Chapter 42 Cassiel
Cold air bites at my skin when I wake.
The window is open.
I know, even before I fully register it, that something is wrong. The room is too still. Too empty.
“Wren?” I call, my voice hoarse.
No answer.
I shove the covers off and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet touch the chilled floor, and I brace myself before pushing up to stand. My bandaged hands search, reaching for the bedside table, the edge of a chair, anything to steady myself. I shuffle forward, pulse hammering in my ears.
“Wren,” I try again. “Where are you?”
Still nothing.
I move towards the window, the source of the cold. My feet brush fabric on the floor, then something softer—skin. I freeze, dropping to my knees, hands roving until I find her.
She’s collapsed by the window, so still and cold that, for one awful moment, I think she’s—
No. No, she’s breathing. Shallowly, but breathing.
Relief stabs through my chest like a blade. I shake her shoulder gently. “Wren? Wren, wake up.”
She stirs, a weak murmur escaping her lips. I exhale sharply, pressing my palm to her cheek. Earlier, she was so hot I thought she might have a fever, but now she’s so cold I swear I can almost feel frost.
What’s wrong with her?
I start to call out for help—but her hand jerks up, clamping over my mouth.
Her fingers are wet. Sticky. Metal stings my nostrils.
Blood.
“No healers,” she rasps. “They can’t… they can’t help me.”
I find her face, cradling her cheeks in my hands. “Wren, you’re bleeding—”
“It’s not the blood that matters,” she says. She sags against me, her whole body trembling. She feels fragile in my arms, like she might break apart if I hold her too tightly.
“Cass…” Her voice is so quiet I have to lean in to hear. “You have to help me.”
Of all the promises I have ever made, the next one is the easiest. “Anything.”
She swallows, her breath shuddering. “I need you to get me to my cousin. He needs… he needs to take me home.”
“Let someone here help—”
“They can’t.” Her fingers curl into the front of my nightshirt, gripping weakly. “Please, Cass. Trust me.”
I barely hesitate. “All right.”
I pull myself upright, leaving her briefly on the floor to locate my cloak and wrap it around her, tucking it close to trap what little warmth she has left. I find her boots and ease them onto her feet, then shove my own on. Every second feels like an eternity.
I stumble to the door and pull it open. Dain stands just outside, straightening as soon as he hears me.
“Dain,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I need you to ready a carriage, and ready one quickly. Do not ask why.”
Dain hesitates for only a second before turning on his heels and striding down the hall. His footfalls disappear down the stairs.
I return to Wren, crouching beside her again. “Come on,” I murmur, easing an arm around her waist. “I’ve got you.”
She leans into me as I pull her onto her feet. I feel every tremor, every unsteady breath. She’s trying to walk, but she’s barely upright. I tighten my hold, guiding her step by step as we move toward the stairs.
We don’t make it far.
She sags against me, legs giving out. I barely catch her before she hits the ground.
“Wren—”
She doesn’t respond.
I adjust my grip, sliding an arm beneath her knees and lifting her into my arms. She’s far too light.
I’ve never thought of her as small or frail or delicate, but she feels it tonight.
It’s difficult to carry anything right now—I’m still recovering myself—but I grit my teeth and push forward, carrying her through the halls, down the steps, out into the freezing night.
“Wren,” I whisper. “I can’t see anything.”
She hums against my neck. “Neither can I.”
I rely on my other senses to guide me. I know the direction, the feel of the path. Horses bray in the distance.
It isn’t long before Dain spots us. I recognise the sound of his breathing and he hurries towards us. At first, I think he means to take her from me, but he quickly reevaluates. Instead, he moves to help, guiding me towards the carriage.
I gather her close. Dain hovers by the entrance. “Where are we going?” he asks.
“The Rosey Duckling,” Wren croaks against me. “But you can’t come with us, Dain.”
I frown. “That’s near the edge of the Duskfen Forest.” Not Thornvale. Not anywhere near her home. “Why—”
She doesn’t answer, just trembles against me.
Dain still hovers, waiting for my instructions.
I nod at him. “Do as she says.”
The door closes. I wrap my cloak tightly around her, pulling her close. I kiss her temple.
“Stay with me, Wren.”
Her fingers curl into my clothes. “Always,” she whispers.
The carriage jerks forward. My arms tighten as the shudders rack her body. She’s freezing, but beneath the cold, I can feel something else—something burning deep within her. It frightens me.
I press my lips to her hair, but my chest rebels, making me cough violently.
Wren’s hand presses against my chest. It’s a weak, instinctive gesture, meant to soothe. It makes my throat ache, how she’s still trying to comfort me when she’s barely holding on.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.
“For what?” I ask, tightening my hold on her.
She doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her voice is so soft, so full of something raw and aching, that it nearly undoes me.
“I never wanted to hurt you.”
My stomach knots. “What are you talking about?”
“All I do is hurt people…”
I shake my head. “Wren, you brought me back to life.”
She exhales shakily. I find her fingers, cold and trembling, and press a kiss to them.
“You’re going to be fine,” I promise, trying to make her believe it. Trying to make myself believe it.
She gives a small, almost bitter laugh. “I’ve always loved your lies,” she whispers.
She sleeps. Or perhaps she doesn’t. I can’t really tell. From time to time, she murmurs something, half-formed words slipping into the dark.
The journey seems to go on forever.
Then, softly, “You were wrong,” she whispers against me.
“About what?”
“When you said you cared more about me than I did about you. You were wrong.”
I brush her hair back from her face. “Impossible.”
“Cass—” Her fingers brush my chin.
“Yes?”
“I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“Vastren,” she whispers hoarsely. “Soul-swallower.”
It takes me a minute to understand what she’s saying, and even then, I’m certain I’ve misunderstood. Or maybe she has. She’s delirious, she can’t mean it—
I open my mouth to argue against her words, but she speaks before I can.
“It doesn’t sound so ridiculous anymore.”
The carriage lurches to a stop. The door is wrenched open before I can fully process it.
“Fuck,” a voice says. A stranger’s voice. “Wren, what have you done to yourself?”
“Hi, Zeph,” she murmurs weakly.
Her cousin, I assume. Relief mingles with unease. What does he mean, what has she done to herself?
“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” I demand.
Zeph doesn’t answer immediately. He stands in the doorway, likely assessing. Then, without a word, he reaches inside. His hands go to hers, feeling her stone-cold skin, her thready pulse. “We need to get her home.”
I move to rise. “I’m coming with you.”
Zeph’s jaw tightens. “You can’t.”
“I’m not leaving her.”
“Cass,” Wren whispers, her fingers on my face. “Cass, I’ll be fine.”
I swallow. “I won’t be. I’m not leaving you, Wren. I can’t.”
An awful, stretched silence follows. Finally, Zeph speaks again.
“Let me carry her,” Zeph says. His voice is quieter now, measured. “I can see where we’re going.”
I hesitate. “Why not use my carriage—”
Another beat, like he’s trying to come up with a reason. “Your horses are exhausted.”
That gives me pause. Even if that’s not the true reason, it’s a good point. We need fresh mounts.
I swallow, then slowly, reluctantly, hand her over. Her fingers cling to mine until she’s pulled away and the air turns cool and empty.
“Get her inside your carriage and come back for me,” I say, my voice barely steady.
Zeph doesn’t respond. He lifts Wren away, a chasm opening between us. I sit back, chest tight. I manage a whistle before dissolving into noisy coughs.
I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.
Zeph returns.
“Please,” I whisper hoarsely. “Take me to her.”
Zeph presses a hand to my chest, firm but not unkind. “I don’t often say this,” he murmurs. “But I am sorry.”
Warmth pulses beneath his palm. Not searing like the fire that tore through me, but gentler—brighter, almost. My chest feels suddenly weightless, hollowed out like ash drifting in the wake of flame. I try to speak, but the breath won’t come.
The world softens at the edges. Sound dulls. My limbs go slack, too light to hold me.
I think he catches me before I hit the ground. His boots recede along the soft, cold grass. Reins jingle.
I am alone, and Wren is gone.