7. Esme
ESME
Three weeks in the Tagnadaet estate carve a rigid, suffocating pattern into my bones.
By day, the theater demands perfection. I wear the degrading emerald silks and the collar, walking through the crushed pearl pathways of the gardens.
I play the favored pet. I keep my eyes lowered, my posture submissive, masking the feral tension coiling my muscles.
Zuirvih plays the arrogant tyrant, his hand resting possessively on my waist, his gaze daring Zatori’s spies to challenge his claim.
The facade keeps Zatori’s assassins at bay. It keeps Kalan breathing.
But the nights strip the illusion away.
A violent, wet cough tears through the thick stone walls separating my bedchamber from the master suite. It is a ragged, agonizing noise, the sound of tearing tissue and drowning lungs. It echoes into the quiet darkness, dragging me from a restless sleep.
I stare up at the draped canopy of the bed, my chest tight. The coughing fits have worsened. Three weeks ago, they were brief, stifled behind locked doors. Tonight, the hacking drags on for agonizing minutes, punctuated by the shattering of glass and a low, guttural groan.
Survival in Vhoig requires constant calculation.
The Tagnadaet lord is my only shield. His cruel reputation and chaotic magic form the invisible barrier keeping Kalan safe from the torture pits.
If that shield splinters—if the rot inside Zuirvih finally claims his life—the estate falls.
Zatori will sweep in before the skin cools, and my son will be bled dry on a Serpent altar.
I need to know how much time we have left.
I throw back the silk sheets, the cool midnight air biting at my bare arms. Sliding off the mattress, my feet make no sound against the black marble.
In the corner of the room, a mountain of bristling black fur shifts.
Vesper raises his massive head, one crimson eye cracking open in the gloom.
The Batlaz lets out a soft, questioning huff.
I point a finger toward Kalan, curled into a tight ball amid the pillows.
Vesper lowers his snout, resting his jaw delicately over the boy’s dangling foot. The beast guards the child with a terrifying devotion, a loyal sentinel in a house of monsters.
Turning away, I slip through the bedroom door and out into the vast, winding corridors of the western wing.
The estate at midnight is a labyrinth of shifting shadows and lethal patrols.
The high archways let in the bruised, starlit glow of the sky, casting long, warped shapes across the floorboards.
I press my back against the cold stone of the walls, moving with the practiced, soundless grace of a Lowtown thief.
Every step is measured. The thin linen of my nightgown rustles barely louder than a breath.
A rhythmic, metallic clink echoes from the adjacent hall.
I freeze, molding my body into the recess of a recessed statuary alcove.
Two Miou warriors pass the intersection, their dark armor absorbing the moonlight.
Indigo gaze scans the corridor with mechanical precision, their hands resting on the hilts of their curved blades.
Commander Jarek’s men do not sleep. They do not falter.
I hold my breath, waiting until the rhythmic footfalls fade into the lower levels.
Pushing off the wall, I follow the layout of the wing toward Zuirvih’s private study. The master of Vhoig rarely sleeps, retreating to this windowless room to conduct his affairs—or, more recently, to hide his decay.
The towering iron doors wait at the end of the hall.
They are slightly ajar.
A careless, dangerous mistake. A Khuzuth noble does not leave his sanctum open to the prying eyes of the estate. He leaves a gap only if he lacks the physical strength to pull the deadbolts shut.
I slip through the narrow opening, the metal biting into my shoulder as I squeeze inside.
The study is plunged into near-total darkness, illuminated only by the faint, dying embers in the hearth. The air inside is thick, suffocating. It burns the back of my throat, saturated with the biting tang of raw ozone, the spiced sting of Zhisk, and a metallic, sickeningly sweet copper scent.
Fresh blood.
My pulse hammers against the gold chain resting at my collarbone.
I step deeper into the room, navigating the labyrinth of velvet chairs and overflowing bookshelves.
The chaotic magic lingering in the air crackles weakly, purple sparks popping against the obsidian desk before fizzling out into nothingness. The magic is misfiring. Dying.
A shape rests on the floorboards near the hearth.
I creep forward, my breath snagging in my chest.
Zuirvih lies sprawled across the woven rug, his frame reduced to a broken, fallen statue.
The impeccable midnight blue tunic is torn open at the collar.
His silver braids, normally bound with meticulous precision, spill across the black marble in a chaotic, tangled halo.
The skin of his face is bleached to a sickly, translucent bone-white, shining with a layer of cold sweat.
He does not move. The erratic, shallow hitch of his chest provides the only proof he still lives.
A crystal decanter lies in glittering shards inches from his outstretched hand. The amber liquor pools across the stone, soaking into the rug. It mixes with a thick, oily black substance.
I step closer, my bare toes almost touching the spill. The dark fluid drips from his chin, staining the pale skin of his throat. He has been coughing up his own corrupted blood.
The instinct to turn and run fights against the desperate need for information. A blind escape into the night with a toddler guarantees capture. I must assess the structural integrity of my captor. If he is days away from death, I must pack provisions and bribe a smuggler before dawn.
I drop to my knees beside him.
The heat radiating from his skin is alarming, washing over my face in fevered waves. The glamour he uses to paint his face healthy is entirely gone. The raw, unmasked truth of his condition is a terrifying sight.
The black veins I witnessed weeks ago have spread.
They are no longer confined to his chest. The necrotic lines crawl up his throat, forming an intricate, putrid web of poison that creeps over his jawline and disappears into his hairline.
They throb with a sickly, rhythmic pulse, raised against the delicate tissue of his neck.
I lean over him, my hands trembling as I reach out. I need to gauge the texture of the rot, to understand if the necrosis is surface-level or consuming the muscle beneath.
My fingertips brush the fever-hot skin of his collarbone.
The dark veins feel hard, like wire buried under the flesh. The poison radiates a cold, chaotic energy that stings the pads of my fingers, a jarring contrast to the burning fever of his skin.
A violent spasm rips through his chest.
Before I can pull my hand away, a blur of motion strikes.
His arm snaps upward with blinding, impossible speed. Leather-clad fingers close around my throat.
The grip is a vice of skeletal, terrifying strength.
The air supply cuts off instantly. My hands fly up, clawing desperately at his thick wrist, but the muscles beneath the leather are locked like iron.
He hauls himself upward, his towering frame blocking the dying embers of the hearth, pinning me to the floorboards.
His head snaps toward me, eyes snapping open.
There is no aristocratic mockery in his gaze. No cold, calculating intellect. The pupils are blown wide, the irises blazing with a feral, unhinged fever. He stares at me, a dying, cornered beast ready to rip the throat from the intruder who dared to witness his vulnerability.