“Powerlike that… wasted on a girl who doesn’t even know she holds it. Power that can loosen even the oldest blood-oaths.”
His gaze flicked to me, bright as a knife. “So tell me, Malachi—what does she want?”
Choice twisted into servitude. That had always been his game. Offer a cage gilded enough and even the strongest learned to call it home.
I was proof of that.
He lifted the goblet to his lips, taking a slow sip before setting it aside. “Every soul has a weakness. Find hers,” he commanded. “We will offer it in exchange for…” His head tilted, amusement ghosting at the corner of his mouth. “A happily ever after.”
I let the silence stretch, my expression unreadable. Then, evenly: “She mentioned coming here for something. There’s a brother. A companion. Enough to anchor her.” My gaze flicked briefly to his, hard as steel.
Kaelith stood and moved toward the door. He hummed, already bored. “Come. I wish to see her myself. But first, flowers. Dying things need a bit of life, do they not?”
We left the castle for the square. Nyxarra unfurled in indigo, mist slinking through alley throats.
The buildings were carved from midnight-hued stone veined with silver and quartz, their rooftops domed in pale metal. Second-story terraces spilled vines of moonflowers and blood-bright berries. Bridges stitched the high houses together so children could run rooftops and elders could trade gossip without ever touching the ground.
The town square opened like a heart in the center of it all, always bustling with people. Food stalls lined the curved perimeter, steam rising from roasted meats on sticks, glazed root vegetables, and sugared pastries. The air smelled of ember-smoke and bread, iron and spice. Traders called out wares from their booths:
“Coffee beans blessed by Sylvara! Ground fine or whole!”
“Salt-crabs fresh from the Synnex coast! Still wriggling!”
“Amber spice and storm-peppers from Kaerani’s highlands! Guaranteed to melt your tongue!”
Magic brightened at the edges of the square as we walked. A girl with Sylvara’s green vine curling faintly at her throat—the living mark of her goddess—coaxed frost-burned petals open on a crate of winter pansies. A stall-keeper breathed Kaerani’s ember into a brazier, a pinpoint of fury that leapt to flame and hissed against the cold. Across the way, a boy lifted his palms, and the water in his bucket beaded and gathered at a word—Nerissa’s pull gentle as tide.
And everywhere, the silence Eryndis left behind. Thresholds that did not answer like they used to. Shadows that did not sing in unison.
The people of Nyxarra moved in soft fabrics with purposeful steps. Many wore silver-painted masks or veils—a tradition that had started during the first war, when many were too afraid to be seen supporting the rebels. Now it was just fashion.
We strode through the center of the square, boots echoing on polished stone. Conversation hushed as we passed, eyes sliding toward us, then quickly away. Some in deference. Some in fear.
The flower stall at the edge of the square bled color onto its velvet-draped table: blooms that pulsed with their own light, petals dusted as if with stars. Roots curled in glass vases filled with soil-veined silver.
A tall man stood behind the table. A young woman sorted bouquets beside him. The mark of Sylvara curled across the side of her neck—a vine etched in green, its leaves glimmering faintly as though dew gathered there. Her fingers brushed a black-stemmed flower whose edges bled crimson; constellations winked across its face.
Kaelith’s gaze lingered on the girl. His smile widened. “I’ll take the flowers,” he said. “And the girl.”
Her hands stilled. “Father?”
The man’s shoulders squared. I saw the tremor in his arms. “She isn’t for sale, my prince.” His knuckles went white on the table’s edge.
I had seen this play before. Kaelith never asked because he intended not to be denied—he asked to savor the denial, to drag out the moment before he snapped it apart. His hunger was never for flowers or for women, not really. It was for resistance, for the pleasure of breaking something that thought it could stand.
The girl’s pulse beat at her throat, the green mark flickering faintly. Kaelith’s amusement deepened. “Not for sale? Everything is for sale.” He plucked a star-blood bloom and turned it lazily between his fingers. “Here are your choices, old man. Take payment, and I take her. Or I take her, and you remain poor.”
The father looked at me, desperation sharp in his weathered features.
His jaw trembled. “Will you watch over her?” His words were low, meant for me alone.
I met his gaze and held it. I could not defy Kaelith here without buying two deaths. But there were other vows. I brushed my thumb along the hilt at my hip where only the father could see it.
“As I do all of Nyxarra,” I murmured.
Something in him gave—relief, grief, resignation tangled into one. He bowed his head. “Then… she is yours, my prince.”
The girl didn’t cry out. Didn’t beg. Her bouquet slid from her hands and landed in the frost, the colors bleeding into the stone. For one heartbeat she lifted her chin—small, furious—then dropped it.