Chapter Nine
ELYSSARA
I can smell the festering skin between my shoulder blades. Rotting flesh mingles with the perfume still lingering on my gown, and it feels like a mirror for my life—sinister rot covered with pretty illusions.
I can’t sleep.
I can’t eat—not that I want to eat the stale bread thrown onto the floor like I truly am a gutter rat.
Fever and nausea grip me, curling through my blood in the same way Kael did—insidious, intoxicating, and meant to undo me. Cool sweat slicks my skin in the frigid cold of the dungeons, but nothing can chase away the burn that spreads through my veins.
I know the wound is infected.
I need medicine.
Now.
I drift between here and the dreamscape—a haunting overlap of rough hands brushing my hair back.
Muscled arms wrapping around me. Wicked lips tracing the column of my neck.
A voice of a low, raw timber whispering pretty promises into my ear.
Calloused hands gliding over my hip like I’m something sacred. Kael. My Starbound. My undoing.
My sickness and my solace.
But reality won’t let me go—won’t let me have more than a moment of peace. It drags me back by my hair into this forgotten, festering wound of Aevryn; Kryntar Castle.
Sounds warp.
Creaks turn into screams. Coughs into battle cries. Boot steps into lullabies.
I’m burning up—my skin blazes like the sun. Fierce and inescapable.
The iron gate of my cell screams loudly enough that it shakes me from my delusions, and through the haze of my consciousness that barely keeps its grip on me, I see Correk’s unreadable expression staring down at me.
“Come ‘ere, love. Drink this,” he says, hooking his hands under my arms to force me to sit. I almost topple over, but his hands catch me—steady, solid. He shoves a small vial to my lips and the pungent odor transports me to Rubi’s makeshift infirmary at Thornewood—aromatic elixirs and acrid tonics clinging to the air.
“What is this?” I slur, words thick on my tongue.
“Steeped lunabark and willowbalm,” he explains. “Drink it and by the gods’ mercy, sleep will claim you.”
“Voidroot and ale would’ve been better,” I try to retort, but it comes out garbled. “And, the gods have left us—I’m at war with the fates now.”
“No, love. No. You’re at war with yourself,” Correk says with certainty, shoving the vial back to my lips, and I drink it down hungrily, praying to someone—anyone—that sleep will take me. “This is not a question for the fates to answer, Princess—this is a choice you must make.”
I cough on the tart medicine, “Bullshit. I chose to trust, to love, to let people in.” I grit my teeth, “Look where it fucking got me!”
“Deceit did that, Princess. Not love. Don’t forget who you’re fighting. Don’t forget what you’re fighting for,” Correk pushes emphatically.
I know what I’ve been fighting for, but all of it—the prophecy, my family, my crown, my friends, Zerynthia, Kael—are lost to me now. I’ll never leave. I’ll face Vessira and Maldrak every day until my body gives out and the Stars claim me. There’s no point pretending otherwise.
Hope is for dreamers.
I rest my elbows on my knees, hanging my head. “Fuck off, Correk. I don’t need pretty words. So, unless you’re going to break me out, just leave me to rot in my cell and run back to your master.”
Correk exhales loudly, sighing with exasperation.
“Can I at least use this balm on your wound?” he asks, holding a jar in his hands, and ignoring my contempt.
I don’t say anything, and he moves carefully. My back is exposed with the revealing gown cutting low, and as Correk’s eyes lock onto the brand, he sucks in a sharp breath.
“Fuck,” he winces.
I huff a bitter laugh, “That bad, huh?”
“It’s not good, love,” he admits. “Not just the wound… the brand itself.”
I haven’t wanted to know. Haven’t wanted to acknowledge the brand I now wear—it may as well be a fucking collar. I plead with myself to resist the temptation. Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask.
“What is it?” Fuck.
Correk doesn’t speak. He weighs his words, measures them with the sort of care that only comes with an unwanted truth.
“It’s the Thorne family crest, love,” he admits solemnly.
The world tilts.
Sound drains from the world.
My pulse fractures.
Of course it is.
Kael Thorne has already branded my heart, ruined me so thoroughly that there’s no going back, and now I have to wear his family crest on my skin? But he’s already under my skin, burrowed into the marrow of my bones, etched into my soul.
This is a sick joke fit for Lukis, God of Luck & Trickery.
Tears run in rivulets down my face unbidden. My stomach twists, roiling and lurching, and this time, not from the infection. I spin to my side, retching and heaving.
To wear Maldrak’s last name on my skin is degrading. To wear Kael’s is torment.
Correk takes the opportunity to smear balm over my infected wound, and through my tears and torment, I hiss at the sting. “Fuck,” I grit out.
“I’m sorry, love. I’m sorry,” Correk says with a tenderness I didn’t know I needed.
The heavy door at the top of the dungeon stairs booms open, “Correk!” Vessira’s voice belts through the dungeons.
The air shifts.
Hope’s always been a thief’s trick—there one moment, vanished the next.
“Yes, Commander,” Correk replies compliantly, swiftly tucking the balm and vial into his pockets. “I’m ensuring the Lightborne is still alive.”
Her heavy footfall begins down the stairs, and Correk leans in close, dropping his voice into a hushed whisper, “You know, Princess—lillath chains only nullify Starborn magic, and if my intel is correct, you have more than that running through your veins. Just a thought.”
Holy fucking Stars.
He winks at me, scrambling up, standing tall, and bowing his head in deference before Vessira reaches the bottom step.
My mind reels with Correk’s words.
My magic from the gods. If I can use it….
“A Dravari whore with the royal crest of The Wastes’ King branded on her—now, there’s a sight I relish,” Vessira snarls.
I pull my mask in place, shoving my hurt under layers of defiance and bravado. “It’ll be the last thing you see in this world, Vessira. A reminder that I’ll be the last one standing.”
She strides toward me with a promise of violence, her eyes glowing like I’m a code she wants to crack.
“You know, Lightborne, I’m more than a commander—I’m the most powerful Venomshade in Aevryn.
” She unsheathes the dagger strapped to her thigh, the silver tip glinting in the faint light of the lanterns.
Her mouth tips up into a sadistic smirk.
“I infused this with a very special kind of alchemy. The kind that allows me to conjure images and memories that forge so seamlessly with reality that they distort your perception of the truth,” she croons, inspecting the sharp edge of her blade.
She’s toying with me—a cat playing with its food.
“I’ll feed you the exact truth I want you to believe with every slice of my blade, Gutter Rat. ”
This is what Venomshade do—they blend alchemy and weaponry in a brutal dance of torture, both psychological and physical.
If I wasn’t already drifting between reality and unconsciousness, fear would seize me. But it doesn’t—audacity does. “There’s nothing you could do to me that’s worse than this reality, Vessira. Disappearing into an illusion sounds like a welcome mercy,” I spit.
She barks a laugh, “Correk, leave us. I love a challenge. Let’s see if I can make this reality seem like a mercy from the visions I’ll conjure.”
Then her dagger meets my skin.