But August was already turning to me, his expression stricken.
“At the dying of the blood, he will rise not by voice, but by hand. The blade calls him home,” he repeated, his voice barely audible.
The words dropped into the space between us, heavy as an iron weight.
“The blade wields the soul. The blade is used as a…” I waved around the room. “A holding cell for him until it is time to take over a body.”
He looked at me, something grim flickering behind his eyes.
I dragged in a breath, the dungeon suddenly colder than before. “We need to narrow it down to the blades that can… hold things within it.”
Benedict glanced at August, and something unspoken passed between them.
“You might be right,” he said quietly.
August said nothing, but his clenched jaw was answer enough.
We were running out of time. But maybe—just maybe—we finally had a chance.
Before either of us could speak, Varric’s body tensed like a wire pulled taut. His eyes locked on me again, but this time they burned with hatred.
“It’s you! It’s all your fault!” he screamed, lunging forward.
August moved faster than I could process. In one blur of motion, he shoved me behind him and slammed Varric back. The feral vampire flew across the cell, crashing against the far wall with a sickening crack.
August didn’t even wait for him to rise. He grabbed my arm, yanked the door open, and we were gone—vanishing from the cell in a gust of cold wind and frayed nerves.
* * *
The music throbbed through the great hall, low and haunting, like it had been conjured from the bones of the castle itself.
Crimson and gold light spilled from the chandeliers, dancing off the high vaulted ceilings and across the sea of guests that filled the room.
Vampires, draped in silk and shadows, spun their partners with inhuman grace.
Laughter echoed through the air—too sharp, too hollow.
I let myself be pulled into another waltz, my gown sweeping across the marble floor like mist. The vampire leading me had sharp features and a pleasant enough smile, but his eyes were always calculating.
All of them were. They never truly looked at me—not like I mattered, not like I was more than a game they couldn’t quite win.
Except for him.
High above us, August sat draped across his throne like a fallen god. One leg slung over the armrest, a goblet of blood cradled in his hand. His face was carved in stone, unreadable.
But his eyes never left me.
Always watching. But never touching. Never showing me anything.
And I was tired of it.
Tired of the coldness. Tired of the silence. Tired of being on display while the man who once burned for me now acted like I was nothing more than a crown he was forced to wear.
The vampire twirled me again, his hand warm and steady at my back. His grip lingered, fingers brushing just a little too possessively against the fabric of my dress.
“You must be very delicious to have the king so smitten with you,” he murmured near my ear, his breath sickly sweet.
I tensed at his words. Smitten wasn’t the word I’d use. Obsessed, maybe. Possessive. But love? Affection? Not lately. Not anymore.
Still, his words gave me an idea.
I needed to see something other than joy in my destruction. It seemed like I was always doing exactly what he wanted me to do. He hated this place. These vampires. Of course he didn’t care if I killed them. He didn’t care at all. I was doing him a favor.
I glanced at August again. He hadn’t moved. He just sipped his blood and stared at me from that throne like he was waiting. Testing. Daring me.
That was going to stop. His pouting, his anger, his—his bastardness—was going to stop. It was just a show. It had to be.
I met his gaze, head tilted just slightly in defiance. I promised him his own hell. I was going to give it to him. We had both done things to each other. It had always been this way. But now the clock was ticking.
“I don’t know.” I turned back to the vampire, my voice lilting as I brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “Why don’t you have a taste for yourself?”
He blinked, surprised. “I don’t think the king likes to share.”
“I am your queen,” I said, letting the authority slip into my tone. “And I am telling you to do it.”
I tilted my chin, exposing the delicate line of my throat, letting my hair fall back. The pulse beneath my skin fluttered like a dare.
His pupils dilated, the veins beneath his eyes blooming with hunger as he hesitated. His lips parted, breath shallow. He leaned closer, slowly, like a man hypnotized.
Then his mouth hovered just above my skin. His breath brushed against my neck. Just as his lips grazed me—
A blur. A crack.
I was no longer in his arms. A gust of wind whipped around me, and in the space between two heartbeats, August was there.
His hand was around the vampire’s throat, squeezing tight.
With a single, fluid motion, he lifted him from the ground like he weighed nothing and slammed him into the marble floor.
The stones shattered. The ground cracked.
Shards of marble flew into the air as the impact echoed through the hall like a thunderclap.
A table nearby toppled, goblets of blood shattering across the floor in a wash of red.
The music stopped mid-note.
The crowd gasped as one.
August didn’t say a word. His face was still—dangerously calm. But his eyes, those eyes, were burning. A feral, possessive fury blazed behind them, locked on me like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity.
And finally, finally, I knew I had his attention.