Chapter 42
T he dreaded day comes.
I shrink back from the shore, my breath shallow and erratic. I can’t think. My mind is blank, yet a thousand thoughts claw at the edges of my consciousness.
Akilah catches my eye, her face a mask of quiet anguish. I look away.
That’s it. Our last exchange. No thank yous. No reassurances or whispered goodbyes.
I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. How could I hate her, even fleetingly, for not being the one chosen to do this? How could I wish it were anyone but me?
The redcloaks arrive, their grip on my arms bruising. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Tomorrow, it won’t.
Did Florentius find a way?
He has to have found a way.
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, holding back the sob clawing at my throat.
The palace feels colder than the stone walls should allow. They march Casimiria and me inside, and aklas sweep her away to prepare her.
My trembling hands clutch the fabric as I strip and redress in the ceremonial robes of an aklo. My grandfather’s books, my goodbye note for Akilah—they’re back on the island, left behind. Pieces of myself I can never reclaim.
But not the golden feather or the silver clasp. Those, I’ve hidden. My last ties to the ones I love.
Casimiria returns, radiant in her formal attire though her powdered face is drawn. She smells of roses, yet sorrow clings to her like a shadow.
The door swings open and Quin strides in, his presence as commanding as ever. His velvet cloak is deep blue and catches the light; a faint shimmer from his crown of spiritually infused violet oak casts a glow over the room.
“Mother,” he says gently. “It’s time.”
“There is no other way?” Casimiria’s voice cracks.
Her gaze lingers on him, her pain mirrored in his stoic expression.
Stop this, I want to shout. Please, find another way.
Casimiria is escorted out, her movements slow and reluctant. Quin’s eyes track her path, but the weight of his stare shifts to me.
Calm. Controlled.
I laugh bitterly, doubling over as the tightness in my chest becomes unbearable. “Still putting on an act?”
His voice is quiet, devoid of the Quin I know. “It’s just naming my son heir.”
But it’s not just that. His uncle will kill him for it.
“Quin—”
Redcloaks file in, their presence suffocating.
The courtyard is a sea of bowing heads and murmured reverence. The luminarium presides over it all, too bright and beautiful for this day.
Quin takes his place, the epitome of royal composure. I follow the procession, my head bowed, my heart racing.
The ceremony is a blur. Music swells as Quin’s amplified voice fills the courtyard, his speech resonating with conviction.
Why aren’t you afraid?
I should be terrified for the kingdom, for the commoners who depend on him. I should fear the loss of a leader with a vision for change.
But in this moment, I care about none of that.
He’s Quin. My friend.
The rite begins. Quin crowns his son, whispers words I cannot hear, and announces the next crown prince of Lumin.
Cheers erupt, but they’re distant. Hollow.
Then the tea arrives.
Megaera hands me the tray, her gaze unyielding. I clutch it tightly, wishing to throw it, to smash it to the ground and scream.
But I can’t.
“Why?” I ask quietly.
Her voice is calm, detached. “Justice. The king will pay for what he’s done.”
“And Akilah? What justice is that?”
Her composure falters, just for a moment.
“Stop this, Megaera,” I plead. “Please.”
Her eyes harden again.
The tray feels heavier with each step. The dancers whirl, harp music lilting in the background. Quin’s gaze remains fixed on the performers, unbothered. Calm.
I clear my throat.
He waves a hand for me to pour. He doesn’t look at me.
I can’t do this. Please, Florentius, where are you?
My hands tremble, rattling the teapot against the cup.
Quin doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he keeps his face schooled. His fingers tap against the armrest, the only glimpse of unease.
“Do it,” he says, voice steady and commanding.
The music swells.
I pour. Each drop of tea falling into the cup seems to take forever.
One drop. Two. Three.
His fingers brush mine. The scent of roses. The sound of harp strings. The taste of blood in my mouth. My blood. His.
He speaks. “Stand in your place.”
I stagger back, my heart pounding so hard it’s deafening.
He lifts the cup, presses it to his lips. For a moment, he looks out over the crowd, and then aside, where he might see my wobbling feet.
The seconds stretch and it feels like I’ll throw up as I wish desperately for him to cast the cup away, smash it to smithereens before his uncle’s feet.
But he drinks.
No tentative taste, no tiny sip. He throws it all back at once and sets the cup down with a purposeful clatter.
For a moment, everything is fine. His gaze stays on the dancers, his posture composed.
Then it shatters.
His body jerks. His face twists, and his gasp is the only sound I hear.
I freeze, the world narrowing to Quin’s pained expression as chaos erupts around us.
Casimiria screams; Nicostratus’s gaze lands on me, filled with betrayal and disbelief, as he swoops in. And the high duke commands his doctor forward with a cold smirk.
Quin’s eyes find mine, locking me in place. The agony in them is worse than anything I’ve ever known, but there’s something else there too. His lips part, as if he might speak it, but no words come. His body convulses, and my cry is lost in the screams surrounding us.
Redcloaks haul me away. My arms ache from their grip, but I barely feel it. My knees buckle.
“Please,” I beg. “Tell me what’s happening. Is he . . . Is . . .”
No one answers.
Hours pass. I curl on the ground in a cold, damp cell, replaying every agonised look, every cry of pain.
Footsteps, breaking the silence. I scramble to my feet, clinging to the bars.
Nicostratus steps into view, his hood shadowing his face.
I reach for him, but he steps back, his grief palpable.
His voice is raw. “He’s the king,” he chokes out. “My brother...”
“It’s not what you think.”
“I know ,” he snaps, his anger filling the air. “You tried to keep your distance. My uncle— But I should have—”
His voice breaks, and I press my hands to the bars, pleading. “Quin needs you. He needs you to protect him.”
Nicostratus’s hands clench into fists. “And who will protect you?”
“I don’t deserve it.”
He growls in frustration, but I see the pain in his eyes.
“Promise me,” I whisper. “Promise me you’ll protect him.”
He steps closer, his voice trembling. “You’re not alone in this.”
But I am.
His parting words echo in my mind: “I’ll find a way.”
They come.
Footsteps echo down the stone corridor, each one a hammer to my resolve. The spell on the bars dissipates with a faint shimmer and they drag me out into the biting blue dawn.
The air is alive with whispers, a murmur of discontent threaded with anticipation. Officials and linea line the space in their fine attire, their faces masks of propriety. No one dares shout, but their hisses reach me all the same.
Traitor.
I search the crowd despite myself. No familiar faces. No Veronica. No Nicostratus. It’s... better this way. If they were here, I wouldn’t be able to hold myself together.
The redcloaks shove me to my knees. The stone is cold, the impact jarring, but I barely feel it. To my right, the high duke is seated at a table of officials, his smirk glinting brighter than the guillotine. To my left, that guillotine, its blade sharp for me.
On an elevated platform, Quin sits beneath the first fingers of morning light. His velvet cloak drapes regally, his crown gleams, but his face... his face is carved from ice. Cold and distant. His gaze passes over me as if I’m already gone.
I wish my magic weren’t sealed. If I could feel anything from him, even his disdain, maybe this would hurt less.
The officials drone on. My name feels foreign on their lips, like it belongs to someone else. Quin’s gaze flashes to mine for the briefest moment—a flicker of light—and my breath catches.
But there’s nothing in it I can hold on to.
The redcloaks grip my arms, already dragging me toward the guillotine. Fear flares hot and sharp, but I force it down. If Quin dies because of me, I deserve this. If I’ve truly hurt him...
“Halt.”
His voice cuts through the noise, sharp and determined. The redcloaks stop, their hold on me unrelenting—even tightening.
The crowd stirs, whispers building into a low hum. Officials exchange uneasy glances, and even the high duke’s smirk falters.
Quin rises, voice calm but commanding, amplified for all to hear. “Caelus Amuletos performed meritorious deeds in the aftermath of the earthshakes, and saved countless lives during the wyvern attacks on our royal city. In light of this his family shall be spared, and he shall be granted an intact body.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd, some outraged, others disbelieving. The high duke strokes his beard, a calculated gesture, before nodding his acceptance.
The redcloaks release me with a shove, and I fall back onto my knees. My head is forced down by unseen magic, pressed against the cold stone.
The scarred aklo steps forward, carrying a small silver tray. On it, a single cup of dark, murky liquid.
This will be my last bitter brew.
When the magic releases me, I lift my head shakily. The tray sits before me, the cup glistening ominously in the early light. I glance at Quin.
He isn’t looking at me. His gaze is fixed on the sun cresting the walls, his expression unreadable.
“A quick death,” he announces, his voice carrying the weight of finality. “To which you shall bear witness.”
The crowd leans in, their excitement palpable. Their eyes crawl over me, too eager to watch the life drain from my body.
I reach for the cup, my fingers trembling. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if Quin still wears the flutette , or if casting it away was the first thing he did after... after what I’ve done.
“Drink.”
The command slams into me. My chest heaves as I lift the cup, its weight magnified by the judgement of a thousand unseen chains. With one last breath, I press the rim to my lips and drink.
The liquid burns down my throat, searing heat spreading through my veins. My muscles seize, quivering uncontrollably as pain ignites every nerve.
I double over, gasping for air, my vision swimming. The crowd blurs, their faces melting into indistinct shapes.
With every ounce of will, I raise my head.
Quin is turning away.
His cane strikes the stone as he descends from the platform, his back to me, his figure a silhouette against the morning light.
The poison burns. But the ache of Quin turning away hurts more.
“Quin,” I croak, but it’s lost in the chaos of my own pain.
The world darkens.
He never looked back.