22. Bloodloss
Bloodloss
Consciousness returned to me in fragments—the whisper of silk against bare skin, the sharp tang of citrus and dark wood, the bone-deep ache that meant I'd danced too closely with death.
My skull felt as if someone had taken a war hammer to it and decided a few extra swings couldn't hurt. When I dared crack my eyes open, the world tilted and spun like a ship in a storm.
Surroundings slowly came into focus—my quarters in the Bone Spire, with their dark elegance and that ever-present view of the Black Sea through tall windows. But something was different.
"Don't move." Xül's voice cut through from somewhere across the room. "You lost a lot of blood."
Through the haze, I found him sprawled in a chair he must have brought from his own chambers. One ankle crossed over his knee with lazy elegance and a book balanced in those long fingers, firelight turning his bronze skin to a warm gold. His braids hung loose, each bead and ring glimmering.
"Why are you in my room?" I croaked.
"Someone had to ensure you didn't die in your sleep." He turned a page without looking up. "You've been unconscious for two days. "
Memory crashed back in waves. The trial. The creatures. The beacon. My hand flew to my forehead, finding thick bandages where the metal horns had erupted from my skull. My ankle throbbed like a second heartbeat, wrapped tight enough to cut off circulation.
"Thatcher," I managed, trying to sit up.
"Alive. In Bellarium. Recovering from his own collection of holes." He still didn't look up from his book. "He dragged you to the beacon. Very heroic."
Relief flooded me so suddenly I nearly sobbed. "How many survived?"
"Twenty-five." His voice carried no emotion. "Down from thirty-seven. Quite the bloodbath."
Twenty-five. Gods. Twelve people had died in that forest. And I had killed one of them.
I'd wondered how I'd react the first time I took someone's life—what would drive me to it, and whether I'd be consumed by guilt or find some way to justify it. The truth, it turned out, was far more complicated than I'd imagined.
He'd been a person. Someone with a life before this nightmare. The trial had trapped him just as surely as it had trapped me—volunteer or not, none of us had truly chosen this horror. In another world, we might have been allies. We might have helped each other survive.
But in this world, he'd made a choice. Instead of competing, he'd chosen to kill Marx when the trial didn't demand it.
He could have focused on the hunt, could have done a dozen things that didn't involve murdering someone who'd never threatened him.
Instead, he'd looked at her and decided she was an obstacle to eliminate.
So I'd made my own choice. The knife had left my hand before I'd fully processed the decision, driven by instinct and desperation and the absolute certainty that I couldn't watch her die. Not when I had the power to stop it.
I wasn't sorry I saved her. But that also meant I wasn't sorry he was dead, and I'd have to find a way to carry that somehow.
"Marx?" My throat felt like I'd been swallowing glass.
"Survived. The boy as well." He closed his book with a soft snap. "Your little alliance served you well."
I tried to swing my legs over the side of the bed, but Xül was there in an instant, hands firm on my shoulders, pushing me back down.
"I said don't move." His voice brooked no argument. "You have a rather nasty wound on that leg. Move too soon and you'll do permanent damage."
"Who changed my clothes?" I was wearing a loose, red shirt that clung to me.
Smugness radiated off of him. "Who do you think?"
My face flared red, betraying me "You?—"
"Relax. I was perfectly gentle." His eyes glittered. "And I took my time."
I pulled the sheet higher, which only made his smile widen.
"I don't understand how we survived." I said quickly, desperate to change the subject. "The creatures had us surrounded. They were going to kill us, and then they just... stopped."
Xül's smile turned sharp. He walked to where my trial clothes lay in a torn, bloody heap on a side table. Without ceremony, he picked up my leather pants and reached into the back pocket.
A small golden coin caught the firelight as he held it up.
The evasion ward. The one we'd made over a week ago. The one I hadn't seen since?—
"You," I breathed.
His smirk was pure wickedness. "Me."
Warmth rushed in as I remembered—his hands on my waist before the trial, his body pressing close, that deliberate touch.
"You grabbed my ass," I accused, narrowing my eyes.
"I prefer to think of it as strategic placement." He let out a laugh. "Though I won't deny enjoying the process."
"You—" I spluttered, torn between gratitude and mortification. "You could have just told me!"
"Where's the fun in that?" He tossed the coin in the air, catching it with unnatural ease.
"Oh, I see. So my near-death experience was worth it for your moment of clever reveal?" I shot back. "How very princely of you."
For just a second, irritation flickered across his face—but he masked it quickly. "You survived, didn't you?"
"Barely. But I suppose that's all that matters to your grand plans."
"The power had dulled over the week," he said, examining the coin, but I noticed he didn't deny my accusation. “Still strong enough to give the creatures pause when they got close. Long enough for your brother to get you away, at least. It seems your binding covered Thatcher as well.”
"How long was I bleeding?" I asked, suddenly aware of how weak I felt.
"Too long," he murmured. "Another few minutes and you wouldn't have woken up at all."
The weight of that settled over me. I'd come that close to dying. If Xül hadn't slipped that ward into my pocket…
"Thank you." The words came out quiet and hoarse.
Xül's eyebrows climbed. "Don't get sentimental on me now, starling. I have a reputation to maintain."
"Right. Can't have people thinking the Prince of Draknavor has a heart."
"Precisely."
I shifted on the bed, trying to find a position that didn't make my calf scream in protest. The movement made my head spin again, and I gripped the sheets to keep from falling over.
"How bad is it?" I asked, nodding toward my bandaged leg.
"You'll live." He moved to stand at the edge of the bed. "Miria will be here later today to properly tend to it. She's been dealing with the other wounded contestants—there were several who needed immediate attention. Otherwise, she would have been here sooner. "
I nodded, though everything still felt fragile and distant. "Why did you stay here?"
"Because I wanted to keep a personal eye on you." He crossed his arms. "The servants are well-meaning idiots who might have let my investment bleed out while they debated whether to disturb me."
"Your investment."
"Can't have you dying before you've served your purpose." But his eyes suggested his reasons weren't quite so clinical. "We'll have quite the show to put on at the end of all this."
"You sound a little too pleased about that."
"I'm pleased you survived." He leaned back in his chair, studying me with those unsettling eyes. "And I'm particularly pleased with your performance. That throwing knife was a work of art."
"You were watching."
"Of course I was watching. Did you think I'd miss my star pupil's debut?" He cocked his head to the side.
Color bloomed where I hoped it wouldn’t. Shame. Anger. Something else that I didn't want to acknowledge. "Then you saw they were going to kill Marx."
He tilted his head, studying me. "The way you moved, the precision of the throw—absolutely devastating. I was quite... impressed."
My instincts flared in warning at the relish in his voice. "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely." His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Finally, you revealed yourself."
I squinted. "What?"
"The real you. The one who doesn't flinch." He leaned forward. "Tell me—how did it feel? That moment when you let the blade fly?"
"Necessary."
"And?"
I met his gaze. Held it. "Right."
His smile was slow. Pleased. "Good girl."
A wicked satisfaction coiled in my stomach at those words. I hated it. Hated him. Hated how my body responded to that particular tone like I was programmed for it.
"Don't," I said.
"Don't what?"
"Whatever this is. Whatever game you're playing."
"No game." He moved closer. "Just observation."
"Observe from farther away."
But he was already at the bedside, looking down at me. "You seem on edge, starling."
"I nearly died. Distress is normal."
"Is that what we're calling it?" He ran his eyes over me. "Interesting."
I stayed quiet, staring right back at him.
"There," he said softly. "Wasn't that easier? No arguing with me. Just acceptance."
"Fuck you."
"Such language." He raised an eyebrow. "And here I thought we were having a moment."
"The only moment we're having is the one where you leave."
“Don’t say that.” His hand grazed the edge of the bed. “You don’t mean it.”
“Oh, but I really do.”
"Is it the praise that bothers you? Or maybe you don't like it at all. You've always seemed to respond better when I'm... less kind."
"I do not?—"
"You do." His gaze swept over me. "The most compliant I've ever seen you was when I had you pressed against that wall."
"Don't flatter yourself." I snorted, shifting in my bed. "I couldn't?—"
"Couldn't move? Or couldn't bring yourself to want to?" His smile was a taunting thing.
"You're sick."
"And you're a little twisted.” His eyes glittered. I simply stared at him, unable to form words. The fucking nerve of this man .
His gaze narrowed. "Such a fascinating contradiction. The killer who melts when someone shows her exactly how powerless she can be."
I managed a scoff.
"There's nothing to be ashamed of, Miss Morvaren. Some find such dynamics liberating."
"You're insufferable."
"And you're trembling," he observed.
"I'm furious," I managed.
His hand circled my wrist. "Your body doesn't lie as prettily as your mouth does."
The silence that followed was suffocating. I hated myself. Hated the way I melted under his touch.
“Careful now.” His voice turned mocking. “I’d hate for you to bring the sky down on my Bone Spire.”
I wanted to scream.
“That racing heart of yours isn't conducive to healing." He rose, straightening his vest. "Rest well, starling. I'm quite looking forward to seeing what else you're capable of."
And then he was gone, leaving me alone with silk sheets and a pulse that wouldn't slow down.
The door opened without a knock, pulling me from sleep.
"Sepsis," Miria announced, her voice sweeping through the room. "Another day and you'd have lost the leg, possibly your life."
I opened my eyes to find her at the foot of the bed, golden hair seeming to hold its own light. Her skin carried that faint luminescence that marked the divine.
"I'm fine," I lied, my body feeling hollow.
"Of course you are." She moved to my injured leg. "That's why the wound is weeping pus and your fever spiked high enough to have Xül demand I come immediately. "
She knelt beside the bed, her fingers never quite touching the bandage as it unraveled at her will. "This will hurt," she informed me, voice matter-of-fact.
The cloth pulled away from flesh that had tried to heal around it. I bit down hard enough to taste blood, refusing to scream. The wound ran from mid-calf to ankle, edges livid red, weeping yellow fluid.
Pearl-white light emanated from her palms. The healing felt like being unmade and remade—fire pouring through my veins as tissue knit itself together at an impossible speed. Every nerve ending in my body ignited at once.
"Your brother wasn't quite so terribly afflicted," Miria said conversationally. "A few scratches here and there."
Through the haze of pain, I registered her words. "You've seen Thatcher?"
"In Bellarium. This morning." The light intensified.
"Thank you for healing us both."
"It's what I do."
"I do have a question if you wouldn't mind..." I said, gesturing around vaguely. "It's rather isolated here, so I have a hard time finding more... nuanced answers to things."
She settled into the chair Xül had vacated, light spilling around her. "Go on."
"The animosity towards Xül," I said, choosing my words carefully. "Why do Olinthar and other members of the Twelve despise his existence so much? If he's proven himself by ascending?—"
"I avoid divine politics as much as possible, so I can only give you my opinion," she said, weighing her response. "But I think some of the Aesymar believe his existence is a symbol of rebellion. Mortals and the divine are supposed to exist separately."
"Right," I said bitterly. "Because we're essentially insects to you all."
Miria's expression shifted. "Just a decade ago, I was very much like you. Some of us remember our mortal lives quite vividly. "
The gentle rebuke landed with unexpected force. I looked away.
"During my Trials, there was one contestant the others were explicitly told to eliminate. They were promised rewards if they succeeded, divine favor if they removed the... aberration."
Xül.
"By the third challenge, he'd raised those who'd tried to kill him after he slaughtered them. They became his undead army for the remainder of the trial. Quite poetic, really."
"You sound like you admire him."
"I respect him," she corrected. "Once, I was bleeding out from a spear wound. The contestant who’d done it mentioned hunting the abomination next." She made a small gesture, fingers closing into a fist. "Hands dragged her into the earth itself."
"He saved you?"
"He removed an annoyance. The fact that he stayed by my side after was... unexpected."
"I assume that's an experience that bonds you for life."
"No. Xül isn't close with anyone. We survived together. That's all."
She rose, moving toward the door. At the threshold, she paused. "The Aesymarean pantheon shares many qualities with the mortal realm. It's not as black and white as it sometimes seems." Her fingers closed around the handle. "A valid thing to consider."
And then she was gone.