My skin felt wrong. Too tight. Like I’d been stuffed into a body that wasn’t mine. And through it all—the panic, the nausea, the hollow ache in my ribs—I could still feel his breath at my neck. Still hear the purr of his voice, the scrape of his teeth against my skin.
I pressed my palms to the floor and tried to breathe through it.
In. 1, 2, 3, 4…
Out. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8…
Why didn’t I stop him? Why didn’t I scream, or fight, or push back?
I hated myself for it—more than I ever had.
My lungs finally obeyed. Air rasped in. “Aurelia?” The sound of my name floated in from somewhere distant.
I lay flat on the cold stone, arms crossed tightly over my chest, palms pressed to my skin as if I could hold myself together. I focused on my breathing. Counting. Grounding.
“Aurelia? Where are you?” Lysara. Her voice came closer.Footsteps padded across the floor, and a shadow stretched long beside me.
“Over here,” I muttered, opening one eye just enough to see her standing over me, confusion etched into her face.
“What are you doing on the floor?”
I forced a lazy, amused smile. “I got really hot from a very deep drink.”
Her brow furrowed, but she didn’t press. “All right. Well, it’s time to get dressed. Did you decide on a different gown?”
She glanced toward the discarded one pooled near the fire, the silk laces trailing.
“The black one,” I said without emotion. “At the back of the wardrobe.”
Lysara walked into the wardrobe—and stopped. I heard the sharp intake of breath, the soft gasp she tried to swallow.
“What is it?” I sat up slowly, arms still across my chest.
She emerged, clutching the dress in both hands, her expression unreadable. “Nothing,” she said quickly. “It’s just...” Her voice trailed off as she held it out toward me. A gown the color of onyx sprinkled with stars.
Goddess be damned.
The gown shimmered—onyx silk so dark it seemed to drink the light from the room, flecked with fine stardust embroidery that scattered down the bodice and bled into the skirts. The neckline was a bold, plunging curve that mirrored the crescent of a waning moon. Tiny obsidian beads lined the sleeves, which fell off the shoulder in sheer, whispering folds that would flutter with every breath.
The waist cinched in with subtle boning beneath the silk, sculpting the torso before flaring into layers of shadowed tulle and gossamer-thin lace. The hem was jagged.
That was the dress. The one she wore. In the memory Malachihad forced me to see. Eryndis knelt beneath a sun-filled sky in this very gown.
“Lysara…” I began, my throat suddenly dry.
She nodded slowly, gaze fixed on the gown. “The day she disappeared from this realm,” she murmured. “No one has worn it since.”
I reached out—hesitated—then took the gown anyway.
A voice echoed in my mind, quiet as a whisper.“When the world forgets balance again…”
25
Aurelia
Lysara helped me dress.
She motioned for me to sit at the vanity, then moved behind me, gently running her fingers through the chaos of my curls.