Chapter 40
40
T he world crashed back into focus with a dizzying rush. Skylar gasped, lungs burning like she had been drowning. Her vision swam, the room tilting and spinning. The metallic tang of blood filled her mouth, mixing with the acrid stench of smoke and fear that hung heavy in the air.
Slowly, agonizingly, her humanity clawed its way back. The bloodlust faded, leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion. Every muscle screamed, threatening to give out.
But she couldn’t rest. Not yet.
There was something… something important…
What was it?
She blinked hard, forcing herself to focus on Arye’s face. His features were etched with concern, storm-gray eyes searching hers. A smear of blood marred his cheek, stark against pale skin. Skylar realized she was in his arms, body trembling against his chest. His warmth anchored her as the last of the Gryphon’s influence ebbed away.
“I’m back,” she croaked, voice raw as if she’d been screaming for hours. Maybe she had. “Sorry for… keeping you waiting.”
Relief flickered across Arye’s face, his grip tightening. “I knew you’d come back to me,” he murmured. “You always do.”
The tenderness in his words, so at odds with the carnage around them, made Skylar’s heart clench. She opened her mouth to respond, but movement caught her eye.
Her mother rushed forward, placing herself protectively in front of them. The Dowager Duchess’s face was pale, streaked with tears and grime, but her eyes blazed with fierce determination.
“Your Majesty,” she pleaded, voice trembling but resolute. “I beg you to spare her. It’s all my fault. Punish me if you must, but please… spare my daughter.”
The words hit Skylar like a physical blow. Her secret—her family’s secret—was exposed for everyone to see. She looked down at herself, taking in the tattered remains of her once-beautiful gown, now blood-soaked rags. Her feet were bare and bloodied, shoes lost in the chaos. The borrowed sword lay nearby, blade dulled with gore. Her long hair, freed from its careful styling, tumbled down her back in tangled, sweat-damp waves.
No more bindings. No more disguises.
Just Skylar Anathemark, devoid of all pretense.
Her gaze darted around the room, taking in the shocked and confused faces of the nobles. Lady Emma stood near the far wall, clutching baby Conley to her chest with trembling arms. The infant’s wails had subsided to quiet whimpers.
But it was the nobles’ reactions that truly drove home the magnitude of what had transpired. Eyes wide with horror, fascination, disgust. Some whispered furiously, others simply stared, slack-jawed, at a spot behind her.
The Gryphon.
Skylar turned, seeking out its massive form, only to find it slowly fading away. Their gazes locked, and she was struck by the warmth in those ancient eyes. It nudged her gently, a gesture so tender it brought tears to her eyes. Its feathers shimmered with otherworldly light, each one a masterpiece of gold and silver.
It wasn’t a Divine Beast.
It wasn’t a cursed one either.
It was so much more than that.
“Thank you,” Skylar whispered, reaching out to stroke its silky feathers one last time. The Gryphon leaned into her touch, and for a brief moment, she felt a profound connection to the creature that had been both her curse and her salvation. Then, like mist dissipating in the morning sun, it was gone.
A strange emptiness settled over Skylar, as if a part of her very being had vanished. The absence left her feeling hollow, vulnerable in a way she had never experienced before. She had barely begun to process this loss when the sound of heavy footsteps drew her attention back to the present.
King Lyinell advanced, a dangerous smirk on his lips. His sword gleamed wickedly in the flickering candlelight.
There was not a single drop of blood on it.
He didn’t fight, didn’t protect, didn’t even try.
Coward.
“Such a pity,” the King’s voice dripped with malice as he approached the Dowager Duchess. “It seems our little reunion has come to an unexpected end, Merlyn.”
Skylar’s mother stiffened, eyes widening with fear. Without warning, King Lyinell lunged forward, his sword arcing through the air with deadly intent.
“Stop!” Skylar screamed, her body moving of its own accord. She broke free from Arye’s grasp, stumbling forward on unsteady legs. Time seemed to slow as she threw herself between her mother and the King’s blade, dropping to her knees before him. The cold marble bit into her skin, sending shivers up her spine.
“Please,” she begged, her voice raw with desperation. “Take my life instead, Your Majesty. Let my mother and brother go.”
“Skylar, no!” Her mother’s anguished cry tore through the air. “Lyinell, I beg you, ignore her. This is between us.”
The King paused, his sword hovering mere inches from Skylar’s throat. His eyes raked over her kneeling form, a predatory gleam igniting in their depths. “The father’s power and the mother’s beauty…” he mused, a cruel smile twisting his features. “An intriguing combination.”
Before Skylar could respond, the King’s hand shot out, fingers tangling in her hair. Pain lanced through her scalp as he yanked her to her feet, bringing her face close to his. His breath was hot against her skin, reeking of wine and malice. Tears of shame and anger burned in Skylar’s eyes, but she refused to look away, meeting his gaze with defiant hatred.
“You know,” King Lyinell hissed, his lips barely moving, “I always wondered what it would be like to break your mother, but she proved… disappointingly resilient. But you, my dear? I think you’ll do nicely.”
Skylar’s stomach churned with revulsion, bile rising in her throat. She opened her mouth, ready to spit in the King’s face, when a familiar sound cut through the air.
The whistle of an arrow in flight.
Thorncrest again?
Skylar couldn’t turn her head, couldn’t see anything from the corner of her eyes. She watched, frozen in disbelief, as an arrow sprouted from King Lyinell’s neck. The King’s eyes widened in shock, his grip on Skylar’s hair loosening as he stumbled backward. A gurgling sound escaped his lips, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth.
Skylar whirled around, her heart racing.
There.
Arye.
His expression was calm, almost disinterested, as he tossed aside a bow, letting it clatter to the floor beside a fallen Thorncrest archer. The sound echoed in the sudden, deathly silence that had fallen over the ballroom.
With deliberate slowness, Arye drew his sword—no, her sword, the one they had exchanged what felt like a lifetime ago. The scrape of steel against scabbard sent shivers down Skylar’s spine as he strode towards his father, its point scratching against the marble floor as he dragged it. Sparks flew with each step, tiny flashes of light in the dimness.
Skylar stood rooted to the spot, her mind reeling. She waited for the familiar pull of the curse, the compulsion to protect the King that had been ingrained in her very being, no matter if she wanted or not.
But there was… nothing.
No urge to defend. No instinct to intervene. Just a hollow emptiness where the Gryphon’s presence had once resided.
Arye’s voice, cold and filled with barely contained rage, broke the silence. “I had hoped to give you a few more months, Father. To crown me properly, to maintain some semblance of dignity in your final days.” His eyes flickered to Skylar briefly. “But you crossed a line. You dared to touch what’s mine. Made her beg. Made her cry.”
King Lyinell, sprawled on the blood-slicked floor, clawed at the arrow in his throat. His mouth worked soundlessly, desperately trying to form words that wouldn’t come. The once-mighty ruler reduced to a pathetic, gurgling mess.
Arye’s boot connected with the King’s chest, forcing him onto his back. “You know,” Arye continued, his tone conversational despite the hatred burning in his eyes, “I’ve imagined this moment for years. How I would end your miserable life. But now that it’s here…” He paused, a cruel smile playing at his lips. “There’s nothing left to say. We’ll see each other in hell, father.”
With a swift, merciless thrust, Arye plunged Skylar’s sword into the King’s chest. The blade sank deep, its jeweled hilt coming to rest against King Lyinell’s breastbone. For a moment, the only sound in the ballroom was the wet gurgle of the King’s final breath.
Then, silence.
Absolute and suffocating.
Arye straightened, his gaze sweeping over the assembled nobles. “Does anyone,” he asked, his voice deceptively calm, “have any objections to my ascension to the throne?”
It wasn’t a question. Not really. The threat in his tone was clear as crystal, brooking no argument. No one dared to speak.
Finally, Captain Knox stepped forward, his face a mask of conflicting emotions. He cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence. “Your Highness—Your Majesty,” he corrected himself, dropping to one knee. His armor creaked with the movement, spattered with blood both fresh and drying. “What are your orders?”
Arye’s eyes flickered to the Captain, a hint of approval in his gaze. “Begin immediate conscription and muster the full forces. Set up a camp near the border.” He glanced at Skylar. “Anything else, Duchess Anathemark?”
Skylar looked up, surprised by her title. “We need to create supply lines and prepare our siege equipment.” Her eyes fell on Princess Quince’s severed head, still lying where Arye had tossed it. “And send the Princess’s remains back to Thorncrest. That should be message enough.”
“You heard her.” Arye’s gaze swept over the wounded nobles, then dropped to Skylar’s bloodied skin. A flicker of concern passed over his features. “Send healers as well.”
“At once, Your Majesty, Your Grace,” the Captain replied, rising to his feet.
A satisfied smirk curved Arye’s lips as he turned back to Skylar. He extended his hand, an invitation and a claim all at once. “My Queen,” he said softly, but loud enough for all to hear.
Skylar stared at his outstretched hand, then at the lifeless body of King Lyinell. The sword—her sword—still protruded from his chest, a macabre marker of the line they had crossed. There was no going back from this. No pretending it was all a misunderstanding or a bad dream.
The weight of it all came crashing down on Skylar at once. Her deepest secret exposed. Her identity laid bare for all to see. The King dead by Arye’s hand. And now… this offer. This declaration.
It was too much. Too fast. Too intense.
“What did you—” Skylar whispered, her voice breaking. She took a step back, then another, her eyes darting wildly around the room. The walls seemed to be closing in, suffocating her.
Without thinking, Skylar turned and ran. She pushed past shocked nobles and stunned guards, her bare feet slapping against the blood-slicked marble. She had to get away. Had to escape the piercing stares and the weight of expectations.
“Sky!” Arye’s voice rang out behind her, a mixture of confusion and command. “Wait!”
It didn’t stop her.
Her legs carried her swiftly through the balcony, to the palace gardens, muscle memory guiding her even as her mind reeled.
“Leave us!” Arye’s words echoed off the broken stone walls, the command clear even from afar. “Anyone who follows will lose their life.”
Skylar didn’t slow. She ran faster, her heart pounding in her ears, desperate to put as much distance between herself and the ballroom as possible.
She heard Arye’s footsteps behind her. He was following her. Of course he was. But Skylar couldn’t face him. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Shame and confusion warred within her as she fled, tears blurring her vision. Everything had changed in the span of a heartbeat.
The world as she knew it had shattered, and she had no idea how to begin picking up the pieces.
And as Skylar ran, she couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter how fast or far she went, there was no escaping the consequences of what had just transpired. No escape from Arye.