Chapter 3
I sprint down the curl of stairs, my steps thumping in unison with the panicked thrash of my heart—thoughts still pinched between the pages of Elluin’s diary flush against my ribs.
Bound in place beneath my thieved bodice with a length of cloth I ripped from the underlayer of my equally thieved skirt.
A Bloodlace has arrived on dragonback this rise. If she’s here to test my youngling’s blood once I give birth, the paternal line won’t draw in Tyroth’s direction.
It’ll draw north—to Kaan.
I stifle a groan, ignoring my strong desire to fold over the ornate obsidian handrail and loosen my guts seven stories down to the gleaming floor below.
Never have I felt the weight of such crushing responsibility, knowing my next actions could bring about a war that might crumble the world. But I can’t keep this diary to myself. No.
Kaan deserves to know the truth. So does Ellu—Raeve.
Kyzari deserves it most.
Determination stiffens my jaw.
Get to the cupboard. Get changed. Get free of the palace, through the hidden door in the wall, around the Forest of Weeping Wisps, up the mountain path, and into the abandoned burrow where my carter is hiding with Furn—her escort Moltenmaw. Get home, back to Kaan.
Break his fucking heart.
“Creators,” I mutter, taming my pulse.
I push my shoulders back, slowing my steps as I move down the flight of stairs that cuts through the atrium, the many windows showcasing the blustery might of a storm now heaving over the city.
Full-skirted gardeners crouch over beds of luminous flowers, cutting stems or planting new bulbs while Clode swats bouts of snow at the panes.
My hands fist in my effort not to rush past—not to make a scene or draw attention to myself—pulling steady breaths of air spiced with the zesty scent of Shade-born blooms. A lovely smell that fails to make this place feel like anything other than a pretty, ethereal dungeon I hope I don’t die within.
I move down a tight stairwell, bursting free in the servants’ wing well below ground level.
My charge through the endless Warren of cold obsidian halls is constantly interrupted by Thorns and stoic palace workers, forcing me to keep my steps slow.
Primped and polished females who swish across the floor like regal sweeps of a broom, each bearing a clipped ear, marking them as a null.
A custom Tyroth introduced when he dug his claws into The Shade, like a male dragon pissing on his territory.
Making it stink.
Finally coming to a closed cupboard door bracketed by burning sconces, I check both ways, then pull a small vial from my pocket.
I uncork the lid, punched by the musky scent of whatever goes into this potent concoction Roan brews.
Some sort of excrement, based on its pungent aroma.
I try not to think about that as I tip it into my palm, then smear the brown puddle across the bulging door handle.
The fusing rune I drew earlier sizzles, releasing an angry hiss before it smokes into oblivion.
The handle clunks, then turns—unlocking.
Pocketing the vial, I dart through and pull the door shut behind me. I fold back against it and release a shuddered sigh.
“Fuck,” I mutter, ripping off my bangle, tempted to toss it at the wall. Instead, I tug a vial of moonlight from my pocket, illuminating the tight storespace as my glamour begins to itch, then peels like flaking paper, disintegrating before it hits the ground.
I stare past my blanched fingers to the bangle caught in my trembling fist …
Should’ve let the trogg eat it.
I pocket the stupid thing.
My gaze drifts, landing on Ayda, still unconscious on the ground with my bundled white cloak tucked beneath her head, her features lax, mouth gagged.
I take in her modest gray underwools that look far more comfortable than the suffocating abomination I’m about to redress her in. Especially given her … condition Tyroth made me aware of.
Sighing, I study the gentle swell of her abdomen, barely there. Even so, I’m mad at myself for not noticing, shaking my head as I crouch at her side.
I know my brother well. What he’s capable of. This is not the place where Ayda and her youngling have a flourishing future.
This is the place where serpents choke happiness while it sleeps. Where young princesses are ripped from their pallets in the middle of slumbertime, forced on the back of foreign beasts, and flown to a distant city. Treated like a lump of bloodstone.
Like currency.
This is the place where new mahs die on their bloody birthing sheets. Where secrets fester until they’re rotten enough to poison the world.
Teeth gritted, I lean forward and set the vial of moonlight on a shelf between stacks of polishing cloths, then get to work loosening my bodice, yanking it free with a heaving breath. Filling my lungs properly for the first time since I fastened the Creators-damned thing in place.
I pull my leathers on before gently unbinding, ungagging, and redressing Ayda, just easing my cloak from beneath her head when the hairs on my arms lift.
My gaze snaps to her face, straight into bold-blue eyes staring at me.
My heart drops so fast I almost forget to breathe, half expecting her to open her mouth and scream. To bring my fucking world down with a simple sound.
Except she doesn’t.
There is no fear in her wide eyes. No panic or anger. No confusion. Just two probing orbs behind a sheen of tears, leading me to wonder if we shared more than just resemblance while I wore her skin.
If part of her soul traveled with me on that heartbreaking journey, too.
Her gaze drops to where Elluin’s diary is bound against my ribs, turning my blood to ice.
Guess that answers that.
She closes her eyes, a tear slipping free as she lifts a hand, resting it on her abdomen like a shield. “You don’t have to kill me,” she whispers, lashes lifting. “I won’t say anything.”
I know she won’t.
Nobody in their right mind could absorb the words in this diary and not choose the moral side of the coin.
Tyroth may be the pah of her unborn child, but Elluin was The Shade’s blood-born queen.
History notes a postpartum bleed was the reason she never got to see Kyzari grow, but I don’t believe that.
I doubt Ayda does either.
The entire fucked-up situation has a taint that sticks to the male who currently holds the obsidian throne.
“I could never.” I reach into the pocket of my cloak, retrieving a hefty pouch of bloodstone.
Enough to purchase a small tavern in this part of the world.
“But I must insist you leave,” I implore, taking her cool hand to curl her fingers around the pouch.
“Get out of Arithia. Find somewhere safe, far away from Tyroth Vae—”
“I can’t.” She untangles her hand from mine. From the pouch.
I frown. “Can’t … or won’t?”
A long silence passes as more tears slip free. “You should go,” she finally whispers, causing a shiver up my spine.
Right.
I stand, dash my cloak around my shoulders, and flick up the hood, pinching the buttons shut to ensure my leathers are well-concealed. “Then you will likely end up dead, just like Elluin,” I mutter, tossing the pouch of bloodstone.
It lands on the floor with a hefty thud that makes Ayda flinch. Or perhaps it’s my words sinking in.
Good.
“This world is not kind to females, bastards, or those who wear no beads,” I continue, passing a pointed glance at the clip in her ear. I grab my vial of moonlight off the shelf and stuff it into my pocket, casting us in darkness. “Remember that.”
I open the door and leave.