Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
The duke’s entrance is greeted by the shuffle of fleeing prisoners and the heavy tread of his boots. I keep my head down as his crimson and gold cloak sweeps into view.
“You.”
I still immediately, keeping my gaze fixed on the rippling surface of the water.
“My scouts tell me my nephew will reach the royal city soon.”
I don’t respond.
“No doubt he’ll pay you a visit,” the duke continues, his tone deceptively casual.
I grip the edge of the pot tighter.
“This is the part where you ask what I want you to do,” he says, mirth lacing his words.
“What do you want me to do?” I manage, my voice tight.
“Convince the king to declare his heir early. The ceremony will take place at the end of next week.”
My stomach twists. “The prince isn’t even five—”
The duke waves a dismissive hand.
I grit my teeth. “I’m a lowborn vitalian. How could I possibly influence the king?”
“You’ll ensure Constantinos agrees to change the laws. Or your akla will be the first to go.”
My nails dig into my palm.
He steps closer, a slow smile spreading across his face. “The ceremony requires living members of the prince’s bloodline to attend. You will accompany Constantinos’s mother as her aklo and serve him at the ceremony. Tea.”
My chest tightens; I suck in a sharp breath.
The duke’s smile turns cruel. He leans in, his voice dropping. “It has to be you. He trusts you.”
A wave of nausea rises, and I brace myself against the table. “You’re sick.”
“And you’re smart enough to obey,” he says, straightening. “Your family’s lives depend on it.”
By the time I reach the north tower, the weight of the duke’s words feels like a physical ache.
Quin and Casimiria are meditating under the window. At the sound of my dragging footsteps, Quin’s eyes flick open.
“I’ll be right with you,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady.
Take as long as you need. Take forever.
So I don’t have to tell you . . .
I sink onto the bed mat, burying my face in my hands.
“I’m ready now,” Casimiria says softly, breaking the silence.
“You haven’t taken it yet?” I ask, startled.
She lifts the small, black capsule into the light. “I needed to gather my strength first.”
An idea sparks, cutting through the haze of despair. “May I . . .” I scramble toward her but trip, slamming into Quin.
He catches me, his hands warm and steady around my waist. “Did he ask you to throw me from the tower?” he quips lightly.
I jerk away, my heart pounding for reasons I can’t untangle. “Don’t joke,” I snap.
Casimiria hands me the capsule, and I clutch it tightly, focusing on the magic within. Blood—tinged with something rare and elusive.
“What if I extract half of it?” I ask, looking to her.
Quin shifts behind me. His voice is low, cautious. “Halving it will mean weeks of pain before the duke sends more.”
“Take it,” Casimiria says without hesitation.
“Mother—”
“If anyone can create an alternative, it’s him,” she says, her gaze steady.
A fierce determination flares in my chest.
Quin’s fingers graze mine, a fleeting touch that sends doubt curling through me. His eyes pin me, not with command, but with something gentler—an unspoken question, a trust I’m not sure I deserve. “Cael?” he asks, the single word warm but firm enough to steady me.
I look away. “The duke wants your son declared heir at the end of next week.”
Casimiria’s breath catches. “He’ll want you dead next.”
I can’t meet their eyes.
The room falls into a heavy silence. Quin rises slowly, his face infuriatingly unreadable.
“I’ll begin preparations for the ceremony,” he says calmly.
Something snaps inside me. I shove him hard. “That’s it? Roll over and let him have his way?”
His hand catches mine, holding it against his chest. His pulse hammers wildly, betraying the calm façade. “Do you have a better plan, or just more insults?”
“Anything would be better than accepting this,” I snap, meeting his gaze.
His eyes narrow, a flicker of something raw surfacing. “Careful, Cael. You’re forgetting who you’re speaking to.”
“And you’re forgetting who you’re supposed to be,” I fire back. “A king!”
I flee from the tower, from him, and storm into the courtyard, where pipe-smoking Lucius finds me. His face is grim.
“The duke’s visit passed like a storm,” he says.
“The storm’s barely begun,” I mutter.
“I’m sorry, Cael. They destroyed the herb bed.”
No.
I sprint to the patch, falling to my knees at the sight of crushed plants and deep gouges in the soil. The last surviving herb trembles under my fingers, fragile and defiant.
The island’s inhabitants gather silently, their heads bowed. No jeers, no laughter this time—only their quiet solidarity.
Akilah kneels beside me, her lips brushing my forehead. Her warmth steadies me, but the despair is too much.
“I need a walk,” I murmur, leaving the ruined garden behind.
The canal’s rocky edge offers little solace as I pace back and forth. On my fourth pass, a sharp call has me stilling.