Chapter 14 Blood Price
fourteen
Blood Price
Zydar
She thought I didn’t see her slip the shears from the healer’s tray two nights ago, tucking them under her sleeve like a thief palming a coin. I let her keep them. If it made her feel safer in these walls, so be it. Safety, even imagined, is a currency worth sparing.
Besides, her little knives were the least of my concerns.
This morning I watched her roll out of bed half asleep, stumbling around the room as she smoothed her skirts and slipped on her boots.
"Well?" she grumbled, glancing out at the distant sun through the window.
The light was harsh and glittering on the frosted glass, cutting daggers in the ice. "What are we doing today?
"You're resting."
"I’m done resting. At this point, I have rested more than I have done anything else in my life."
I hid a smile at her overdramatic statement as I folded my arms over my chest. "Miralyte, let's not have this discussion again."
"No. Let's." She sounded almost weary. "Why do I need rest? I'm fine. The people below the garden... They need me. They need help."
"And who will heal them if you're dead? If you push yourself too hard, you'll collapse. Do not make yourself useless because of your stubbornness."
She dragged her hands down her face and huffed. "Three days, Zydar. I've been up here for three days."
"Then one more is fine. When I say you're ready, you're ready. Until then, stop making a fuss."
The daggers she glared at me were sharper than the ones she had stolen. "If you don't let me out of here, I'm going to get bored. And if I'm bored, I'm going to use that as an excuse to stab you."
"Stab me, then." I crossed my arms, waiting. "Go on."
"I will. Eventually."
"I could lock you in here, you know."
"Would it stop me?"
No, it wouldn't. Miralyte was nothing if not wildly stubborn. She would probably try to climb down the castle walls, just to get under my skin.
"Just humor me, Mira."
She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "Fine. I'll behave."
I turned away, taking the steps one by one, making it halfway before she spoke again.
"But tomorrow, I want to go back to helping them. They need me. I'm not going to be your prisoner any longer."
I didn't bother responding. There would be no stopping her. She'd do what she wanted, regardless of what I said. I just hoped she understood how dangerous it was.
I brushed away the thought and made my way up the spiral staircase, the chill of the stones creeping through my boots.
As always, I began my morning in the East Tower.
Narietta’s door stood half-open, a slice of warm light spilling into the chill corridor.
Her room was a world apart from the rest of the court— all brightness and warmth, like a shard of some gentler realm wedged into the cold stone.
Bundles of dried wildflowers hung from the rafters, their faded petals releasing faint sweetness into the air. Ribbons of sky-colored silk trailed from the bedposts, catching the breeze from the arched windows.
Her shelves overflowed with trinkets — polished river stones, seashells from coasts she’d never seen, carved wooden animals whose painted eyes still gleamed. A half-finished tapestry draped over the far chair, the threads tangled where she’d abandoned it mid-pattern.
And there she was, perched cross-legged on the windowsill, sunlight gilding her hair. She was humming something soft, off-key but certain, a tune from childhood I hadn’t heard in years.
I smiled, leaning against the doorway. "You're up early."
She started, nearly dropping her needle, and spun to face me. "Zydar!"
"Sorry." I lifted my hands, palms out. "Didn't mean to startle you."
She shook her head, her smile returning. "You didn't. I was just... lost in thought."
"Thinking about what?"
She glanced out the window, her voice going quiet. "Nothing."
I moved toward her, my footsteps silent. The boards were worn smooth beneath my boots, the dust kicked up by age instead of feet.
I settled into the chair beside hers, the old wood groaning beneath my weight. It smelled of beeswax and lavender, the scents she used to polish it. "Something is wrong," I said, "I can tell."
She didn't meet my gaze, but her fingers tightened around the needle.
"Narietta..." I waited until her eyes met mine, then took her hand in mine. "Talk to me."
Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "It's nothing. Just... bad dreams."
"Again?"
Her dreams were no ordinary dreams. During her childhood, they foretold the coming storms. Floods. Wildfires. They had saved our lives countless times, warning us of invasions, supply shortages, or the outbreak of the Rot.
And father's death.
That had come not as dreams, but a persistent feeling. A foreboding tightness in her chest. No image or nightmare to explain it, just a raw, hollow sense that he was gone.
"What do you see, Nari?"
Her body sagged, the weariness showing through her calm facade at last. "Nothing I can be sure of."
"Tell me anyway."
She sucked in a breath and let it out in a slow, shaking exhalation. "Miralyte." She raised her gaze. "My dreams are always about Miralyte."
A cold thread of dread coiled in my gut. “What was about Mira?”
Her eyes darkened. “She's coming for her."
The air in the room shifted, colder, heavier. “Who?”
Narietta’s throat worked, and she glanced away, as if the name itself might burn her tongue. “The Scorchbringer.”
The word seemed to still the world around us.
Ylvena.
The cold deepened until it reached my bones. “When?”
“I don’t know. Soon. Too soon. She’s moving already… and she will not stop until she has her.”
This wasn't about me anymore. It was about more than just the court, it was about everything. My heart drummed against my ribs, until I was sure it would explode.
I made a fist, my nails cutting into my palm. My heartrate didn't slow.
Ylvena would never stop. Not until she had what she wanted. Her greed was endless, and her lust for power drove her every move.
I'd known her selfishness for a long, long time. But Mira was my sworn sword. Mine to protect.
"Send for the Fog and Snow Court. Tell them it is a matter of the highest urgency." I kept my words careful, measured.
Narietta nodded.
"I will go see the healer. See if she has had any luck in her work. I need you to stay here, and—"
"Keep watch. I know."
I squeezed her hand. "Good."
My sister looked up, and something in her gaze hardened. She was not the little girl I had carried on my shoulders through the forests anymore, not the one who cried when her favorite flower was trampled underfoot or the one who had hidden beneath my blankets to escape her nightmares.
"Zy," she murmured. "She's more than what she seems. You mustn't underestimate her."
I gave her a half smile. "I won't."
"Please. Promise me."
I pulled her into a hug. Her hair tickled my cheek. "I promise, Narie."
"She has no idea who she is or what she's capable of."
"I know."
"She needs to be told, Zy."
"She will. Just not yet. Let her get stronger first." I hesitated. The bloodletting was making her weaker by the day. But stopping was not a choice we could make, not when so many lives and futures depended on it.
Narietta frowned, but nodded. "Fine. But the longer you wait, the worse it'll be."
"I know."
"Good. And you better be nice to her, too."
I smiled. "Don't worry. I've been treating her like a queen."
Narietta laughed,"I'm glad to hear it." She rose and kissed me on the cheek. "Be careful."
"You too, Narie." I gave her a small smile and headed down the stairs toward the healer's quarters. I needed to ask him a few more questions about Mira. See if anything he had observed would help disprove her nightmares, as unsettling as they had been.
The halls were quiet, empty this early, when most were either sleeping off the night before or simply recovering from training too late. The quiet would only last an hour or two more, so I enjoyed it while I could.
The healer's quarters were at the easternmost end of the east wing, below the gardens. I knocked on the large, gleaming oak doors, the sound ringing through the thick wood. An answering call came, a low and weary voice.
"Name and reason?"
"Varlath, it's me."
"My lord!" A rustle of clothing and the squeal of chair legs followed.
The door swung inward. Varlath's usually orderly hair was askew, with strands floating in several different directions.
He flicked his white strands from his face and gave me a quick bow.
"Forgive me, my lord. I was not expecting you so early. "
I waved him away. "Please. No need for formalities right now."
Varlath ushered me inside. His quarters were an impressive study and laboratory. All three walls were lined with shelves of jars, flasks, bowls, instruments. From the front of the shelf closest to the door hung a metal censer, sprigs of dried lavender spilling out of its bottom compartment.
"Did you find a cure yet?" I asked.
His smile faltered, and he crossed the room to his desk, straightening a stack of manuscripts. "We're getting closer," he answered.
"Close isn't good enough."
He paused, lips pressed together. Then he slipped the manuscript back into the drawer and brushed his hands on his trousers.
"We're doing our best," he said softly.
My hands curled into fists. My fingernails cut crescents into my palms. "Maybe I should find another healer, then. One who will actually—"
His eyes narrowed, and something dark rose in them. "I've been curing your people for the last two hundred years, warlord. I think I know a cure when I see one. Which may very well not exist. Maybe if I had more time to study the rot, it could be—"
"There is no time, Varlath," I barked. "And at this rate, everyone will be dead and rotting before we make any progress."
He sighed, shaking his head. "There is... one way."
"One way?" I felt hope for the first time in decades. "What is it?"
He cleared his throat and walked past me to the shelves, where he straightened a jar and refused to meet my gaze. "The source of her immunity lies in the blood,” he said at last. “But blood alone would not free it. What shields her from the rot is anchored in the heart, carried in every beat.”
The words struck like a hammer blow.
“To take it,” he went on, quieter now, “the heart must be lifted from her chest while it still lives.”
He was looking at me. Waiting. I swallowed. Swallowed again.
"Can it be done without killing her?"
Varlath was quiet for a long, long moment.
"Not likely."
"Is there no other way?"
"None."
I turned away and ran a hand through my hair, pacing the length of the room. I should have expected this. There was always a cost. Always.
I tugged at my cuffs, smoothing the fabric over and over. After two hundred years, I shouldn't have been able to feel. To grieve. To hurt. So why couldn't I stop my heart from ripping in two?