Chapter 15
My reflection felt frail. Distorted.
Molding my flesh like clay, I raised my cheekbones and pulled them outward. My skin burned, as though scolding me for the god’s eerie magic. I winced, causing my skin to bunch in such odd ways, and left a tangle of lines at the corners of my eyes.
With a calming breath, I smoothed out the wrinkles, thinned my lips, and pried out the knob of my chin. I offered my brown eyes to the god, and he gifted me olive eyes in exchange.
Drawing a scar below my jawline, I muttered, I do not appear enough like her.
I meddled more with the woman in the mirror, rounding her cheeks and deepening the green in her eyes. I slid my nails down the corners of her mouth, carving Lilian’s frown lines.
That low, hissing voice filled me. The lords will not care, not notice, the appearance of a servant. Those witless, foolish men.
And if they do notice?
Then you can die a martyr. Deceit’s curling lips needled me. To the gods, you’ve sold your soul so man might be saved. Only, you did not know, you’ve condemned yourself, all the same.
And you’ve condemned yourself with me. Always here, in a mortal’s mind.
Bind to the shadows, child. Remember, deception is subtle.
Auburn strands wove through my plait—Deceit crafting the muddy hairs.
I closed my eyes, imagined Lilian, and my skin boiled. When I opened my eyes, Rhoswen Fallen was gone. I could not say with undying certainty that Lilian was the face in the reflection, but enough of her that one might not argue.
Deceit’s tail twisted around my windpipe. Do not let the lord uncover the mysteries you keep, child. He will take your last breath if you are not careful.
I rubbed my neck with a cough. Stop reminding me.
He is cunning, Rhoswen, more than any lord you have encountered yet. He uncoiled his tail, only to wrap it around my spine instead. But you have a god. You are without an excuse for the lord to see through your mask.
I did not often forge another’s face so soon in my arrival at an estate.
Masks were an art of sorts, and I hadn’t the time to memorize bends, folds, and colors to craft a face with sureness. I stuffed my nerves into the unlit sanctions of my mind for Deceit to keep in his knotted fingers. I needed clarity. Concentration. I was no longer Rhoswen, but merely a vessel of my victim’s mannerisms, temper, and desires.
Contemplating Lilian’s reflection one last time, I blew out the candle and left my quarters.
Dark surrounded me. Wood planks groaned.
I set Lilian’s hand upon the wooden handrail, navigated the stairs in the dim light, and entered the front room. Marble floors clinked beneath my shoes. The fires were smothered, the day vanquished, and the chandelier was poor of light. Only the moon shined. The estate was filled with shadows, strung up like wraiths prowling for a kill. When a figure twitched, unsummoned, I kept walking, my eyes fixed ahead. Marching through the crimson dining hall, I swung open the kitchen doors.
This place was empty, save for some mice squirming in the corners.
I joined the rodents by the shelves, scaring them off, and rummaging in cupboards for servant linens. Some cupboards later, I found a coif, tunic, and apron covered in months of dust and runaway flour. I gagged on the cloud as I shook out the fabrics, took off my clothes, wove into these, and laced the apron around my waist—Lilian’s waist.
The doors opened behind me. A servant entered, huffing and puffing.
“These men are going to drink us dry,” she grumbled, setting down an empty bottle, and mocked the men in a low voice.
“Fiona, get more wine. Fiona, fill my glass. Fiona, Fiona, Fiona.”
I walked out of hiding.
She saw me and fumbled back with a gasp, nearly dropping the full bottle.
“Ms Lilian? Sands, you scared me. I thought you’d gone to bed.”
Shrugging, I spoke in Lilian’s voice.
“Eh, couldn’t sleep.”
“More night terrors?” Fiona asked, coming to me, and setting her hand upon my shoulder.
I nodded.
“The very same.”
Fiona sighed, searching the greens in my eyes with hardening brows.
“He can’t hurt you anymore, Ms Lilian. He’s gone on to Oldurem, drowning in the sands for his sins.”
“Still, I—” I was at a loss for words, not knowing what we were discussing. I frowned and took the wine from her.
“I’d like to care for the lords. Keep my mind busy.”
“Serve that damn Briarwood? After what he did to your son?”
“I’ll save him a glass of something special,” I said with a sheepish smile, forcing out a tear, then stowing it away, batting my lashes.
“Aw, well, you know where to find those petals should you need them,” she said with a smile of her own.
“Petals?” I asked.
“Aye, the—” She leaned nearer.
“The poison ones, yeah?”
“Right, yes, those. Gods, I’m losing my wits about me.”
Fiona glanced at the scar upon my neck with narrowed eyes. Scrutinizing.
Worries slipped out of the god’s hands and came back to me. I set my hand upon my neck—Lilian’s neck—to hide the scar. If I had done a poor job of drawing it, if Fiona figured out I wasn’t Lilian, I’d need to delve into her mind more than I’d care to—alter her memories, make her forget.
The most mind-breaking magic.
Fiona softened her features and glanced back at my eyes.
“Don’t feel shame for what we did,” she said, and I calmed my racing heart.
“It was painless for him. And besides, Eadric had it coming.”
Deceit cackled in the void. It is not only the gods that desire a Raven’s death.
I nearly dropped my mask, my skin tempted to unravel. The servants killed Alistair’s father? I didn’t dwell on it for longer than a second. Olive eyes, rounded cheeks, thin lips, auburn hair, I repeated, rapping my mind on Lilian’s face.
“Ms?” Fiona reached for me, but I rolled my shoulders and dodged her hand.
Placing tears in my eyes, I muttered.
“Sorry, I am not myself tonight.”
“Don’t feel guilty for what we did. That bastard had it coming. Sands, when he laid his filthy hands on you, I—” She grunted fiercely.
“I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. And besides, we got coins for it, and Ewan got his medicine. It was for the best.”
I yearned to know more about what secrets these servants held, but there was a meeting with high lords I needed to attend.
A tongue of deception, I called to the god. One more time tonight.
Of course, my Princess.
I breathed the stale air and stole a thread of strength from the god. Fresh air turned sour within me and strung out my mouth.
Fiona’s nostrils twitched as she sniffed the air.
“Gods, do you smell that?”
“You waited on the lords this night, do you understand?” I asked.
To my spell, glass was crystal around her eyes.
I blew out lies.
“The lords dismissed you early.”
“What are you going on about?” She asked in a haze.
I stepped nearer.
“Fiona, Lilian is abed, and you are desperately tired. Go lie down.”
Fiona looked towards the Everlaides with a gaping mouth.
I felt it—that deep, constricting feeling that confirmed I spliced her memories. It was as though the roots of deception buried further within myself, powers sanctioning the work of the god. I thanked the High Gods that the spell came easily.
Deceit hissed, I am the only one you should thank.
“Yeah, I’m a bit sleepy.” Fiona shut her eyes and stretched out her arms and ribs in a mighty yawn.
I never saw the end of her breath. Before she opened her eyes, I vanished with a bottle of wine in hand, feet possessed towards where dark lords schemed.
The hinges creaked like old joints, and the white and silver tree spired before me. Shadows danced, cast by the hearth’s amber glow, and the library smelt of old tomes with air thick in sins. Deceit clenched my mind with eyes against mine—eager. I couldn’t deny, I was eager too. In these moments, we were two beings cut from the same cloth. Changing faces, spilling lies, the god and I were well matched.
Carefully, quietly, I closed the door. Lilian’s shadow followed me to the ancient tree, and I hid behind it, pressing myself against the bark.
Alistair fell into view, leaning against the back of his chair, lips bending to the curve of his chalice.
Fingers tapped along the table. Another chair screeched.
“Is the king any closer to finding them?” I made out Lucien’s voice, dripping with his immoral longings.
“The damn bastards are believed to be conspiring beneath the king’s very nose… In Sariem.” Briarwood.
A gasp—Neil.
“They meet in the City of the King?”
“How did you come by this information?” Alistair asked.
A devious laugh rippled out of Briarwood’s throat.
“Whores are weak. Beat them enough, and they’ll talk. I killed two, and the third cowered as she looked at the blood of her sisters.”
My sight darkened, the hearth dying. I focused on Deceit, trying to ignore the anger and bone-chilling touch on my shoulder. I filled my lungs with a slow breath, and the light grew. My blood was warm, but still…
The Shadow. It was with me.
“Courtesans?” Lucien asked.
“What do courtesans have to do with the guild?”
“The guild—” Briarwood paused, and the realm seemed to stop breathing.
“The guild is set below a brothel in Sariem. The whorehouse is a front, and the whores… Well, the whores are god servers.”
My chest tangled. Deceit, the guild—
The god’s burning rage ended my thoughts. Deceit did not speak. A dire burden expanded against the walls of my skull, and he peeled away from me. The god left me alone. He left to warn the others.
“Those cursed fiends will see King Paden’s guillotine!” Lucien shouted.
I sank my teeth into my bottom lip—Lilian’s lip—and chewed the inside of my cheek.
“Do not celebrate what has yet to come,” Alistair snapped.
“We cannot afford to underestimate the power of the gods’ chosen.”
“Lord Alistair,” Lucien began.
“The reign of man will supersede the gods. The forces of the king continue to grow. More god servers are ripped from the lands every day.”
The Raven Lord spoke through clenched teeth.
“And our men fall too.”
“Indeed,” Briarwood added.
“Which brings me to our next matter. The Calhourns.”
“What of the Calhourns?” Lord Alistair’s tone lessened, underlined with pain.
“Alistair, I know Percival was a friend of yours, though we must accept truths. He attempted to ratify the slavery laws of elves.”
My stomach wrenched.
Neil gulped air.
“Is this true? Percival Calhourn?”
Briarwood continued.
“We discovered correspondence between him and the ruler of Caelithien. Percival—” And the lord silenced. His chalice struck the table.
“Where is that damn servant with our wine?”
I closed my eyes, clawing for Lilian’s features. I feigned my novel presence, opening the door and slamming it shut.
“Impeccable timing,” Neil jested.
My feet curved around the bend of the tree and beyond the spiring bookcases. Blood pounding in my veins, I kept my hands stable and filled the men’s chalices.
“Where is the other servant?” Briarwood inquired as I—Lilian—poured wine into his cup.
I altered my voice.
“Unwell, my lord. She needed rest.”
Briarwood scoffed.
“Rest? Gods, Alistair, your servants are coddled under your keeping.”
Though the hearth blazed at my back, the air was still cold.
As I prepared to pour Alistair’s wine, he lifted his hand over his chalice in refute. I met his gaze, and he surveyed me slowly. I held my eyes olive, though he pondered them. My lips were thin, yet they claimed his interest for a lengthened pause. In my bones, through my flesh, I sent the art of deception to keep my hands poised. Calm. But I felt unveiled by Alistair’s gaze.
One edge of his lip stole a curl, then left without a trace.
I yearned to ask the god for a comfort I knew he would never give. There was now a void, the low hum of his voice unable to meet my fears.
Briarwood resumed.
“Upon his father’s death, Percival, the legal heir to the slavery contracts, promised to free elvish slaves in Andraelian lands. He was not alone, though his accomplice has yet to be identified.” A long breath drew silence.
“Eoin, have you any say?” Lord Briarwood summoned to the lightless corner.
Brooding there, a dark silhouette melted into the stones. I approached this stranger to fill his chalice, some features becoming clear, and surveyed the faint reflection of fire in his eyes, inscrutable. He was not a stone like Alistair, but more a wall of mist.
“The Shadows are many, Lord Briarwood,” Eoin spoke in the dark, mouth hidden, eyes like floating orbs. He reached out, his hand and forearm catching faint firelight, and grabbed his chalice. Each movement was slow enough that I found it strange.
“I do not fear for the fate of man,” he said.
“The gods will fall.”
“What of the matron?” Briarwood asked.
“Has she any say on the matter?”
Eoin’s voice was like winds through a dense wood—jagged and wispy.
“The webbings of the dark are ink upon the maps of the lands. Everlasting stains contorting the dynasty of the gods’ reign. Our matron has seen the gods fall from the Everlaides and drown in the Shadows that devour them whole. The light of elves is smothered in despair. The dark is thirsting, my lord. Our time is near.”
Neil shivered in Eoin’s company, and so did I. I filled Neil’s chalice, his foot tapping rapidly, and he whispered thanks under his breath.
Wine slid down Briarwood’s throat.
“Good. And in the meantime, Lord Douglas will enforce the slavery contracts. It seemed to escape the gods that Douglas possessed the deed to the estate and all belongings under the Calhourns.”
My heart withered. Did… did Percy die in vain?
The bottle slipped from my hand, shattering upon the ground, and sending Briarwood to his feet.
“Gods, woman!” He lifted his hand, shallow cheeks accentuating the hatred in his eyes.
Alistair shot up. His chair flew back.
“Briarwood, set down your hand.”
Briarwood threw his palm. It came for me. I gasped, pivoted back, falling against Alistair, and Briarwood’s hand barely missed me. Alistair held me from behind, hands hard around my arms, and moved me aside.
I reached for my face, feeling Lilian’s skin still intact. I sighed in relief, but the relief quickly died. My sight, the library, it… It all grew dim. The sensation of dark magic—that cold, sinister touch—crept along my bones. It taunted me, calling for me to strike Briarwood. To take his chalice and wail it against his pounding temple.
Gods, the Shadow.
Alistair took his place between Briarwood and me, Alistair showing me his back.
I garnered a slow breath, trying as I could to focus on warmth as the Shadow burned me with deep, dark cold.
“You are too damn forgiving of your servants!” Briarwood bellowed, shaking the estate, marking me over Alistair’s shoulder.
“Briarwood, you will not lay a hand on another one of my servants or advisors as long as you keep under my roof. Do you understand?”
“Alistair—”
“Do you understand?” His command wailed in the library, trembling the books.
My own smile etched across Lilian’s face.
Alistair turned to me, to Lilian, with brows carved in wrath.
“Leave us.”
I nodded and fled without delay, parting from tense, lingering silence.
“So…” Neil cleared his throat.
“Has there been any news of the amulet?” He asked, foot still tapping a ruckus.
My ears perked. I tucked behind the tree, remembering Lord Alistair’s journal and the illustration of the stone.
Eoin spoke.
“He who carries the amulet, carries the light. The Shadows search but cannot find. It remains hidden from our matron’s eyes.”
“And what of you, Lord Alistair?” Lucien chimed in.
“I know nothing,” Alistair claimed, but I could hear it—words crafted of deception.
I left the library, but my blood still pulsed with the thirst for knowledge. As the door barred at my back, my aim fixed on the lord’s chamber to find his journal.
…
Lilian’s flesh walked the halls, but my heart was awake and alive beneath her chest. Leaving Briarwood and the others to plot and scheme, warmth slowly came back to me. The Shadow lessened, but my mind became a different kind of torment—the guild, Briarwood, dark magic, Alistair, Percy—but I stifled the loud thoughts as best I could. Deceit silenced them better.
Many passages were at an end. This place was a labyrinth testing my familiarity. Emptied nooks, voided chambers, long stretched halls with a battalion of doors. I had passed Alistair’s chamber some days ago, snooping about, but I was now being turned around again and again.
The halls creaked, and it made me wonder—were they possessed to move?
Round another corner, I found that oak door, standing alone from the rest of the estate. I approached and grabbed the handle.
The door was locked.
I fought a grunt, frustrations budding, and unsheathed two needles from my hair and stabbed the metal into the keyhole. I listened for the clinks and felt the notches. A click, a tick, and the door swung open, pouring in the wilted moonlight that made dust sparkle like dour stars.
The door latched at my back. I was quick to work, Lilian’s fingers rummaging through the parchments on the table where an oil lantern burned bright. I did not think much of how empty Alistair’s chambers were. No swords or shields or tapestries or artifacts. Simple, bare.
Beneath a mound of papers, there was nothing but the woodgrains of the table.
Setting the papers down, I knocked over a basin, ink spilling. Sands. I tilted it upright, wiped my inky hands on my linens, and kept to it. His wardrobe was near empty, apart from tailored shirts and polished shoes, untouched. Still, nothing. I then dug into the lord’s dresser, hands mixed in with trousers, and I scratched at leather. My hand stilled, then I rubbed it gently, feeling the wear and tear through years of use.
The Raven Lord’s journal.
I shone it to the oil lantern’s light, the flame dancing to celebrate my triumph. Steering clear of the ink, I set the journal down, and the pages splayed willingly. Finally, something eager to share secrets. No delay, I grinded one page against the other, searching. Halfway in, I found it.
The Amulet of Light was hardly legible above the drawn chain, that messy penmanship. Portions of the script were in another language. I ignored those and read what I could.
Lifting the page to my nose, squinting with the lantern’s flame, I read, Tombs of the dark conceal the light. Those in search must face the plight. Rival in games and riddles galore, only then might one be adorned. Though be cautious death does not find you first. For it is the dark that conceals the light.
Gods, the mysteries.
Two pages on, there was a mapping of the realm. I followed the road to Sariem, beyond the mountains to the fortress of Shalimier, and to the small villages of the eastern outskirts before falling into the Viking sea.
Cross slashes marked locations I did not know. The markings appeared disorderly, drawn upon flats, plateaus, and mountains. My early education was proper. I should know locations of consequence, but I was unable to identify these.
Much to the West, where elves often threaded trees, dismal x’s occupied the terrains, though it appeared the lord had begun whatever conquest he’d aspired. Nearly half the markings were black, and the others were burgundy.
I was ravenous for answers, my eyes consuming the pages as I could, but I was interrupted.
Footsteps.
I dropped the journal upon parchment and threw my eyes around the chamber, looking for an escape. Unless I could mold myself into a floorboard, I was without.
The doorknob turned.
Burning my skin, I let go of Lilian and thought of another—the door was opening—I grew my hair, cinched my waist, cleansed the spots on my face, the scar on my neck—their foot stepped within—swelled my breasts and stretched my spine.
Alistair entered and immediately glared.
“Freya,” the lord sneered.
“What are you doing here?” Shadow’s work painted his skin, black veins bending up his neck.
“What in the gods are you wearing?” He asked, iron-browed.
I looked down. Freya’s curves were lost in the baggy, ivory linens, and black ink smeared along the waist. My mind ached in just the thought of deceiving with words, but I curdled the air in my lungs regardless.
“My lord, you do not care for lavender silk?”
“Are you drunk?” he asked, no tell of the god’s spell apparent in his eyes.
The sour air wafted from my mouth, my skull feeling as though it was fracturing in two.
“I am wearing a silk gown, my lord. Can you not see it?”
His eyes roamed over me—Freya—curiously.
I was not convinced Deception’s spell won Alistair’s mind… Again. This, someone being untouched by the god’s magic, had never happened before I’d met the Raven Lord.
Alistair paid no further attention to the matter.
“Freya, why have you come?” He lashed.
“I only wished to know you were well. After what happened in Tharen Crest—”
“What happens to me does not concern you. Gods, your father will celebrate the day of my death.” The lord muttered.
“The damn contract between our fathers is unbreakable.”
“Contract?” The question slipped out.
“You are drunk, aren’t you? Your breath smells like sour wine.”
Alistair turned towards the table, focus taken to his journal—carelessly placed, unburied. Freya’s hands were painted in ink. My hands were guilty.
He twisted his neck just enough to see the ink on my linens. Lines burrowed upon his face, setting deep. I held onto my mask. Alistair turned and lurched nearer, sealing the void that set between us. The veins of the dark drew the length of his neck, webbing in endless beginnings.
I called for Deceit within me. He did not answer. He was not here.
Lord Alistair’s tone was haunting as he towered above me.
“What are you searching for?” My words did not come, and he gnashed.
“What are you searching for, Freya?”
“Nothing, my lord.”
He snarled.
“I do not believe you.” Leaning nearer, I could smell the death wreaking on his breath, saw it written in the black veins.
“My lord,” I shook.
“I only wanted to ensure you were well.”
Muscles flexed upon his jaw. Anger plagued his tone.
“I can hear your lies. Are you searching for the contract? Claiming it so that your father might kill me and take my land?”
I drew out fake tears.
“My lord, never. I cherish your life. Our courtship may be annulled, but—”
“Gods, Freya.” His breath slowed.
“When will you allow this to end? I know, just as you do, that our fathers forced us together with nothing but damn parchment and ink.”
Here, I saw it again—the burden in his eyes.
“My lord?” Every piece of me that knew reason cried for me to run—to flee from the man infested with Shadow—but something of me yearned to stay. To know.
“What troubles you?”
“Troubles?” His laugh barely broke through his throat.
“What is this realm if not troubles upon troubles?” Alistair stood before his desk, running his fingers over the pile of parchment.
“Do you remember when our fathers first announced we were to court?” His tone softened, finding me at the edge of his sight.
I did not speak. I did not have the memories to offer.
His smile did not touch his eyes.
“When we were children, sitting at the table with the contract before us, all I felt was anger. Anger that my father was pulling the strings of my future.” The lantern’s light danced along his loose jaw, slipping into his black eyes and dissolving into nothing.
“And I remember how you cried at the thought of living beside someone like me.”
I carved Freya’s brow line into my own.
“The years have changed us, have they not?”
“No.” The lord twisted where he stood, facing me with crossed arms.
“You are still a woman of infinite sadness. Not even the ire of your brow can deceive me otherwise. And I am still a man of anger, hanging in the balance of shadows and life.”
I pried.
“Is that all you believe yourself to be? A life of anger goaded by the dark?”
“When was the last time you saw the brilliant light of the sun, Miss Brine? It does not bless this age, and so too shall man neither be blessed.”
I was playing with balance—I had many words at the tip of my tongue, but Freya was my mask. I did not know Freya well enough to offer any say. But… I desperately wanted him to keep talking.
“Do you believe that, in the darkest of places, the light might shine?” I asked.
His lips half quirked.
“If I were a prophet of old, I might agree. But based on what life has given me? No. Light is dead.”
“You’d make a terrible prophet.”
A grin cracked on his lips as he watched me pace forward, into the light, where the flames caught Freya’s face. I stole a page of parchment and lifted it between pinched fingers. He scowled, but I continued to toy with the edges of parchment as we fixed our eyes upon the other. Taken by the dark waters flooding his gaze, I felt something I did not understand. Hot or cold, rough or smooth, killing or lifegiving—I could not tell.
I considered one of my younger brother’s books I had read in childhood—The Early Church of the Gods, a Disciple’s Faith to Obedience. I could see the text scribbled in the air.
“You know, the prophets understood the makings of creation and hailed the light as sanctified. They kept close whatever fragment of splendor they could.”
“And when prophets killed the innocent in sacrifice to their gods? What light was found in such an hour?”
I giggled a breath.
“I am surprised you know so much about the era of the churches,” I said.
“Most of Andrael prefers to forget that era.” He did not speak, letting his mysteries remain his, so I continued, “No one is truly innocent, though, are they? But, I do believe, even in the dark of this age, a light carries, perhaps unseen. Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” He challenged.
“For us to open our eyes.”
“My eyes are open, I assure you.”
And I fell into those eyes, darker than night, and whispered.
“But they have been shadowed, haven’t they?” We traded long, devoted stares.
“But, even when you cannot see the light, it is there, always with us, since man’s conception.”
Eyes tight, Alistair glanced at my jaw, neck, and hair. He held my eyes, as though he saw something within them. His gaze deepened, his attention heightened. I did not know what it was he saw. My mask was strong, I could feel it.
He whispered lowly.
“You do not speak as Freya Brine.”
My heart nearly came out of my throat.
Rooted in the god’s magic, I remained calm.
“Yes, well, recent days have left me contemplative, my lord. When you had said our courtship was to be annulled, it has given me much to think of.”
“So you’ve become a woman of philosophy overnight?” He laid my fables bare.
I feigned a smile, but, gods, I was near unraveling.
“Far from such. I have been spending more time in the library, hoping to understand the realm. The estate is all I have come to know, and with our courtship annulled—”
“Why do you continue to deny me the truth?”
“Deny the truth?” I reached out to him as Freya might.
“I do not—” And recoiled.
Dark blood twisted beneath his skin, carrying to his face from all angles.
“I deny no truth, my lord.” I shivered. “I—”
The dark lord took an abrupt step towards me, ungodly fast. Animalistic.
I trembled back.
“Do you not understand?” He hissed.
“I have become a master of lies.”
He turned from me in a violent twist and planted his palms upon the desk, his shoulder blades fanned out like wings.
Two voices spoke. “Leave.”
Before I could step, Alistair turned to me, joints cracking. Skin lost color. Black blood strung up his face, flooding his eyes. I was frightened. Any conflictions he may have had shriveled into nothingness, leaving behind a beast. No, not a beast. A beast would have been forgiving. This was the Shadow.
“LEAVE! NOW!” His roar blistered my ears and sent me running.
I fled into the darkened passageways. A waterfall of yellow hair was a cape at my back. The stone walls echoed my footfall, frantic and pounding. I entered another hallway. A door grinded behind me.
“Freya?” Lucien’s voice chased my shadow as I wore his daughter’s face.
“What has happened, Freya?”
My feet scraped as I turned another corner without looking back.
“Father? Are you all right?” Freya asked from behind.
My heart tensed. My fists clenched. Just keep running, I told myself.
“But, I—” Lucien cut himself short.
“What is it?”
“I thought I saw… Nothing.”
I ripped my chamber door open and fell to my mattress. My teeth could have shattered in my bite. Near tears, they wouldn’t break out. My breaths were heaving up my throat, hitching twice in my windpipe before freeing.
Gods, I couldn’t keep doing this alone.
You’ll die here, you’ll die here, you’ll die here—I should have listened to myself when I first arrived. Fled into the night and never looked back. But, Deceit… he would make me look back. He’d remind me of all my shortcomings. He’d remind me of my vows. No matter how near death I was, this was my place in Andrael.
At the sharp of mankind’s blade.
A breeze scurried through the open window, giving me pause. The breeze was not of winter. It was warm and soothing—the Goddess of Wind embraced me. Though something of her presence let a tear escape. A deep mourning. Upon her winds, a note fluttered into my chamber and landed upon the windowsill. I pinched the corner of the parchment.
From on high, my god came down to me, swarming my mind. He brought a storm with him, rattling me within, heavy.
My heart pounded. Deceit? What has happened?
The guild. His godly weight dragged me down, a monument of burdens.
I unfolded the letter. My heart died.
Sister, I need you. Now.
Vera.