I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to stay in this moment just a little longer—before I have to accept the truth. As long as I don’t move, as long as I don’t speak it into existence, maybe it won’t be real.
But then Daniel moves away, uncovering the stretch of my skirt covered in blood.
The grief settles into me like a stone sinking to the bottom of the ocean, heavy and inescapable.
I choke out a sob. There are no words, no undoing what’s already been taken. There is only the unbearable stillness in my midsection where life was supposed to be.
“Daniel, it happened so fast. I told you not to go, that I wasn’t?—”
He looks up at me, green eyes vibrant next to the redness of his skin. “Out.”
“You can’t be serious,” I plead. The word is so final.
“The purpose for our joining is now gone. So, getout.”
He says it coldly, as if it had been my fault. As if I had been the one to bind me to the bed so I couldn’t move while he went out drinking.
I blink, ripping myself away from the memory before I drown in it. Estela had found me near the doused bonfire in the center of the slave pens that night, freezing. She took me in. Cleaned me up. There were entire stretches of time after I moved into her dwelling—hours, days, weeks—that were obliterated.
King Arion’s request has triggered something inside me. That’s why I drank so much. That’s why things are strange.
Just like before, it will pass.
I turn to the mirror, studying the crescent shadows beneath my eyes. Strange. They aren’t purple or blue, like usual, but a dull, lifeless gray. My skin is strange—too pale, too cold.
My blanket parts, and something dark catches my eye in the polished metal.
I stand. I look down. And I scream.
There is a stain my nightgown. When I move my hands, I notice it’s crusted along my fingernails.
Blood? Maybe this is a bleeding cycle?
I’ve never had a stain on the front of my body. But I’d woken up on the floor, maybe…
Gods.
Taking deep breaths, I move my hands to my face. The flakes are more purplish than crimson. If it’s blood, it’s not human, my mind supplies, even as my stomach twists. It’s such a deep purple, it’s almost black. My fingers scrape against it gingerly.
No pain. It’s not mine.
Hyperventilating, I tear the gown off my body, holding it away from me like it’s diseased. Cold air brushes over my bare skin. Frantic, I shove the gown deep into the bin of clothes to be washed, my hands shaking so violently I can barely feel them.
I stand there for a moment, breathing. When I turn back to the mirror to inspect my naked body, I tremble. Aside from my hands, there is no staining on my belly or legs.
My brain scrambles for solutions. A dark substance, potentially blood, coating my nightgown just like?—
But it wasn’t. It isn’t the same as the miscarriage. You should go to Ulla.
I take a deep breath. She would be able to check out everything. I calm a fraction, just enough for different thoughts to breakthrough.
Why is this happening when the first draft of Lorepath needs to be presented in only three months? We have to prepare for a proper start to school. I’d told Fira I’d help her with fabric for furniture in some of the houses in the new mountain settlement.
And there was a whole fucking mating journey. I’d been helping to alter clothes for some of the humans.
Gods.
Instead of dressing to go to Ulla’s, I hesitate. Maybe what was on my fingernails wasn’t blood? Maybe it was rancid mead? Or perhaps this was paint?