Chapter VII
VII.
brYNN
The door closed behind her with a sound like a tomb sealing shut.
Brynn stood frozen for a couple of full heartbeats. Then she let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, her hands shaking as she pressed them against her thighs.
Holy shit. Holy shit.
She'd just told The Reaper, the actual fucking Reaper, the Death Lord everyone in the kingdom whispered about in terror, that he didn't scare her. She'd walked right up to his throne when his entire court kept twelve feet back. She'd met those dark eyes and refused to flinch.
And now she was alone, and her knees felt like water.
She moved to the nearest chair, its frame carved from pale bone, the armrests ending in curled skeletal fingers. She sank into it before her legs could give out completely. Her hands were still trembling. She pressed them flat against her knees, trying to stop the shaking through sheer willpower.
Get it together, Brynn.
She forced herself to look around the room properly.
The walls were covered in dark purple silk, so deep it was almost black, but this was no ordinary fabric.
Woven into the silk were scenes of death, hauntingly beautiful tableaus that seemed to move and depict the scene.
A woman in a field of flowers, her soul rising from her body.
A battle frozen mid-slaughter, warriors falling in almost graceful poses.
A child sleeping peacefully while a shadowy figure bent over the bed.
The images moved. The woman's soul drifted higher. The warriors fell further. The shadow's hand reached closer to the sleeping child.
She looked away.
The furniture was carved from wood so dark it was almost black, but bone accents decorated every piece.
Drawer pulls shaped like finger bones, a mirror framed in polished bone.
The bed was massive, its headboard formed from curved bones that arched overhead like protective arms. Or a cage.
The posts were wrapped in carved bone vines bearing flowers that, on closer inspection, were tiny skulls with petals.
Someone here really loves their bone collection. Either that, or there's a truly impressive graveyard somewhere nearby.
The absurd thought steadied her slightly. Made this feel less like a nightmare and more like a very strange place with very strange decorating choices.
Guest quarters. Not a cell. Not servant's lodgings.
What the hell did that make her?
She moved to the windows. Always check your exits, even when you know there aren't any. The heavy curtains, made of that purple silk, were pulled back to reveal something that made her stomach drop all over again.
The sky hung in eternal twilight, deep purple bleeding into midnight blue, never brightening to day or darkening to full night.
In the distance, palace spires of black stone and pale bone rose against that unchanging sky, their Gothic architecture stark and severe.
She could see ribcage archways connecting towers, windows framed in what might have been jawbones.
Figures in dark robes walked between the spires, their movements unnaturally smooth, too fluid to be entirely human.
She let the curtain fall and backed away from the window, her hands shaking again.
She just told him she wasn’t scared. She looked him in the eye and said he didn't scare her.
The worst part? She'd meant it in the moment.
Standing there with his entire court watching, with those dark eyes fixed on her like she was something he couldn't quite figure out, she'd felt more alive than she had in months.
More herself than she'd been since the moment guards dragged her out of that underground chamber.
But now, alone in this too-fancy room with death scenes shifting on the walls, the fear caught up.
She kept moving. Better to map her cage than stand still and let the panic settle in.
The bathing room was carved from black marble veined with white, looking unsettlingly like exposed bone.
A chandelier of tiny interlocked finger bones hung overhead, holding candles that burned with that same cold blue flame.
When her fingertips accidentally brushed the edge of the tub, warmth pulsed under her palm.
She jerked her hand back so fast she nearly lost her balance.
"Don't touch anything. Don't touch anyone. Don't touch me."
His voice echoed in her memory, all rough command and danger. She'd spent years learning to read people: merchants, marks, city guards who could smell desperation streets away. But the Reaper was a locked vault. All sharp edges and shadows that moved on their own.
Like those black gloves he never removed, even sitting on his own throne of reaching bone hands. Like how his entire court kept twelve feet of distance as if their lives depended on it. Like how they'd looked ready to faint when she'd walked right up to where they wouldn't dare go.
Like how he'd gone still when she'd gotten close, then practically snarled at her to stay back.
What kind of Death Lord needs that much distance from everyone?
She should investigate more. Map the room properly, test the door, and look for weaknesses. But exhaustion slammed into her hard enough to make her stumble. The journey through the death realm, the terror of the selection, the month in a cell before that. It all crashed down on her at once.
Her legs gave out. She barely made it to the bed before collapsing onto silk sheets that felt too smooth against her skin. The bone-frame headboard arched over her. On the wall beside her, the death tapestry showed a young woman drowning, her expression peaceful as bubbles escaped her lips.
Don't look at it. Don't think about it.
Sleep dragged her under before she could fight it.
Dreams came in fragments. Black eyes watching her like she was a threat. Shadows reaching for her with desperate hunger before snapping back. The Reaper's voice, low and rough. The death scenes on her walls coming alive, figures stepping out of the silk to circle her bed.
Three sharp knocks jolted her awake, heart already racing.
Twilight glow filtered through the curtains. Slightly lighter than before. Morning, she assumed. She'd slept through the entire night.
"Miss Brynn?" A woman's voice called through the door. "I've brought breakfast."
Brynn sat up, trying to shake off the lingering nightmares. The drowning woman on the wall had drifted lower, her peaceful face now turned toward the bed.
"Come in."
The door opened. A woman stepped inside carrying a silver tray, and Brynn had to blink twice to convince herself she was seeing correctly.
She looked solid enough. Dark hair pulled back in a practical knot, sharp cheekbones, clothes that seemed real.
But something about the way light passed through her was off, like looking at someone standing behind frosted glass.
"You need to eat," she said, setting the tray down on the small table near the window. The clink of metal on wood sounded real enough.
"Thanks." Brynn studied her, the no-nonsense set of her mouth, the way she moved like someone who'd stopped being impressed by much of anything a long time ago. "I'm Brynn."
"Naia." She moved to leave.
"Wait." Brynn gestured to the tray. "Is there anything I should know? About all this?"
Naia paused, one translucent hand still on the door handle. She turned back to study Brynn with new interest. "Most tributes are too busy falling apart to ask questions."
"I'm not most tributes."
Approval flickered across her features. "No, you're not. You're still standing, for one thing."
The way she said it made Brynn's chest tighten. "Should I not be?"
Naia was quiet for a long moment, as if weighing her words. "The girl before you spent her first three days curled up in her bed, crying." A pause. "The one before her tried to climb out a window on the second night." She glanced toward the curtains. "Thirty-foot drop into thorns that bite back."
"What happened to them?"
"What happens to all of you, eventually." Her voice went neutral. "The death realm isn't meant for mortal hearts. It pulls at you, bit by bit."
"How long do I have?"
"Depends on how smart you are. How cautious." She crossed her arms, and Brynn noticed her fingers looked more solid when she was thinking hard. "Some manage weeks. The longest lasted almost two months. Smart girl, kept her head down, learned the court politics."
"What happened to her?"
"The realm got her in the end. It always does." Naia's voice went flat. "Woke up one morning and she was just... done."
Dread crawled up Brynn's spine. On the wall, the death tapestry seemed darker than before. The drowning woman's hand had risen, reaching toward the surface that would never come. "And the others?"
"Most fade bit by bit. But some..." She moved toward the door, then stopped. "There was one girl who thought she was different. Thought she could change the rules."
"What did she do?"
Naia's back was still turned, but Brynn could hear the tension in her voice. "Tried to seduce him. Thought if she got close enough, pretty enough, he'd let her past all that distance he keeps."
"What happened?"
When Naia looked back at her, her expression was haunted. "She learned why everyone calls him The Reaper. And why the distance isn't cruelty. It's the only thing keeping you alive."
Brynn's mouth went dry. "What does that mean?"
"It means his control isn't perfect." She met Brynn's eyes, and for a moment she looked completely solid. Afraid. "The distance is mercy. Remember that." She moved to the door. "I'll return in an hour to help you dress for court."
The door closed behind her, leaving Brynn alone with the sound of her own heartbeat and the death scenes shifting silently on the walls.
She forced herself to eat. Bread, fruit, tea.
Though she barely tasted any of it, her mind was elsewhere.
Girls who got too close and learned hard lessons.
The way The Reaper's jaw had clenched when she'd stepped into his space.
The way his shadows had seemed to reach for her before he'd jerked them back.
She checked her vest draped over the chair. Her fingers found the hidden pockets along the inner seams. The two small tools were still there. The delicate probe and the tension wrench that warmed in her palm. Good.
She moved to the wardrobe and stared at its contents for longer than she cared to admit.
Three gowns hung inside, each more elaborate than anything she'd ever worn. Deep purple velvet with silver threading that caught the light like spider silk. Black silk with bone buttons carved into tiny skulls. Dark blue with sleeves that would trail past her fingertips.
All of them screamed Death Court nobility. All of them would mark her as either trying too hard or entirely out of place.
She picked the blue. If she was going to stand out in a room full of purple shadows and death imagery, she might as well commit to it. Let them see she wasn't trying to blend in.
The fabric felt strange against her skin—too smooth, too expensive, nothing like the rough cotton she was used to.
The neckline was lower than she preferred, but higher than the others.
The sleeves were fitted to her wrists, leaving her hands exposed.
She wondered if that was intentional, if everyone would be able to tell she wasn't wearing gloves like he did.
She was struggling with the back lacing when a knock at the door interrupted her frustration.
"Come in," she called, grateful for the help.
Naia entered and moved behind her without being asked, her translucent fingers surprisingly quick with the intricate lacings. "Blue was a good choice," she said. "Shows you're not trying to disappear into the shadows."
"Should I be?"
"No." She pulled the laces snug. "Hiding never works here. Better to stand out for the right reasons than the wrong ones." She finished with the laces and stepped back. "The Reaper has summoned you to attend morning court."
"Of course he has." Brynn took a breath.
On the wall behind her, the drowning woman had finally stopped sinking. Her eyes were open now, staring directly at Brynn with an expression that might have been a warning.
Or welcome.