Chapter 9
I stepped out of the estate to where horses and carriages rallied in line. Lanterns dangled from the coachmen’s hands as they awaited our arrival with odd shadows gathering on their faces. Cold air scratched at my skin, the autumn besting my cloak, and the breeze kicked up scents of the dark magic, rusty and sour.
I yearned for the Goddess of the Winds to bless me with her warmth as this breeze chilled me to the bones. Though were the gods here, surely nothing of blessing would be imparted. The god crawling in my head never let me forget the imminent reckoning. A judgement.
As we withdrew into dusk, laughter now seemed ill-chosen.
Lord Alistair guided the estate and claimed the grandest carriage of ebony carvings and crimson banners. A few other men joined Alistair. Neil set himself in the neighboring carriage, taking Catriona and Maisie with him. Lucien did not pay his daughter any mind as she entered an empty carriage and slammed the door shut—the coachman shook.
As I made my way to Freya, I spotted the statue that had snagged my bodice. She bore no eyes of horror, no mouth of cries. The stone woman smiled at the laurel wood, palms gracefully open to the Everlaides.
I looked away quickly, fearful she might glance in my direction.
At the carriage’s door, the coachman gave me an expression saying, you best leave that woman be. Still, I reached out, twisted the handle, and there sat Freya, scowl fixed.
I studied her briefly—the trail of her jaw, the arch of her brows, the knob of her chin.
“I wish to be alone.” Her tone was a collision of frost and flames, both unwelcoming.
I sat in the carriage, dusted my hands on my gown, and mirrored her tone.
“Do not misinterpret my being here as a desire for your company. The other carriages are full.”
“Walk, then.”
The lines of her brow deepened, and I noticed Freya’s left tooth was slightly concave.
Noted.
“Are you ladies ready?” The coachman hollered.
Freya’s glare might have sent another scurrying home, but I voiced over my shoulder.
“Yes, sir. We are ready.” I flashed Freya a smirk, reached beneath my cloak, and pulled out a bottle of wine.
“Share a drink with me?”
The carriage awoke in a jolt.
Freya’s oceanic gaze widened as her eyes traced the elegant lacing of gold and magenta spiraling across the bottle’s length.
“Is that wine from the—” She gawked and lowered her voice.
“Wine from the Goddess of Beauty?”
With a yank, I popped the cork, and a sweet aroma contested the corroded air.
“The last house I served uncovered a guildmember who served Beauty. I may have found a bottle or two as I left the estate.”
Freya’s frown upturned, something mischievous taking her face. I thought she might reach out and take the entire bottle, but something caused her to stiffen, reluctant.
The scowl.
“Miss Fallen, you could be imprisoned for keeping an artifact of the gods.”
“Best drink, then.” Feigning a swig, I wiped my lips and held out the bottle. She did not concede, so I begged.
“Please, the magic does not last long once the bottle has been opened. Anything I cannot finish will be a waste, so…” I sloshed the wine in its vessel.
With a glare, Freya swiped the bottle and took a quick, impulsive gulp.
“Gods,” She moaned between swigs.
“It has been a long while since I’ve had the goddess’s wine.” She slumped against the booth and took two more gulps, melting in her seat.
Deceit’s low laugh shook my spine. She is weak, this one. Tired of tending to her temper.
Within a moment, Freya’s tension unraveled, leaving her cheeks pink and eyes red. She twisted a golden strand of hair around her finger as she pondered beyond the window.
“I am always pleased to leave the estate,” she said dreamily.
“Four walls can only occupy a woman for so long.”
I faked the slur of my tongue.
“Surely there is plenty to keep you entertained. The Raven Estate seems to be a home of a thousand rooms. I saw the library today. Truly marvelous.”
“I hate reading.” Freya slouched with a huff.
“Enough days in the estate, and it all becomes tedious. Same faces, same rooms, same conversations over and over and over again. I swear, if I have to talk about the weather one more time—”
Chatty, chatty, the god’s talons scraped inside my ears.
“How long have you lived at the estate?” I asked.
Freya looked at me below the curtain of her heavy eyelids.
“Nearly a year, but my mother would bring me often since I was small. My father and the late lord were well acquainted. Friends, I dare say.” Her voice lessened.
“Not that the late lord had actual friends.”
“Your mother, does she live at the estate?”
Freya scrunched her nose.
“No. She hates it here, and my father, for that matter. She chooses to live in our family holdings, further east beside Hollow Spire.”
“Your father is Sir Lucien?”
“The very same.” Freya hiccupped.
“He is a conniving man. I have friends in high places,” she imitated Lucien, lowering her tone as best a woman could.
“Father insisted I remain at the estate, and Mother seemed half glad to be rid of me.”
“You say your father is conniving?”
“Gods, did I?” Freya lifted her hand to her lips, and a belch welded into another hiccup.
“Freya, if you dislike it at the estate, why do you continue to reside there?”
She tensed with a sharp glare that came and left. It was her temper versus the enchanted wine, and the enchanted wine often won. Freya was no exception, wallowing back into the cushions, drunk.
She slurred.
“My father and the late lord had an… agreement.”
I sucked a breath as though gossip riddled the carriage.
“Freya, what sort of agreement?”
Laughing at me, she set the rim’s bottle to her lips and took the largest swig I’d seen yet.
“You’d hate me for it,” she said.
I giggled.
“Impossible. I’m liking you more and more with each moment.”
Freya leaned forward as though she held the secrets of Andrael on the tip of her tongue.
“Courting—” She slurred slowly, like the word tied her tongue.
“Courting Lord Alistair.”
My palm met my cheek. I let my chin fall.
“You and the lord?”
“Do you hate me?”
“Of course not. Why would anyone hate you?”
Freya fell back into her seat.
“Lord Alistair is the most powerful lord beneath King Paden. The women I have confined in are often—” Freya pondered her words. “Jealous.”
What weakness jealousy inflicts, Deceit crooned. Men desire power and riches, the soul lost. While women yearn for such a man, whatever the cost.
Freya huffed, blush staining her cheeks, and drank. Lifted her palm and spoke in a shade of shame.
“I should not have spoken so freely. Please, forget I said anything.”
I reached for her, setting my hand upon her knee, and anything gentle about Freya’s face tore like parchment. She scowled.
“I am honored you were comfortable sharing your courtship with me,” I said.
“There is no jealousy, Freya, and I am glad you have someone who can take care of your needs.”
Freya’s tear nearly broke past the spell of Beauty’s wine. But Beauty vanquished the ache and left Freya with a giggle.
“Gods, Rhoswen. This wine is making me unbearable.”
“It has a very similar effect on me,” I laughed.
“With two glasses, I once blacked out kissing a stranger and awoke in a pigsty. The farmer chased me out with pitchforks.”
Freya’s laughter matched mine.
She returned to the matter with a flick of the wrist.
“I suppose the courtship does not matter regardless. Now that Lord Alistair’s father has passed, our courtship has been annulled.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
She shook her head lazily under the influence of wine.
“I always imagined I’d marry for love, and, once more, I have such an opportunity. Though not as I reside in the estate.”
“You do not love him?”
“It is all rather complicated, isn’t it?” Freya slipped her gaze out the window, laurel branches scratching the darkening sky.
“Before I had ever experienced love, I was told who I was to marry. Ink and paper and the king’s stamp, and it was done. My future was determined. And now…” She trailed off.
“You will find the love you seek, Freya. I have no doubt.”
“Kind words are pretty but inconsequential.” She looked at me with a yawn.
“It must be something wonderful to travel the realm, visiting all the estates and making a name for yourself.”
I peered through the window at the dusk and trees.
“It is not all one might hope it to be.”
Freya lifted her feet upon the bench and wrapped her arms around herself.
“Better than being locked away all day,” she hushed with a lethargic smile, closing her eyes and giving out a slow, slow breath.
…
The carriage came to a halt, though Freya’s grizzly snores did not. I wedged the cork in the wine’s bottle neck and hid it beneath the carriage bench. Taking my cloak, I blanketed it over Freya and stepped out of the carriage.
“Keep an eye on her?” I called to the coachman, who lifted his cap with a nod, so I offered him loose coin and a grin.
I wrestled in a shiver, the impending winter biting my skin red.
Lord Alistair exited his carriage, practically lucent against the backdrop of nightfall. Had moonlight not caught his outline, I might have walked into his chest.
My teeth rattled.
Alistair’s silhouette spoke.
“Forgotten your cloak, Miss Fallen?”
“Unfortunately,” I said in a shiver.
Alistair angled towards me, and moonlight skipped over his eyes—leaving them in the dark—though it traced the sharp of his jaw, nose, and residual scowl markings upon his brow.
I stepped near him to pass, and he met my stride, joining me as I paced towards Tharen Crest’s gate.
My teeth clattered.
Alistair’s movements were smooth in my peripheral vision, pulling my attention to him as we walked side-by-side. He removed his jacket, shoulders flexing, and his trained arms were revealed to the crisp air.
He lifted his jacket, dark eyes upon me.
“Here,” he said.
I fought the urge to rub my arms for warmth as I spoke.
“Your offer is appreciated, my lord, but that is all right. I should know better than walk in autumn without a cloak.”
“I insist.” When I did not take his jacket, he sternly asked.
“Tell me, advisor, what is the price of denying a lord? Surely nothing worth the cost of simply accepting.”
A shard of fret crawled in my belly, and a smile touched his eyes for a fleeting second. His grin hinted at the man beside the fountain, not the cellar, though this did not diminish my unease. In his gaze, I beheld a depth deeper than the night sky above us.
That fret scraped against my heart, so I looked ahead.
We approached the makeshift gate, where guards stood in line beside the scaffolding on the city walls. All bowed their heads to their revered lord as he and I stepped into Tharen Crest.
At the city’s threshold, I halted, eyes following the nightly silhouettes and moonlight raining down. Cobblestones fashioned the streets and alleys. The aroma of mead and sizzling meats was left unsullied, rebounding off the gathering of stones and shops. Torches lit the primary street, showcasing the barter between shopkeepers and patrons.
The city was well occupied. Significant. There was a dignity to its build, far more than other settlements of recent past.
“This city is—”
“Formidable?” Alistair was quick to ask, an elusive grin sweeping across his face. Running his hand through his hair, he added.
“Though there is much still to be done.”
“Beyond the infrastructure?” I asked.
Lips set straight, Alistair held his jacket with two hands, stepped before me—the city vanished behind his broad chest, my heart in my throat—and he set his jacket upon my shoulders. His rough fingers brushed my skin. The weight, the heat, melted away the cold, and scents of sage outmatched the city.
“I suppose that is the cost of denying your lord,” he said, impassive and level.
“My answers do not come easily.”
Before I could give my say, another voice joined the company.
“Lord Alistair!” Captain Tynan approached with heavy feet striking the stones. He stood before Alistair and looked down at me, wrinkles deepening.
“Might I have a private word?”
A cold gust pelted against me. I clenched Alistair’s jacket at the hem, tightened it around myself, and savored the warmth. I met Alistair’s gaze. He was looking at me with an expression I could not read.
He turned to Tynan and said.
“Perhaps my new advisor might share her thoughts.”
Deceit’s fingers tapped my mind, tap, tap, tap. Expel any incompetencies this lord assumes of you, child. Play your part. Prove your worth.
Tynan huffed with a nod and walked us towards the outskirts of the street. Squaring his shoulders, he never looked me in the eyes.
“My men found the elvish children in Cindermoor, heading towards Ethereum.”
The god snatched my budding grief.
“We had discussed this,” Alistair stated with a lordly timbre.
“We were not to waste resources searching for the elflings.”
“We did not, my lord. They were caught stealing bread from a merchant stall. They’ve been brought to Tharen Crest’s prisons, awaiting your order.”
Alistair’s brow tensed.
“How have you dealt with this in the past?”
“Eadric never had elvish slaves flee their post. Given their age—”
“Age is irrelevant.”
“Yes, well, I would recommend Lord Morrigan handling a new trade, though, without a man to handle the barters, we require your order.”
Alistair clasped his hands behind his back, uplifting his rigid posture.
“I see. So this is uncharted ground.” He chiseled an unreadable mien.
“What says you, advisor?”
Play your part, the god repeated.
I spoke in the confidence of Deception.
“In the absence of Lord Morrigan’s trading, elves should be handled in the same manner as god servers.”
“That’d be questioning and death,” Tynan added.
“Indeed,” the lord uttered.
“Though the children have not known much life outside the estate’s grounds. Questioning would be pointless.” His ever-dark eyes marked me.
“This is your counsel, Miss Fallen? That the elvish children should be sentenced to death?”
“To ensure your house keeps control over the elves, yes,” I said smoothly.
“Should you take the elflings back into your keeping, this may be viewed as forgiving. Who knows what consequences could arise in perceived lenience.”
“Indeed.” Alistair turned his attention to Tynan, entirely expressionless.
“Tell your men—the elflings are to be executed.”
“Of course, my lord.” Tynan bowed.
Deceit sprawled out in my mind. Well done, my dear.
The three of us began to pace down the road—Catriona was further off, huddled by a torch. The door behind her opened and closed as patrons walked in and stumbled out. We walked but two steps, and Lucien’s voice crept from behind, summoning the lord, and gave Alistair pause. The captain and I resumed our trek, and I managed to sneak a moment with him as we walked down the main street.
“Captain Tynan, you have never captured elflings before?” I asked.
“No,” he muttered, picking up his pace.
The god knew my thoughts and swiftly seeped magic into my mind.
Sour air filled my lungs.
“Why do you believe the elflings should be set free?”
“W-what? What are you speaking of?” Confusion stifled his voice.
“Tynan,” I breathed as we walked, blowing tangy air at my side, spilling the god’s magic.
“You said so yourself—you wish for the elflings to go free. You wish for them to endure no harm.”
“Let them free?” He asked, voice faint.
“I-I-I said no such thing. They’re enemies to the crown.”
I blew more magic.
“I do not understand you, Captain Tynan. One moment, you say they deserve death, and now you wish for their freedom.”
“Yes, well…” He fell silent with a vicious scowl upon his brow, his mind attempting to discern truth from deception.
“I-I suppose you’re right,” he conceded.
“Me?” I asked, feigning my own confusion.
“I say they should be killed. But you—You wish for the elflings to live. You wish to set them free.”
His eyes were domed by glass.
“I do. Gods, I do. But the lord. If he speculated—”
“Do not fret, my captain. This conversation never happened.”
“Right. I-I should go to the prisons. I need to act.”
“Then go.”
In my final give of magic air, Tynan fled to the prisons.
My daughter of deception, Deceit said in satisfaction.
“Rhoswen, come!” Catriona shouted and waved me near, cheeks plump in a grin, a meadery of lutes and laughter at her back.
I joined her beside the torch, further heat melting into the lord’s jacket. Catriona’s eyes narrowed at it, one brow arched and her head tilted.
“This is not what I imagined Tharen Crest would be like,” I said, aiming to divert whatever assumptions her mind was crafting.
“What did you expect?” She asked, seeming to let her thoughts lie.
“This street reminds me of Sariem,” I said as I beheld the market stalls lining the stone path.
“It is more extravagant than I imagined. More bustling.”
“You should have seen it before Lord Eadric was given permission to make it his own. It was a city of dirt, galore!” As she laughed to herself, I watched the crimson flag reign over the city—Tharen Crest tucked beneath the wings of the Raven.
Alistair came from behind, stepping towards the meadery and paying me no mind.
“Oi, you pointy-eared fiend!” A cry came from an alleyway, and the dark spat an elvish man into the street, his skin covered in lacerations. A brawny man followed with clenched fists, bloodied from use.
The two standing opposed, the elf began to speak. Sparks of light began to form in his hands and ignite in his eyes. I almost saw it—elvish magic, the echo of the Goddess of Light—but a fist to the face stopped the spell.
My feet pivoted, ready to leap, but Deceit punctured my mind. Do nothing, child. This is not a place where kindness is honored.
Deceit was right, I knew.
My fists clenched, but my feet stayed. The brute man swung back his leg to hurl into the elf’s stomach, and I turned away. But I heard, and I swallowed my tears. At the meadery’s entrance, Lord Alistair watched the brawl and merely walked inside.
“Come, Rhoswen, let’s get a drink.” Catriona pulled my arm.
I glanced at the street where the guard dragged away the unconscious, bleeding elf. I could not relinquish my anger, but the god grabbed it and quieted it for me.
Catriona and I wedged inside.
Lutes and dancers had halted their chorus and twirls with eyes scrutinizing their new lord. The fear poured from their faces, mouths open like the dead. Alistair loosened a breath, marked his subjects, and set his sights on the bar. The hinges grinded, Lucien and Neil shuffling past me, bickering. The drawn silence was emphasized by their presence, leaving us all standing in an uncomfortable lull.
“Get those damn lutes playing!” Lucien shouted.
“We’re here for a good time.”
The strings strung something off-key to merriment. More a song of dread than delight. People fled the limelight, paired off in whispers, and filled the round tables at the edges.
“People have yet to know what kind of ruler Lord Alistair is,” Catriona whispered at my side.
“Friend or foe.”
I studied the dark lord as he took his place upon a barstool.
“If he’s anything like his father—” Catriona cut herself short and nudged me along through the clearing towards the bar.
Alistair sat at the end, elbows against the table, talking to Lucien. Honey was sticky on the ground. I sniffed to smell the sweetness, but I only smelled sage.
“I need your tallest and strongest, good sir.” Catriona set herself at the bar and said in a rhythm.
“If I remember tonight, you ain’t doing it right.”
“Where’s your dad, Cat?” The barman asked.
“Don’t be a pest, Hubert. Pour the damn drink!” She laughed.
I followed the bar stools, leaving Catriona to return Alistair’s jacket.
As I glanced at the lord sulking there in the corner, no firelight giving away his features, something in my memories snagged against familiarity. His silhouette, his stature, how he looked ahead—
My heart caved—I had been in Sariem’s pub, spilling grievances to the barman, telling him I’d poisoned a man. And Alistair Raven had sat at the end of the bar.
I trembled in my steps. Oh, gods. He had heard me. He had seen me.
I warned you, Princess. Speak too freely, and your head will follow.
Stay with me, Deceit.
Do you fear, my darling?
Hold me steady, I begged, so the god melted into the folds of my mind, saturating me with his magic.
Lucien fell silent as I neared. Eyes sworn ahead, Alistair lifted his mug to his lips, and I raised his jacket.
“Thank you for your generosity, my lord,” I said with composure, unbroken.
Alistair did not glance at me, only lifted his palm as his jacket traded hands.
I bowed to the lord who gave me no interest and scurried to Catriona, who’d claim a table beside the dreary lutes.
Do you think he recognizes me? I asked.
It does not matter what the young lord understands. His fate is sealed.
If it is my head next, I would say, yes, it does matter.
Deceit’s talons played with the dome of my skull. There are worse things than dying a martyr, child.
I swatted my thoughts at Deceit, wondering why I ever sought the god for comfort.
Sitting beside Catriona, she shoved an extra pint towards me. As I took a sip, I caught a glimpse of Lucien leaving the meadery, his thin stature slipping out the door—I presumed to find his daughter, who was sleeping off Beauty’s wine.
“Catriona,” I hushed.
“You say you’ve been at the estate for a long while now.”
“Twelve years,” she added with a smiling nod.
“Can I ask what you think of the lord?”
I could tell she did not expect such a question by the subtle flex between her brows. I only drank my mead as her eyes sought clarity in mine. Her face tilted as it had only moments ago, that one brow arching. Then, something sparked in her, her lips twisting, unbridled.
“What do you care about the lord, Miss Fallen?” She asked in a high pitch, leaning nearer.
Deception is subtle.
“Oh, I don’t know. He’s… well…”
Catriona gave a lustful whisper.
“Incredibly handsome.”
I clouted color to my cheeks, pink in Deception’s sway.
“Perhaps,” I said with a coy smile, tucking hairs and looking at my mug.
The god groaned in my mind.
Catriona’s mouth was practically foaming for more. With a bite of my lip, I glanced at Alistair over my shoulder, and Catriona was overcome.
She wrangled my hand, yanking me closer.
“Tell me everything.”
“There is not much to say, really. We’ve only just met, and I suppose—Well, I am only trying to understand him.”
She laughed.
“Good luck with that, sweet Rhoswen! I don’t think anyone actually knows that man. Before the late lord died, Lord Alistair was either away for who-knows-what or working on little concoctions in his study. Barely saw him.”
The god spilled to the front of my mind, tilting my stance forward.
“Concoctions?” I asked.
“What sort of concoctions?”
“Oh, some potions for this, and that, and—Actually, I don’t really know. Never given it much thought.”
“You never asked?”
“Asked who? Lord Alistair? Ha! Gods, no. He’s got his glare ironed out as much as Freya does.” Catriona took another swig and threw her mug against the table.
“He’s handsome, undoubtedly so, but I have never been interested in carrying on a conversation with that man.” She shook her head.
“Too damn serious.”
Deceit purred in my ears. Hm, it appears this lord has a gift with the arts of alchemy.
I was considering the same. He could be making the potion to change faces.
Nails burrowed, tail twitched. Fools, taking my gift as their own. Sinful, distasteful. Disgusting. Man cannot deceive Deception himself.
But he could be using the potions to somehow oust the elves. Send them back to Caelithien.
One cannot drive out light with darkness.
“Hello?” Catriona waved her hand in my face.
I dragged myself from the god with a shake.
“Sorry. What were you saying?”
“You should talk to him.” Catriona’s bulging eyes tugged between myself and Alistair.
“You have my blessing,” she jested with a wink. When I breathed in to say no, she shoved her mug into my face.
“How about you get me another drink. Perfect excuse for going over.”
I rolled my eyes and stood.
“I’ll humor you and fetch some mead.”
“That a girl.” Catriona stretched back in her seat, throwing her feet upon the table.
At the bar, I set down the mug and lifted my finger to the barman for one more.
A man brushed against my back, stepping behind me, black cloaked and light-footed. I did not think much of it.
“Thank you.” I left coin at the counter, grabbed the mug, and began to turn. Then, something caught my eye, honing my attention.
A knife.
A knife was held by the man on light feet, and he was quickly, quietly, clearing the distance to Lord Alistair. Intention to kill was in each swift movement.
Alistair stared ahead, mug to his lips, none the wiser.
The lands stilled yet crashed against me, my mind burning through questions—
Was this his time? Had fate decided? Had the gods determined the lord’s final breath would be so soon?
Hm, Deceit hummed. Will the sands swallow him whole this night? Will he drown in the grains of his sins?
Is it his time?
The god began to speak, the assassin flexed his arm, and I had no moment to wait.
It happened in an instant—the man gained two steps, I, his shadow. The mug dropped from my hand as he wound back his arm, knife catching torchlight, and the moment the mug smashed against the ground, I grabbed the man’s wrist. Breath could not find me, lungs drying out.
Deceit hissed, no words in the making.
Alistair shot up his gaze, eyes wide and black as the night.
My knees buckled. Gods, what am I doing?
He twisted towards me, the man with the knife, and broke my hold. There was a fear in his eyes until he saw me—weaponless. He grabbed my arm and muttered something I could not make out, lifting his blade to me.
My eyes filled with water, my heart leaped in pleas to live.
Before I could pray for the sanctity of my soul, before the god could saturate me in his confidence, the knife was coming. The final grain of sand in the hourglass. But then, the hourglass shattered. Time stood still. Nothing happened for a moment, until—
The tip of a blade came for me. It speared through the man’s chest, steel against flesh, swift and merciless. I couldn’t breathe. Steel’s point was so close, blood splattered my face, hot like smelting iron.
I tasted iron.
Red poured down his chest. Eyes rolled back, he fell to the ground. Dead.
A woman screamed. An uproar began. Chairs were knocked down, footfall was violent, and peace was marred in the cries. As the realm whirled around me, Alistair revealed before me, ever-stone, ever-statue.
He held a bloodied sword.
My veins ran cold.
There was something in his eyes. Something I had not yet seen. A crack. A break in austere that left his eyes weak and lips slacked, tension undone. He seemed to leave behind whatever held him as he stepped towards me.
“Are you all right?” He asked.
I kept looking at the dead body and all the blood that seeped from it, pooling at my soles. Blood was warm on my face.
“You—” My core trembled.
“You killed him.”
“He was going to kill you.” Alistair begged reason and dared to reach out and lift my chin.
“Are you all right?”
I stepped back from him, one trembling step, and Alistair’s hand recoiled.
Another man, cloaked and armed, charged behind Alistair.
My widening eyes spoke enough. Alistair tore himself around with just enough time to block the attacker. The man’s arm was thrown to his side but came back with purpose. Steel rang in my ears, breath heavy. Alistair pivoted back, feet grinding the floorboards. He locked his arm around the man’s hilt, and—before I could process the movements that led them to this point—Alistair’s blade was sliding along the man’s neck. Effortless. Pitiless.
The ground was a mess of black satin and red stains.
“You need to leave. Now.” Alistair gritted his teeth, not watching me, but his surroundings. Skin falling pallid, black lines crawled over the lord’s skin, drowning his veins.
“Leave, Fallen.” He gutted the words out as dark magic infested him.
I clenched my gown and staggered past the bodies, red on my soles. Running from death, running from Alistair himself and the dark magic he wielded.
But then, three other men walked into the meadery, dressed in black, carrying blades.
There was no escape.