He climbs to his feet and takes my hand gently. "Come with me to find out what happened."
I lower my gaze to my hands in my lap. "You go."
Silence.
I expect him to heave me to my feet and force me. Instead, the soft thump of his heels against the floorboard fades as he crosses the room. Seconds later, he's gone, and the door shuts behind him.
Everything happened too fast. I get up onto the couch and curl in on myself, hugging a pillow to my chest.
Snow drifts in slow motion outside the window against a backdrop of dark clouds. For years, I assumed when I found out who my parents are, I'd have closure. The likelihood of finding they had died was high, I’d told myself this. But at the end of the day, loss is loss, right? And still, it stings.
I don't remember how long I lay on the couch feeling sorry for myself, and when no one returns, I decide to head out and join the princes.
This isn't about me, now is it? It's about someone murdering the king. So, I open the door and find two guards swinging around to face me. Tall fae in dark uniforms who keep looking over their shoulders. They look just as worried as the rest about the king’s death, and I don’t blame them. I don’t know enough about fae royal rules, but when a king falls, doesn’t that make a kingdom vulnerable? I should have gone with Deimos in the first place.
"Can you take me to the princes, please?" I ask.
They nod, and we start walking fast along the dark hallway. It’s like they'd been waiting for me to finally get my act together.
We cross the bridge between the princes' mansion and the royal castle. The breeze is icy against my skin. I hug myself, and quick steps bring me to the warmth of indoors. The mood in the castle hangs heavy, and guards run past us frantically. Other fae in silks and embroidered gowns and suits dart into rooms, their faces ashen. Their fear is palpable.
Moments later, I'm standing outside the doorway to the throne room. I hate this room. It brings back memories of me accidentally opening the portal to the Bloodcursed that hurt Deimos, and then another to the fairies. And now, the king has been killed here.
I don't move inside, a strange sensation crawling up my spine like I don't belong.
Luther consoles his crying mother, who buries her face against his chest. Ahren crouches near the body of the king, who’s covered in a white bedsheet. Blood stains the material in large blotches, the red against the white a stark reminder of the loss. Deimos, still in his blue pajama pants and top, stands over the dead king, arms dangling by his side.
Mages are there too, including Jasion, along with a host of other men I don’t recognize. Maybe close to thirty people are in the throne room, and no one pays me any attention. But all I can do is stare at the body.
He's the king.
My father.
I tell myself I have every right to be there and say my final words, but I can't get my legs to move.
So much blood.
Do I really want to remember him this way? I have so few memories of him, and the one night we did spend chatting, I cling to. That’s the father I want in my thoughts.
I step back and bump into the guard who brought me here. "Please take me back." My voice trembles, but I don't care. This is too much.
"Follow me."
And I do just that. Hurried steps carry me away. I take one last look at the room and lock eyes with Jasion, who stands in the doorway to the throne room.
Did he play a hand in the king's demise? The Ash King's mother asked me about him specifically. There are traitors in this castle, and for all I know, I could be the killer’s next target.
His stare darkens, and a shiver runs down my spine.
Jasion must be involved... I know it in my bones, and I'll find a way to prove his guilt.
Deimos
“This is a shit show to wake up to.” My attempt at lightening the mood in Ahren’s study fails miserably. Neither he nor Luther respond. Ahren stares out the window, his back to me, while Luther sits in the middle of the room, his feet up on the table, crossed at the ankles and rocking back in his seat. He’s miles away, staring into oblivion.
I’m in a strange state of both cheering that I survived the Bloodcursed’s bite and my chest clenching with what we’ve lost. The king was the closest thing we had to a real father. Sure, he often kept his distance from us, but he tried, and it was more than we could ask for. Now, the grief pulsing through me is for a fae’s life taken too soon and the agony my mother faces in losing her husband.
A knock comes at the door, and I turn. My brothers don’t move, so I stroll over to find a maid in the doorway holding a silver platter with a jug and chalices. The sweet grape and cinnamon aroma finds me instantly. Spiced mead, only served when someone passes. My stomach growls at the smell, as it’s been days since I’ve eaten.
“Enter,” I instruct.
Not wasting a moment, she rushes in, places the offering on the table, and retreats.
Once she’s gone, I serve myself a cup and take a drink, its warmth coating my insides as it slides down my throat. Still in my bedclothes and needing a bath desperately, I flop down into a seat at the head of the table and take my fill of the wine. I don’t recall much from my time when I lingered on death’s door, but I’m grateful the lethargy is gone. I doubt I’ll be able to sleep for a week straight from the energy buzzing
