Chapter 30 A Wraith
CHAPTER THIRTY
A WRAITH
Iemerged from the cooling bathwater like a creature shedding her skin.
I reached for the drying cloth left beside the tub, wrapping it around myself to dry. How unsettling it was, clean skin dripping on polished marble, surrounded by the trappings of my former life. An intruder in a dead woman’s chambers.
The air raised gooseflesh on my arms as I moved back into the bedchamber.
Kassimir had retreated to the window, his back to me as he gazed out at the palace grounds.
The late afternoon sun gilded his profile, highlighting the inhuman perfection of his features.
He didn’t turn as I entered, offering an illusion of privacy I knew was false.
On the bed lay a gown, black as midnight, with a sheen that captured and distorted light like the surface of dark water.
I approached it cautiously, as though it might rear up and strike.
The fabric was unlike anything I’d worn before.
Not the heavy brocades and velvets of Vareth, nor the stiff ceremonial silks of court functions.
This material flowed like liquid, so fine it seemed almost alive.
I touched it hesitantly. The texture was strange, smooth but with an almost imperceptible catch against my fingertips, like the invisible barbs of a spider’s web.
A shiver passed through me at the thought.
This was no Vareth creation. This was Nocthar clothing, designed for blood-soaked celebrations.
“A gift from your husband,” Kassimir commented, still gazing out the window. “Spun silk dyed with something rather special. Not blood, if you were wondering. Though I’m told the process does involve a sacrifice or two.”
I didn’t respond, merely lifted the gown from the bed. It weighed almost nothing, slithering through my hands like water. There were no undergarments provided, I noticed. Of course not. This was to be a spectacle, not merely an appearance.
I dropped the drying cloth and pulled the gown over my head in one fluid motion.
The fabric settled against my skin with unsettling intimacy, conforming to every curve and hollow of my body as if it had been painted on rather than draped.
The neckline plunged deep between my breasts, while the back was cut almost to the base of my spine.
The skirt clung to my hips before falling in a deceptively modest sweep to the floor, the material so thin that light passed through it when stretched across my skin, rendering it nearly transparent in places.
It should have felt degrading. Perhaps it was a measure of how far I’d fallen that I felt nothing at all.
I moved to the dressing table and sat before the mirror, confronting my reflection with clinical detachment.
The woman who stared back was both familiar and foreign—a ghost wearing my face.
I had spent hours at this very table, watching maids arrange my hair in elaborate court styles, applying subtle color to my lips and cheeks to enhance features deemed pretty enough, listening to Isolde’s wild outings in Anorath.
Now, with hollowed cheeks and haunted silver eyes, I found myself truly beautiful for the first time.
The bruises around my mouth stood out starkly against my pale skin, the black silk emphasizing my thinness, my emaciation transforming into ethereality.
I looked like a creature suspended between life and death, wearing mortality as a temporary disguise.
I was beautiful in the fact that I was still here. I was still alive.
I lifted trembling hands to my damp hair, combing through the tangles with my fingers.
The familiar motion was soothing, a ritual that belonged to the Mireille-that-was.
I wondered, as I separated the dark strands into three sections and began to braid, if anything of that woman remained beneath this hollow shell, or if she had died the night Valen had thrown her in a cell.
“Allow me,” Kassimir said suddenly, appearing behind me in the mirror.
Before I could protest, his fingers replaced mine, weaving my hair with surprising deftness.
“I have sisters,” he explained, catching my questioning gaze in the mirror.
“Many, many sisters. You’d be amazed how useful hair-styling skills can be when negotiating divine family politics. ”
His touch was impersonal, almost gentle, as he began working my hair into intricate braids.
“I spent some time in Vareth’s northern woods last week,” Kassimir said casually, his gaze locked on his work.
“Charming little village called Greenbriar. Quaint, really. The people there were most hospitable to a weary traveler.” His eyes met mine in the mirror, watching my reaction with sudden predatory focus.
“Especially a spirited young woman named Isolde. And her small companion—Lysa, I believe? Quite the charming child.”
My entire body went rigid, my reflection in the mirror suddenly pale as death. The world narrowed to a pinpoint, all sound drowned by the frantic beating of my heart. Not them. Not Isolde. Not Lysa. Valen had told me they were safe. That he let them escape. How foolish I was to believe him.
“What have you done to them?” I whispered, my voice a brittle, broken thing.
“Done to them?” Kassimir’s fingers stilled in my hair. His eyes kept mine in the mirror, something unreadable flickering in their golden depths. “Nothing. They’re quite well, all things considered.”
My mind raced with horrific possibilities—Isolde’s defiant spirit broken, little Lysa crying for a sister who’d abandoned her.
Kassimir’s hands clamped down on my shoulders as I tried to rise, holding me firmly in place. His grip was gentle but immovable, like being restrained by warm steel.
“Calm yourself,” he murmured, his voice surprisingly soft. “They are unharmed. And they will remain so.”
I struggled against his hold, panic overtaking reason. “If you’ve touched them—“
“Peace, princess.” His fingers tightened fractionally.
“I was sent to find them, yes. Valen wanted them watched, in case they needed to be brought back to court.” His eyes narrowed slightly, explaining what his words did not.
They were to be watched as collateral for my continued obedience. “But that will not be happening.”
I froze, disbelieving. “What?”
“Your friend and sister remain safely hidden in Greenbriar.” His hands loosened their grip on my shoulders, one rising to resume braiding my hair with casual precision. “I told Valen I couldn’t find them. That they must have fled further north, perhaps to the mountains.”
I searched his face in the mirror, looking for deceit. “Why would you defy him? He’s your king.”
“My alliance with Valen is... complicated.” Kassimir resumed braiding my hair, his movements more gentle now.
“I serve him now because the alternative would be unpleasant. But I draw certain lines.” His fingers paused, eyes meeting mine in the reflection.
“I will not help him harm them. They remain hidden, and I will ensure they stay that way.”
Tears threatened. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand.” His voice was barely audible now. “Just know that while I may be many terrible things, I am not a monster who hunts children. Your Isolde and little Lysa will remain safe from your husband’s reach. I give you my word.”
His word. The word of a god who had betrayed another god.
A close companion, as Kassimir said himself.
And yet, there was something in his eyes that made me want to believe him.
A flicker of humanity beneath the divine arrogance, perhaps, or simply my desperate need to cling to any hope regarding my sister’s safety.
He finished the braids with a practiced twist, securing it in a crown around my head. His fingers lingered at the nape of my neck, the touch almost contemplative.
“They spoke of you,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “Your Isolde is quite fierce. She threatened to gut me where I stood if I tried to harm a hair on little Lysa’s head.” His lips quirked in what seemed like genuine amusement. “I rather liked her.”
My throat tightened as I pictured Isolde standing before this god, fearless as always. “And Lysa?”
“The child...” Something shifted in his expression, a shadow passing over those golden eyes. “She is well. Said her dreams were full of silver tears.”
I closed my eyes, unable to bear the full weight of that image. But my sweet sister, my dear friend—they were alive. They were safe.
Kassimir stepped back, my eyes opening to see him admiring his handiwork with a satisfied nod.
“There,” he said. “A queen in mourning. How appropriate.”
I touched the finished style, noting how it emphasized the angles of my face, the bruises at my mouth, the hollow beneath my cheekbones. “I am no queen,” I said softly. “Queens have power.”
Kassimir’s reflection smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes.
“And what makes you think you have none? You survived when others would have broken. You defied our king when wiser souls would have submitted.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear.
“You’ve caught the attention of not one but two gods, pretty wreck.
That is power, albeit a dangerous kind.”
I met his gaze in the mirror. “Why am I here? Is it because Valen grows bored of tormenting me in private?”
“Oh no, not bored,” Kassimir straightened, placing his hands on my shoulders. His touch was warm—too warm, reminding me of the inhuman heat that had radiated from him when he pulled me from the bathwater. “Valen is far from bored.”
He turned away, crossing to a small table where a decanter of wine stood.
Pouring a glass, he continued speaking, his tone conversational.
“But tonight does mark the beginning of your... shall we say, formal training? Valen has indulged your defiance thus far in private, finding it amusing, perhaps even stimulating I would guess. But the time for privacy is ending.”
He extended the glass toward me. I didn’t move to take it. After a moment, he shrugged and sipped it himself.
“Do not play games with me, Chaos God. What does that mean?” I asked, though I suspected I already knew.
“It means, my dear, that your husband intends to make an example of you. The nobles of Vareth need to understand the consequences of defiance. You will be their object lesson.” Kassimir’s smile was almost sympathetic.
“If it helps, I believe he means to keep the more... intimate aspects of your discipline private. Tonight is merely about establishing dominance.”
“Merely,” I echoed, the word bitter on my tongue.
“Come now,” Kassimir set down the wine and crossed back to me, extending his hand with theatrical flourish. “It’s not so terrible. Play your part well, and perhaps he’ll reward you. Valen can be generous when pleased.”
I rose without taking his offered hand, meeting his gaze directly. “And what exactly is my part to be?”
Kassimir’s expression sobered, the perpetual amusement fading for a moment.
“Submission, Princess. Complete and public. You are to kneel at his feet, speak only when spoken to, and accept whatever indignities he chooses to inflict with grateful obedience.” He paused, seeming to measure his next words.
“I suggest you give him what he wants. There will be others in the throne room that he will sacrifice without thought.”
The implication hung in the air between us. Servants. Nobles. Others whose survival depended entirely on Valen’s twisted mercy.
There had been enough death in the last few weeks to last me a lifetime.
“I understand,” I said, the fight draining from me as quickly as it had flared.
“Do you?” Kassimir studied me, his golden eyes unnervingly perceptive.
“Because there is a difference between submission and surrender, princess. Valen knows this better than most. He will accept the former but crave the latter.” He reached out, adjusting a strand of hair that had fallen loose from my braid.
“The question is whether you can give him enough of one to avoid giving him all of the other.”
I stood motionless under his touch, a chill creeping up my spine as I considered his words. Is the God of Chaos… helping me?
“Ready for your grand performance?” Kassimir asked, offering his arm with exaggerated courtesy.
I placed my hand lightly on his forearm, feeling the unnatural warmth of his skin through the fabric of his sleeve. “Do I have a choice?”
His laugh was soft, almost genuine. “We always have choices, Princess. It’s merely that some lead to outcomes worse than others.” He patted my hand, the gesture both condescending and strangely comforting. “Come. Your audience awaits.”
As we moved toward the door, I caught one last glimpse of myself in the mirror—pale and wraith-like in black silk, my eyes enormous in my thin face, my mouth darkened by bruises rather than paint.
A ghost bride. A sacrifice. Whatever performance Valen had planned, I was perfectly costumed for the role.