The sea at Whitecliff wasn't blue.
People in songs and tapestries always painted seas blue, like summer sky or sapphires. But the Western Sea was the color of tarnished silver, of old knives, of the sky an hour before a storm. It was gray, endlessly gray, heaving under a gray sky toward gray cliffs. The only color was the white foam where waves shattered against the rocks two hundred feet below, and the greenish-black of the seaweed that clung to the stone like a drowning man's fingers.
I stood on the western parapet, the wind pulling at my hair and cloak. It was an east wind today, coming off the land, so it smelled of pine and hearth-smoke from the village below instead of salt. A small mercy. Salt wind meant rain coming.
Below me, the harbor curved like a crescent moon against the cliff's foot. The *Dawn Chaser* was coming in, her sails the color of old cream against the gray water. She was two days late. Father would be pacing in his study, calculating lost tariffs, muttering about incompetent captains.
I watched the ship instead of the numbers. I always watched the ships.
There was a pattern to it, a dance. The lead ship would dip her pennant. The signal tower would flash bronze—once for friendly, twice for unknown, three times for trouble. Today it flashed once. The harbor chain would sink beneath the waves with a groan you could feel through the stone if you placed your hand right. Then the ships would glide in, one by one, to the stone docks where men like black ants would swarm to tie them fast.
"Kael!"
The voice came from behind me, younger, brighter than the wind. I didn't turn. I knew the footsteps—light, skipping, always in a hurry.
Lysenne came to stand beside me, rising on her toes to peer over the battlement. At sixteen, she was still small enough that the stone came to her chin. Her hair, the same dark brown as mine, whipped around her face. She shoved it back impatiently.
"Is it Lior's?" she asked, breathless.
"Not yet," I said. "Another week, maybe two. That's the *Dawn Chaser*. Wool and wine from the south."
She made a face. "Boring."
"Wool keeps you warm. Wine makes Father bearable at feasts."
She laughed, and the sound was so clean against the gray day it almost hurt. "Mother's looking for you. The steward has the household accounts. She wants you to check the tallies before Father sees them."
I sighed. The accounts. Numbers on parchment, columns of expenses and incomes. The lifeblood of Whitecliff, according to Father. The most important lesson a second son could learn, since I wouldn't be leading charges or ruling lands.
"I'll go down," I said.
But I didn't move. Not yet. The *Dawn Chaser* was making her turn, coming broadside to the wind. For a moment, her sails went slack, then snapped full again as she caught the new breeze. Perfect. Captain Heron still had his touch.
"Can I come to the docks with you later?" Lysenne asked. She asked every time.
"If you finish your history lessons. And if Mother says yes."
"She will if you ask. She never says no to you."
That wasn't true. But it was true that Mother had a softer spot for me than Father did. Lior was Father's son—all steel and sunlight and ambition. I was Mother's—quieter, better with books than blades, with a head for numbers that even Father grudgingly acknowledged was useful.
"Come on," Lysenne said, tugging at my sleeve. "Before the steward eats his own scroll in anxiety."
I let her pull me away from the wall. The wind immediately felt colder on my back, as if it had been waiting for me to turn.
***
The steward's office was in the lower keep, a small room that smelled perpetually of dust, ink, and the slightly sour scent of old Manus, who had served my grandfather. Scrolls and ledgers covered every surface. Manus himself was a parchment-skinned man of sixty, bent over a desk, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
"Lord Kaelen," he said, not looking up. "And Lady Lysenne. A surprise."
"Mother sent us," I said.
"Ah. The quarter accounts. On the side table. The figures for the sheep tax from the northern villages are... dubious. Lord Aldric will have someone's head if it's not sorted."
I took the ledger he indicated. It was heavy, bound in plain leather. Lysenne pulled a stool into the corner and took out her embroidery—a clumsy hawk that looked more like a wet chicken. She hated history lessons, but she'd sit through accounts if it meant escaping them.
I worked in silence, the only sounds the scratch of my quill, the crackle of the fire, and Manus's occasional muttered calculations. The numbers were wrong. Not fraudulently wrong—just the kind of mistake a village headman makes when he can barely write his name. Three sheep counted twice, a payment entered in the wrong column. Simple errors. Fixable.
This was my duty. My *place*. Lior would be riding the borders today, checking fortifications, drilling with the guards. Maika would be with him. The heir and the spare's shadow. And I would be here, making the numbers line up so Whitecliff didn't starve.
I didn't mind. Truly.
Well. Mostly.
"Kael?" Lysenne said quietly, when Manus had stepped out to fetch more ink.
"Hmm?"
"Do you think Lior will bring me a present?"
"From a border patrol? Probably not. Maybe a rusty arrowhead if you're lucky."
She stuck her tongue out at me. "Not from patrol. When he comes back from the north. From the war."
I set down my quill. "He's not going to war, Lys. It's a campaign. Putting down border lords who won't pay their taxes. It's not the same."
"It is too. He's fighting. He could die."
"He won't die." My voice came out sharper than I meant it to. "Lior doesn't die. He wins."
She was quiet for a moment, needle flashing in the firelight. "Father says you'll go next year. To the garrison at Greywatch."
"I might."
"Is that a war?"
"It's a posting. Keeping watch. Making sure the Dominion doesn't get ideas."
"The Obsidian Dominion." She said the name like a fairy-tale villain. "Do they really have two Knights?"
"So they say." I picked up the quill again. "We have one. That's enough."
"Is it? If they have two..."
"Lysenne." I looked at her. "Don't fret over things you can't change. Finish your hawk."
She looked down at her embroidery. "It's a falcon."
"Of course it is."
***
The numbers took me until noon. When I stepped out of the steward's office, the castle was coming alive with the midday routine. Servants hurried along the corridors with trays and linens. The smell of baking bread drifted up from the kitchens. From the practice yard, I could hear the familiar *clash-clash* of wooden swords, the grunts of men training.
I should have gone to the great hall. Mother would be expecting me. Instead, I turned toward the north tower.
Elyra's chambers were in the family wing, but she spent her mornings in the solar—a round room with tall windows that looked out over the sea. When I entered, she was standing by the window, a book open in her hands. The light fell on her hair, turning the winter-wheat gold to something brighter. She wore a dress of deep green that brought out the sea-glass color of her eyes.
She didn't look up when I entered. Not immediately.
"Elyra."
She turned, and a smile touched her lips. Not the bright, laughing smile she had when Lior told a joke, but a softer, quieter one. "Kael. I wondered where you were."
"Accounts." I made a face. "Sheep taxes."
"How thrilling." She closed her book. "I was reading. The Ballad of the Seven Stars. Have you read it?"
"A long time ago." I came to stand beside her at the window. Below, the *Dawn Chaser* was being unloaded, barrels rolled down planks. "It's not very accurate, you know. The Seven didn't actually fight the Dragon of the Deep. That's just allegory for—"
"Oh, hush." She bumped her shoulder against mine. "Must you ruin everything with facts? It's a beautiful story. About honor and sacrifice."
"It's propaganda. Written two hundred years after the fact to make the Church look good."
"You're impossible." But she was still smiling. "Your brother doesn't pick apart stories."
"My brother doesn't read."
"He has other qualities."
The words hung between us. I looked at her profile, at the straight line of her nose, the curve of her cheek. We had been betrothed for four years. Since I was fourteen and she was twelve. It had been Father's idea—a marriage to bind House Avelaine's wealth to our family's ancient name. A practical arrangement.
But I had loved her since the first time I saw her, standing small and solemn beside her father in our great hall, her hair in two braids, her eyes wide with the fear and wonder of being sent away from home.
"Elyra," I said quietly.
"Hmm?"
"Are you... are you happy here?"
She turned fully to me then, her expression surprised. "What a question. Of course I am. Whitecliff is beautiful. Your family has been kind."
"That's not what I meant. Are you happy with... with the arrangement?"
Her eyes dropped. She traced a pattern on the window ledge with her finger. "We've spoken of this, Kael. It's our duty. Our families—"
"I know about duty." My voice was rougher than I intended. "I live in a castle made of duty. I'm asking about you."
She was silent for a long time. The wind moaned softly around the tower. Finally, she said, "I want to be a good wife. To bear strong children. To keep a good household. That is happiness, isn't it?"
It was the answer she'd been taught. The answer every noble daughter was taught.
"Yes," I said, because I couldn't say anything else. "That's happiness."
She reached out then and took my hand. Her fingers were cool. "You worry too much. Everything will be as it should be."
I looked down at our joined hands. At her slender fingers against my broader, ink-stained ones. I wanted to believe her.
***
The feast that night was for Captain Heron's safe return. Not a grand feast—just family and the senior household. But in Whitecliff, even a small feast filled the great hall with noise and light.
I sat between Lysenne and Maika, picking at my food. Roast boar from the eastern woods, trout from the mountain streams, winter apples preserved in honey. Good food. Plentiful food. Father believed in showing strength through plenty.
At the high table, Father sat like a carved stone, listening as Captain Heron gave his report. Mother sat beside him, elegant in dark blue, her face a calm mask. Lior was at Father's right hand, leaning forward, asking questions about southern defenses, about pirate activity. The golden son, interested in everything that mattered.
Maika nudged me with his elbow. "You're brooding."
"I'm not."
"You are. You get that look. Like you're working out a complex equation in your head." He grinned, his face so like mine—same dark hair, same storm-gray eyes, same slightly crooked smile. But where I was quiet, Maika was all motion. Restless energy. "Cheer up. It's a feast. And look—Elyra's watching you."
I glanced across the hall. Elyra was sitting with Mother's ladies. She wasn't watching me. She was watching Lior, her chin resting on her hand, a faint smile on her lips.
Something cold settled in my stomach.
"She's just listening to the stories," Maika said, though his voice had lost some of its humor. "Lior tells them well."
"He does."
"Kael." Maika lowered his voice. "Don't do this to yourself."
"Do what?"
"Compare. You and Lior are different people. Father needs both kinds. The sword and the quill."
"The sword gets the glory. The quill gets the sheep taxes."
"Someone has to count the sheep, brother. Or we all go cold." He refilled my cup with dark red wine. "Drink. Be merry. It's a feast."
I drank. The wine was good—spiced, warming. From the south, probably. Part of the cargo I'd seen unloaded.
After the meal, the minstrels played. A love song, old and sad. Couples began to rise to dance. I saw Lior stand, saw him cross to Elyra, saw him bow and offer his hand. She took it, her smile widening.
I stood abruptly.
"Kael?" Lysenne looked up at me.
"Air," I muttered. "I need air."
I pushed through the crowded hall, out into the corridor, and kept going until I reached the side door that led to the wall walk. The cold hit me like a physical blow. Good. I needed it.
The moon was a sliver of ice in the black sky. Below, the sea roared against the cliffs, a sound so constant we mostly stopped hearing it. I leaned on the battlement, my breath fogging in the air.
"Brooding again?"
I didn't turn. "Go away, Maika."
He came to stand beside me anyway. For a while, we just listened to the sea.
"It doesn't mean anything," he said finally.
"You don't know what I'm thinking."
"I know you. You're thinking about Elyra dancing with Lior. You're thinking it means something."
"Doesn't it?"
"He's the heir. She's to be his sister by marriage. It's courtesy."
I turned to look at him. In the moonlight, his face was all shadows and sharp angles. "You see it too. Don't lie to me."
Maika was silent. Then he sighed, a cloud of white in the cold air. "She looks at him differently. I've noticed."
"Since he returned from the north."
"Yes."
We stood there, two brothers in the dark, admitting something we'd both been avoiding.
"What do I do?" The question came out smaller than I wanted.
"I don't know." Maika put a hand on my shoulder. "But not this. Don't stand out here freezing. Come back inside. Be seen. Smile. That's how this game is played."
"The game."
"It's all a game, Kael. You just have to learn the rules better than the other players."
He pulled me back inside. The hall was still bright, still loud. The dance had ended. Lior was back at the high table, laughing at something Father said. Elyra was talking with Mother, her face animated.
I forced a smile. Took my seat. Drank more wine.
The game. Just learn the rules.
***
The next week passed in the slow rhythm of Whitecliff in deep winter. Grey days, cold nights, the sea always growling at the foot of the cliffs. I did my duties—accounts with Manus, riding to outlying villages to collect rents (with guards, always with guards, because a second son wasn't worth risking), sitting in on Father's audiences where he played judge over boundary disputes and petty thefts.
Lior was gone again, riding the northern borders with a troop of guards. Maika went with him, of course. They were gone for three days, and the castle felt different without them. Quieter. Emptier.
Elyra sought me out more during those days. We walked in the walled garden where winter-bare roses rattled in the wind. We played chess in the library. She asked me about the accounts, about the villages, listening with a attention that felt new.
"It must be interesting," she said one afternoon as we sat by the fire in the library. "Knowing how everything works. The numbers behind it all."
"It's not interesting," I said, moving my knight. "It's just numbers."
"But it's important. Lior says numbers win wars as much as swords do."
"Lior doesn't know a ledger from a latrine."
She laughed, a real laugh, and the sound warmed me more than the fire. "That's cruel."
"It's true. He thinks if you shout loud enough, the numbers fall into line."
"Maybe they do for him." She moved her queen, putting me in check. "He has a way of making things happen."
I looked at the board, at the trap I hadn't seen coming. "So I see."
It was on the third day of Lior's absence that the messenger came.
I was in the practice yard, trying—and mostly failing—to improve my swordwork. I was adequate. Competent enough not to embarrass myself. But I lacked the instinct, the *fire* that Lior had. That Maika had, for that matter. I thought too much. I saw the angles, the geometry of the fight, but by the time I'd calculated the best move, the opening was gone.
Ser Darric, Father's master-at-arms, was patiently correcting my grip for the tenth time when the horn sounded from the gatehouse. Not the deep, welcoming note for a friendly ship, but the short, sharp blast that meant riders approaching fast.
We both looked up. Darric's weathered face tightened. "Trouble."
Father was already striding across the yard from the keep, his cloak flaring behind him. "With me," he snapped, and I fell in beside him, still carrying my practice sword.
At the gatehouse, we climbed to the top. The watchman pointed north, up the coast road. A single rider, pushing his horse hard, the animal lathered and stumbling.
"One of ours," Darric said, squinting. "Young Pellen. From Lord Lior's troop."
My chest tightened. Pellen was a good rider. He wouldn't run a horse like that without reason.
The gates groaned open. Pellen practically fell from his saddle in the courtyard, his face pale with exhaustion and something else—fear.
"Report," Father said, his voice like iron.
Pellen sucked in great gulps of air. "My lord... ambush... at Raven's Pass..."
"Lior?" The word was sharp.
"Alive, my lord. Wounded. Maika... Maika pulled him out. But we lost five men. The border lords... they had Dominion troops with them. Professional soldiers. Not militia."
A cold silence fell over the courtyard. Dominion troops on our soil. That wasn't a border raid. That was an incursion. An act of war.
Father's face might have been carved from the cliff itself. "How many?"
"Fifty. Maybe more. They hit us at dusk. We were strung out in the pass. They had the high ground."
"Where is my son now?"
"Holding at Stonewatch Tower. They're besieged, my lord. The Dominion troops have siege engines. Light ones, but... they mean to take the tower."
Stonewatch was three hours' hard ride north. A small watchtower, meant for signaling, not sustained defense. If they had siege engines...
"Raise the garrison," Father said, already turning. "Full arms. We ride in an hour." He pointed at me. "You. With me."
"Father, I—"
"You'll see what war looks like. It's time."
There was no arguing. I ran to my chambers, my heart hammering against my ribs. Not from fear of fighting—though that was there too—but from something else. This was it. The thing I'd been waiting for. The chance to be something more than the brother who counted sheep.
I armored quickly. The steel felt unfamiliar, heavy. My sword, a good blade but one I'd rarely used in anger, hung awkwardly at my side.
In the courtyard, men were assembling. Fifty knights and men-at-arms, their breath steaming in the cold air. Father was already mounted, giving terse orders. I found my horse, a steady bay gelding, and swung into the saddle.
Mother appeared at the keep door, her face pale but composed. Elyra stood beside her, her green eyes wide. She met my gaze, and for a moment, I saw real fear there. For me.
Father raised a gauntleted hand. "Ride!"
We thundered out of the gates, hooves striking sparks from the cobbles, and then we were on the coast road, riding north into the gathering dark.
***
The ride was a blur of cold wind and pounding hooves. I stayed near the back of the column, where Father wouldn't see me clinging to my saddle like a green boy. Around me, the men rode in grim silence. These were veterans, men who had fought in the border wars for years. They knew what we were riding toward.
After two hours, we saw the first smoke.
A thin column, rising against the starless sky ahead. Stonewatch Tower.
Father signaled a halt. We disounted, moving off the road into the pine forest that crowded the cliffs here. The air smelled of smoke and salt.
"Scouts," Father said quietly. Two men slipped away into the trees. We waited, the only sounds the creak of leather, the jingle of bits, the heavy breathing of the horses.
The scouts returned faster than I expected. "My lord. The tower is surrounded. They've got two light catapults. The outer wall is breached. They're preparing to storm."
"How many?"
"Sixty. Maybe seventy. Mix of border lord men and Dominion regulars."
Father nodded. He looked at his captain. "We hit them from the rear. Split forces—hammer and anvil. Kael." He turned to me. "You stay with the rear guard. Hold the horses."
The words were a physical blow. "Father, I can—"
"You can follow orders. You're not ready for this. Stay. Here."
He didn't wait for my response. He was already moving, giving hand signals, the men forming up with the quiet efficiency of long practice.
I stood there, holding the reins of my horse and four others, feeling like a child told to wait while the adults did important work. The rear guard—three older men, one with a limp—gave me sympathetic looks but didn't speak.
We heard the attack before we saw it. A sudden roar of voices, the clash of steel, screams. Flames leaped up as someone fired the enemy camp. The battle was a dark confusion in the night, seen in glimpses between trees—figures grappling, the arc of a sword, a man falling.
It lasted maybe twenty minutes. Then the sounds changed. The organized clash became scattered fighting, then pursuit, then silence.
One of the older men grunted. "Over."
We waited. After what felt like an hour, men began stumbling back through the trees. Wounded, leaning on comrades. Then Father, his armor splattered with dark fluid, his sword bare in his hand.
"Secure the area," he said, his voice hoarse. "They broke. We took a dozen prisoners. The rest fled or died."
"Lior?" I asked, my throat tight.
"Alive. Wounded. Maika's with him."
We moved up to the tower. It was a scene from a nightmare. The small courtyard was littered with bodies. Our men moved among them, checking for survivors, finishing the wounded enemy with quick, merciful thrusts. The air stank of blood and shit and smoke.
Lior was propped against the tower wall, his face pale. An arrow stood from his shoulder. Maika was beside him, pressing a wad of cloth to the wound. Maika's own face was cut, blood drying on his cheek, but his eyes were clear, focused.
"Brother," Lior said when he saw me, his voice tight with pain. "Come to see the real work?"
"Be still," Maika said without looking up. "The arrow's deep."
Father knelt beside him. "Can you ride?"
"I can do anything," Lior gritted out. But when they moved him, he fainted.
We made a litter from cloaks and spears. The ride back to Whitecliff was slower, darker. I rode beside the litter, watching Lior's pale face. Maika rode on the other side, his expression unreadable.
"He saved my life," Maika said quietly, after a long silence. "Pushed me out of the way of a spear. Took the arrow instead."
"He's always been the hero," I said.
Maika looked at me. In the moonlight, his eyes were dark pools. "He is what Father needs him to be. What the kingdom needs him to be."
"And what am I?"
My brother didn't answer. Ahead of us, Father rode straight-backed, already planning his next move, his revenge, his war. The real work.
Lior survived. The arrow was dug out of his shoulder by Greta, the castle's sharp-tongued but capable healer. He would carry a scar, a stiff joint, and a new story of heroism.
The next week was a flurry of activity. Messengers riding to the capital. Troops being raised from the villages. Father was in his element—planning, organizing, preparing for the war he'd always known was coming.
I was largely irrelevant. I went back to the accounts. The cost of raising troops. The supplies needed. The numbers. Always the numbers.
It was four days after the attack that Elyra came to find me in the library.
She stood in the doorway, backlit by the corridor torches, her hands clasped before her. "Kael. May I speak with you?"
"Of course." I set down my quill.
She came in, closing the door softly behind her. For a moment, she just stood there, looking at the fire. Then she said, "Lior asked me to marry him."
The world didn't shatter. It didn't explode. It just... went very still. Very quiet. As if all the sound had been sucked out of the room.
"He... what?"
"Last night. He came to my chambers. He said... he said the war changes everything. That we need to be united. That Father Aldric approves."
"Father... my father approves."
"Yes." She finally looked at me. Her eyes were bright with tears, but her chin was up. "He says our original betrothal was a mistake. That Lior and I are better suited. That it's for the good of the house."
I stood up. My legs felt numb. "And you? What do you say?"
She bit her lip. "Lior is... he's going to be count one day. He's a hero. He saved Maika's life. He—"
"He's what you want," I said flatly.
"I want what's best for my house. For my future."
"Your house." I laughed, a short, bitter sound. "Your future. And what about me, Elyra? What about the four years we've been promised? What about the letters I wrote you when you first came here, homesick and crying? What about the watchtower?"
The watchtower. Our place. Where I'd carved our initials last summer, where she'd kissed me for the first time, where we'd talked about children with her smile and my stubborn chin.
Her tears overflowed. "Don't, Kael. Please don't make this harder."
"Harder? You're telling me my brother is stealing my betrothed with my father's blessing, and you're asking me not to make it harder?"
"It's not stealing! It's... it's rearranging. For the good of everyone."
"Not for my good."
She wiped at her cheeks. "You'll find someone else. Someone gentle, like you. Someone who wants quiet and books and numbers. That's not me, Kael. I never was."
The words hung between us, true and terrible.
"You love him," I said.
She didn't deny it. She didn't need to.
I turned away from her, toward the fire. "Get out."
"Kael—"
"Get out!"
She fled. The door closed softly. I stood there, staring into the flames, waiting to feel something. Anger. Grief. Betrayal.
All I felt was cold. A deep, numb cold that started in my chest and spread outward until my fingers tingled with it.
The game. Maika had said it was all a game. I just hadn't realized I was a piece to be sacrificed.
***
I didn't see Elyra again for two days. She took her meals in her chambers. Lior was confined to his bed, healing, but I heard his laughter from his rooms, heard Elyra's voice joining his.
Maika tried to talk to me once. "Brother—"
"Don't," I said, and he fell silent, his face troubled.
On the third day, Father summoned me to his study.
He was at his desk, maps spread before him. He didn't look up when I entered. "Sit."
I sat. The chair was hard, cold.
"The marriage will be announced at the harvest feast," he said, still studying his maps. "Lior and Elyra. It's decided."
"Why?" The word came out raw.
Finally, he looked at me. His eyes were the color of the winter sea. "Because we are at war. Because Lior is the heir. Because House Avelaine's wealth will be more useful tied to the future count than to a second son. Because it is the strategic choice."
"And what of my honor? My word?"
"Your honor serves the house. Your word is mine to give." He leaned forward. "Listen to me, Kaelen. You are a smart boy. You understand numbers. Understand this: we are a kingdom with one Knight. The Obsidian Dominion has two. We are weaker. We must be smarter. More ruthless. This marriage is a move on the board. A good move."
"And I am the price."
"You are a son of Whitecliff. Your happiness is not the point. The survival of this house, of this kingdom, is the point." He sat back. "You will attend the feast. You will smile. You will toast your brother's happiness. Do you understand?"
I understood. I had always understood. I was just foolish enough to hope it might be different.
"Yes, Father."
"Good. You may go."
I stood. At the door, I paused. "Do you ever regret it? Having a son who's more suited to ledgers than battle?"
He looked at me, and for a moment, I saw something in his eyes that might have been regret. Or pity. "I regret that the world is as it is. Not that you are as you are. You have your uses. Remember that."
I left. The corridor outside was empty and cold.
***
The harvest feast was in three days. The castle buzzed with preparation. Decorations were hung. Extra livestock slaughtered. The great hall was scrubbed and strewn with fresh rushes and autumn herbs.
I avoided everyone. I spent my time in the north tower, the one place no one ever went. It was cold and dusty, full of broken furniture and old armor. But it was quiet.
On the night before the feast, Maika found me there.
He carried a bottle and two cups. "I thought you might be here."
"I wanted to be alone."
"You've been alone for days." He sat on an old trunk, uncorked the bottle, and poured. The wine was dark, rich. Father's best. "Here. A peace offering."
"I'm not at war with you."
"Aren't you?" He handed me a cup. "You look at me like I'm part of it."
"Are you?"
"I'm Lior's shadow. Where he goes, I go. What he does..." He shrugged. "I don't get a say."
We drank in silence. The wine was good. Too good. It warmed the cold place in my chest, but only a little.
"I'm sorry," Maika said quietly. "For what it's worth."
"It's not worth much."
"No." He refilled our cups. "But it's all I have to give."
We drank the whole bottle. The world softened at the edges. The pain receded, replaced by a fuzzy warmth. When the bottle was empty, Maika stood, swaying slightly.
"Come to bed, brother. Tomorrow will be what it will be."
He helped me up. We staggered through the dark corridors like boys again, shushing each other's laughter. At my chamber door, he clapped me on the shoulder.
"Sleep well. And tomorrow... just get through it. One day at a time."
I fell into bed without undressing. The room spun slowly. The last thing I thought before sleep took me was that Maika was right. One day at a time. Just get through it.
I didn't hear my door open later. Didn't feel the hands that lifted me. Didn't feel the cold night air as I was carried through the castle.
I only woke when I was dropped on cold stone.
My head throbbed. My mouth was dry. I tried to move, but my limbs were heavy, uncooperative. Drugged. The wine.
I pushed myself up on one elbow. I was in a corridor. Torchlight flickered on stone walls. A door before me, familiar.
Elyra's door.
It stood slightly ajar. From within, I heard a sound. A sob.
No. Not a sob. Laughter. Soft, intimate laughter.
Then my brother's voice, low and warm. "Shhh, my love. Soon it will be official. Soon you'll be mine in truth as well as promise."
I tried to stand. Fell. Tried to crawl away. My body wouldn't obey. The drug held me in a thick, warm haze.
The door opened.
Elyra stood there, wrapped in a sheet, her hair disheveled, her eyes wide. Not with passion. With horror.
Behind her, Lior. Shirtless, his bandaged shoulder stark white in the torchlight.
For a long moment, we all just stared. Then Elyra screamed.
Not a scream of fear. A performance.
"He's here! He tried to—he forced the door—"
Lior was moving, his face twisting from surprise to rage. "You bastard. You drunken, jealous bastard."
He crossed the corridor in two strides. His fist caught me on the temple. The world exploded into white light, then into darkness.
The last thing I saw was Elyra's face, her mouth still open in that perfect, practiced scream, her eyes meeting mine.
And in them, I saw no horror. No fear.
Only calculation.
Then the darkness took me.