18. Sabine
Chapter 18
Sabine
M y father is a fae.
Ghost and Whisper too.
The thoughts are so mind-shattering that it’s all I can do to keep breathing. I’m splayed out on the Hall of Vale’s banquet table, broken ceiling debris scattered around me, like some grotesque dessert waiting to be served.
All around, dozens of partygoers stare in bald-face shock. They’re human. That’s something—at least I’m not the only one. I spot Grand Cleric Beneveto in the crowd. Captain Tatarin, too. None of them seem surprised by the fae seated around the table.
I’m the only one.
I’m the only one who didn’t know.
“ Tsk tsk. What a mess you’ve made of the feast in Thracia’s honor. If she were here, she’d be livid.”
I flinch as Whisper’s voice cuts through the air, his wicked smile curling as he plucks a fallen grape from its tray. As he pops it in his mouth, his chocolate-brown lips glow faintly at the edges, connected to fey lines running across his face’s contours like crushed glowworms.
“You’re—you’re Immortal Samaur.” The words slip out, my breath catching at his terrible, ethereal beauty.
The certainty crashes over me. Whisper is the God of Day. Our convent’s copy of The Book of the Immortals showed Samaur as a white man with auburn hair, but that was an artist’s guess. No one has actually laid eyes on him in a thousand years.
Regardless of his appearance, there’s no denying his identity. The burnish on his dark skin is warm as sunbaked soil, and his blazing irises are the exact color and intensity of midday sun, so much so that I have to shade my face. Above all, there’s his defense of Immortal Thracia. Goddess of Night. His other half.
“And here we were feeling sorry for you for feeling unwell.” The man—no, fae —I knew as Ghost casually sips from a silver chalice. Long, white-blond hair falls around his perfect face, somehow even more beautiful now in its full fae glory. His eyes are the vibrant green of new-growth hemlock, flashing impishly beneath eyebrows that slope upward as sharp as a bow’s point. The tops of his ears rise at a sharp angle, decorated with a small pewter arrow piercing through his ear’s shell.
If his arrogant sneer didn’t give away his identity, the arrow piercing would.
“You’re Immortal Artain,” I murmur, the words like ash in my mouth. God of the Hunt.
When he lowers the chalice, a drop of blood stains his lips. Fear cramps my stomach.
Blood—like Iyre drinks.
“Guilty,” he says as he teasingly bites his pointed incisors against his bottom lip. “Does this change your mind about spending a night together? One night with a fae, and you’ll never be satisfied with a human lover again.”
I shove up to a seated position, knee knocking a boar flank off the table. The smell of roasted meat and sticky-sweet raspberry jam makes my stomach seize, and I dig the heel of my hand against my nightdress.
Even corsetless, I can’t seem to breathe. Panic sets in. My vision starts to blur.
Run .
Instinct takes over, and I follow the boar flank off the table, rolling unsteadily to a stand, my limbs still so clumsy from the fall that I have to brace myself against the table’s edge.
I glance over my shoulder at the doors.
Open. Unguarded.
“Sabine.” King Rachillon—no, not a king, at least not of humans—holds out his hand as though sensing I’m about to bolt for the door. His anatomical heart brooch catches the light, blinds me. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
The air is tense as poison gas. So many bated breaths waiting to see what I’ll do. I feel like one spark could ignite the entire ballroom into a fireball.
“I told you she wasn’t ready for the truth,” Iyre hums from her seat at the end of the table, barely glancing up from her meal. She plucks a glazed carrot from her plate and blows off the ashes, unconcerned by the wreckage I caused.
Captain Tatarin, dressed in linen trousers and a silken doublet, suddenly rushes up from the crowd to take my wrist’s pulse. Her lips move, but it’s like I hear her words through water .
“Highness? You’re okay. Hold on—let me see if you’re hurt.”
I barely register her presence as she checks for injuries. Her hands feel miles away. My mind spins.
Whisper is Samaur.
Ghost is Artain.
And my father isn’t just fae. He’s Immortal Vale— King of Fae.
I can’t deny it. The broad shoulders, the wild hair the color of honey, the quicksilver beard. It’s all there, this time exactly like the illustrations from the Book of the Immortals. But seeing him like this—not wearing King Rachillon’s delicate crown, but the heavy Battle Helm Crown from legend, forged of dark iron to resemble ancient Golathian war helmets—is too much. The weight of this truth presses down on me, crushing my lungs.
My vision begins to go dark around the edges.
“Breathe, Sabine,” Vale urges again, his eyes locking onto mine. His tone is gentle, but there’s an edge beneath it, something ancient and dark.
Breathe?
I’m not sure I can even blink.
My foot moves a fraction toward the door. Vale’s expression darkens as his gaze flicks to Artain. The God of the Hunt snaps into motion like an arrow loosed from a bowstring.
Artain grabs a rope of strung pearls dangling from the chandelier, looping it into a lasso.
Finally, my body screams.
Run, now!
Bolting, I tear across the stone floor, bare feet slipping on the high polish. Members of the court shriek as I narrowly avoid barreling into them .
I hear the slow, confident thud of Artain’s steps behind me but don’t dare risk the time to look back.
“Clear the hall!” My father slams his fist against the banquet table, and the crowd immediately disperses to the room’s edges.
I’m left alone. Exposed. Heart racing, I pump my arms as I sprint toward the exit.
The double doors are open. If I can make it to the stables, to a horse?—
As I rush through the doors, I suddenly slam into a wall of rigid muscle dressed in a black leather doublet. Black gloves grip me by the shoulders to steady me, and in a daze, I tilt my head up to find myself face-to-face with Night.
The stoic third member of the Blades wears his dark hair loose today, hanging over his mist-colored, clouded eyes. His deathly pale face tips in my direction with a perplexed tilt.
“Lady Sabine?” His voice ripples like velvet. “What has happened?”
When I see that Night is human—rounded ears, skin unbroken by fey lines—a cry of relief breaks past my lips as I collapse into his hold, tears rolling down my cheeks.
Night places a protective hand on the small of my back as I bury my face against his broad chest. He pets my hair in slow, comforting strokes as his other hand gently loops around one of my wrists.
I’m no fool—I know that Night works for my father. He’s a Blade, so he must know Ghost and Whisper’s true identity. But feeling a human’s protective touch makes me forget, if only for a moment, the crushing danger around me.
“Night.” My breath condenses on the supple leather of his doublet. “Help me. Please . ”
The rest of the Hall of Vale fades away. Here, in his arms, I feel sheltered from the storm. His warmth seeps into my bones, dissolving the chill that seems to have overtaken every inch of the room.
He tips my chin up with one gloved hand until I face him. He takes his time running his knuckle slowly over my cheek, his sculpted lips parting.
“Such a pretty soul,” he murmurs. “One day, it will be mine.”
There’s something about his voice that forms a noose around my neck.
Oh. My heart beats off-kilter. Oh, gods. No.
I try to pull back from Night, but his grip on my wrist is a vice.
“You’re—” I start, too awe-struck to finish. “You’re?—”
Night shoves me back into the Hall of Vale like a rag doll. My footsteps echo amid the rafters. The dance floor is empty now. Wide open. I stagger into the center, all alone. My bare feet leave damp prints as I turn in a slow circle.
“She’s all yours, brother,” Night says darkly to Vale.
That word. Brother .
Night rolls back his shoulders as fey lines break out along his skin. His ears and eyebrows lengthen. His skin pales to the pallor of death beneath locks as dark as crow feathers. This already devastatingly attractive man becomes more beautiful than anything I have ever laid eyes on.
A terrifying beauty—the beauty of the End.
“You’re Immortal Woudix. The Ender. God of Death,” I breathe between trembling lips.
His hound, Hawk, sidles up to him. Now, her glamour is dropped, too, and it’s painfully clear why I can’t communicate with her. Her flesh is patchy. Rotting. A portion of her cheek is missing to show her teeth.
She’s dead.
My stomach clenches. A pain seizes my heart, squeezing out every drop of blood until I feel as spent as a candle stub. Any minute, my legs might give out. I feel my mind and body shutting down. Unable to process…this.
But there .
The tall, arched window at the front of the hall is open. Gasping, I take a step toward it.
Heavy footsteps approach me from behind as Artain murmurs, “Go ahead, Highness. Try to run. I like to play with my quarry before I catch it.”
“ Artain! ” My father’s booming voice reverberates like a bell strike. “Lady Sabine is a princess of this realm. Not some plaything for you to toy with!”
Artain’s grin falters.
Panic seizes me. Dots form at the edges of my vision as if, at any moment, I’ll faint.
I dart to my left, trying to find a gap in the crowd, but am blocked by Immortal Samaur. Heart racing, I double-back toward the right, but Immortal Woudix and his hound have moved to fill that place. I take a step forward, but Artain blocks me.
The only fae not hemming me in is Iyre, who continues to munch on roasted carrots disinterestedly.
Darkness roars louder around the edges of my vision.
Desperate, I sprint to the open window and pull myself onto the stone ledge. A draft of wind blusters up from the valley below.
I dare to look down.
It doesn’t matter that the Hall of Vale is on the castle’s ground floor, because all of Drahallen Hall rests on a high promontory over the Ramvik River. The fall is thirty feet straight onto jagged river rocks.
Below, low-flying falcons glide in concentric circles between me and the river.
The partygoers immediately fall silent, holding their communal breath as I inch my foot backward toward the drop.
The smug grin on Artain’s face vanishes.
My father’s urgent rasp breaks the silence. “Sabine—don’t. Think about what you are considering. You are human. You cannot return from a fall like that.”
“Return?” My chest heaves as I look down at the falcons. A pair of eagles and a giant hawk have joined them, drawn to my need. “Return to what ? A father who lied to me? A court full of deceitful gods?”
My father takes a slow, cautious step forward. “We were waiting to reveal the truth until you were ready to accept it.”
All the fancy parties. All the riches. All the smiling servants. All a ploy to win me to their side before they broke my world.
But I’m the only one who decides my fate.
As gasps ring out through the crowd, I slide my foot back another inch, dropping my gaze to the river, counting the number of birds circling below, debating if I’ll fall—or if I’m strong enough to fly.