CHAPTER TWO
EMMERY
That blasted clock in the sitting room never shut up. Each tick shredded Emmery’s nerves like a fraying rope and, one by one, the strands snapped. Soon there would be nothing to cling to, and she would tumble into the black abyss below, the ravenous darkness ready to gobble her up.
Her unshakable fear, once confined to water, now lived in clocks too.
Great. As if she didn’t have enough problems.
She clamped her eyes shut, tried to block it out, shove the terror away, but the images burst through—the cold tile floor, warm blood seeping between her fingers, filling the cracks of her nails, pooling, spurting, and drowning Vesper.
After months, she couldn't shake it and helplessly relived the moment Death stole him over and over. She needed to get a damn grip.
Vesper was alive. She’d brought him back with that amulet and felt his warmth, the life inside him, heard his beating heart herself.
But it didn’t change that he’d sold her to the King like cattle. He’d made her believe they were friends, then betrayed her like she meant nothing. And at one time, all those years ago, they were bonded to be wed, which brought up a whole other slew of conflicting emotions.
She hated that she missed him. Briar and Marlys, too. Callias not so much.
She clenched her jaw until it threatened to crack.
The memory circled like a vulture and swooped down with hungry eyes the moment her guard fell.
She was far too sober for all of this. For a moment she debated sneaking back to her room to down the bottle of wine hidden under her bed, but too many eyes watched her.
So she grounded herself in reality, back to Asaella, the prison that was now her dwelling.
Between the white sofa, white wallpaper, white tile, white clock, and white table, the entire castle resembled a healing ward.
Sterile. Lifeless. Not what a home should be.
How could anyone live here? She supposed the coldness mirrored the King’s disposition, and, in that case, it was fitting.
Emmery moved to tuck her legs up on the sofa, then thought better of it and checked her boots for dirt from her secret trek through the city streets last night.
A relieved sigh left her when the soles appeared clean.
Gods forbid she dirty the castle’s pristine interior, especially after witnessing the servants panic when they’d spilled something.
Like the King would have their heads. She ate in her room for that very reason, so she could flip a cushion to hide a stain without prying eyes.
Destonne took his meals alone anyway and hadn’t called upon her since they formed their pactum.
It was silly, but Emmery missed the forest-green walls of her room at Castle Dusk. Not that she was mistreated here. She had food and clothing and a safe place to sleep. This place just left an inconsolable emptiness inside her.
To keep herself busy and take her attention off the ticking, she stroked a hand down Aera’s back. The fox always seemed to know what she needed, whether it be comfort, solitude, or a laugh. Though Emmery hadn’t laughed since her time at Castle Dusk.
Maybe she never would again.
Her gaze slid to Brennen’s bone-white horns across the room, a stark contrast to his deep obsidian fur. His attention shifted to her, and although the wolf didn’t voice it, concern shone in his orange eyes.
“He should be here soon,” he said. Emmery shuddered as his words resounded in her mind. Even after all these weeks, it still unnerved her, like he inserted himself inside her head. “Be patient, princess,” he added.
She resisted the urge to snap at that ridiculous nickname. She wasn’t, and never would be, royalty.
Brennen returned to his chat with Vera, the King’s general. Her strawberry-blonde hair, woven into three plaits, put Emmery’s scraggly braid to shame. Vera’s laugh tinkled through the air like a wind chime, her leather training gear creaking with each movement.
Emmery surveyed her with a tinge of pity.
Since Vera was born after the khaos flame was extinguished, she suffered from the fever, but remained one of the lucky few it hadn’t claimed, though she frequently fell ill with debilitating bouts of it.
Allegedly one out of every five thousand survived, but most died as children, some even as infants.
Guilt ate away at Emmery. She’d relit the khaos flame, but with the waters still frozen, Kenna remained unable to be cleansed, and she sat in this blasted castle while those around her perished.
Weeks, now nearly a month, had passed while she hid in her room with her liquor and books and waited on the King’s plan to enter the Hollow.
Each time she asked, she’d been told there would be news soon, though it never came.
She and Destonne had barely spoken since her first night other than brief annoyances, and he’d always been ‘indisposed’ when she asked for him—whatever that meant.
Her thumb skimmed the thorn-strangled rose scarred into her palm. How foolish she’d been to make a pactum with someone like Destonne.
Rather than interacting, he’d thrown expensive trifles at her, such as those useless gowns shoved into her wardrobe. His audacity to assume her affections could be bought was downright insulting, especially when his people starved on the streets.
Destonne’s usefulness proved only through her access to his private library.
To escape her ever-present guilt, Emmery lost herself in stories, dreamed of other lands, and the characters within those pages began to feel like friends as they once had beyond the gate.
It seemed she was regressing to her old ways. Pathetic.
Every day she’d burned through books and her chambermaid, Talia, returned them to the library. It struck her as odd when each time she searched for a book she just completed, she could never find it among the shelves.
One day while scouring the stacks she’d discovered a book on a top shelf, smothered in a thick layer of dust. When Emmery cracked it open and read the first few pages, she snapped it shut and tucked it behind her back.
Her face flamed as if she’d uncovered a long-hidden shame, and yet, she smuggled it back to her room like forbidden treasure and hid it beneath her pillow.
Each night she consumed a paragraph or two.
Scandalous was a mild term for the content contained in those pages.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Emmery glanced up, expecting the King, but it was Cyrilla who glided through the sitting room door.
Between her usual scowl worn like a trophy, her waist-length black hair knotted at the nape of her neck, and her dark tunic and trousers perfectly moulded to her body, she embodied both grace and a downright terrifying beauty.
Or maybe it was the deep purple hue of her vestige that shimmered like a dark veil.
Each time Emmery glimpsed it, jealousy fanned to life inside her.
Cyrilla’s son toddled at her side, his chubby fingers tangled in the fabric of her pant leg. As they took their place at the far wall, the dark-haired boy peeped at Emmery from behind the safety of his mother. Emmery gave a subtle wave and patted the cushion beside her.
“Soren, go say hello,” Cyrilla said, her tone flat. She crossed her arms over her chest and shook him free from her leg. The boy just watched Emmery like a circus attraction. Maybe it was her gold vestige; it made everyone else stare too.
Emmery pasted a smile on her face, but it morphed into a painted nightmare, and the smart little tike could likely see through it. It didn’t matter anyway. She didn’t know these people and didn’t want to. Not if they aided the King in all the injustices within Asaella.
Only moments after Cyrilla and Soren’s arrival, Vera blew Soren a kiss and offered Emmery a polite wave before she turned to the door and ducked down the hall.
After Vera’s exit, Brennen strolled over, his steps punctuated by the click of his nails on the tile. Gods, his massive paws were at least twice the size of Emmery’s hands. He swished his tail, spun, and plunked himself down to face the doorway the King would eventually appear through.
“How long does he expect us to wait?” Emmery asked, not bothering to hide her annoyance.
“I’m sure he would make us wait forever if he could,” Cyrilla muttered. She examined her nails as she leaned against the wall like she owned the room.
Emmery glared at the clock. She’d had it with the small talk, niceties, and that damn relentless ticking. “I’ll be in my room when he decides to grace us with his presence,” she snapped.
A canine grin lit Brennen’s face. “Dez is never late. Or so I’ve been told.”
Beckoned by the use of his name like some demon, the King of Thorns swept into the room, dressed all in black, his cape billowing behind him like Death’s slithering shadow. “Did you miss me so badly? Had I known, I would have hurried.”
His smooth, deep voice and accent brought a scowl to Emmery's lips. He and Callias shared a similar cadence to their speech, though due to his childhood spent in the north Destonne’s was more refined.
Emmery assessed the King. He looked dreadful, like he’d woken from a troubled sleep.
The ringed darkness around his eyes seemed more pronounced than usual, his mussed dark brown hair was a riot of curls and waves, and blood splattered the crown threaded into his skull.
Though he tried to hide it under his hair, the thorns peeked through.
Even his clothes were dishevelled and wrinkled.
Had he just risen from bed? This late into the afternoon?
But perhaps he hadn’t been alone. Or sleeping at all.
She recalled Vesper's comment about the abundance of Scarlets in the King’s care and his …
indulgence. In her time here at Blackdawn Castle, she’d spotted countless Scarlets, their bargain stamped on their wrists, necks, and even faces.
Those poor people had their lives stolen from them and became property. Used and traded.