CHAPTER TWENTYݍONE
INTE÷RUPTED
oices filtered through my death—angry, sharp sounds.V
I groaned at the intrusion.
Can’t a woman die in peace?
“What do you mean she’s dying?” The voice cut through my delirium, familiar, cold, and unexpectedly furious. “Why wasn’t I informed immediately?”
“She hasn’t been eating, Your Majesty,” a timid voice replied. “Started getting feverish about three days ago. We thought —“ “You thought?” The voice was now soft, which somehow made it seem more terrifying. “You are not meant to think. You are meant to report the condition of my wife.”
Wife. What a strange word. I felt like I should be more frustrated with it.
Instead, I was merely irritated that my peace was being interrupted.
“Open her cell. Now.”
Heavy footsteps approached, and I flinched as the cell door screeched open. The sound reverberated through my skull, pulling a moan from my cracked lips.
Cool fingers touched my forehead, and I jerked away instinctively, my body remembering what my fever-addled mind could not fully process.
“Mireille. Look at me.”
I tried, truly I did, but my eyelids felt weighted with stones. When I finally managed to pry them open, Valen’s face swam before me, features
shifting and resettling like disturbed water. Was this real, or another fever
dream?
I’d had so many of those lately.
“You’re burning alive,” he muttered, and something in his tone surprised me. Concern? From the Blood King? Surely another hallucination.
I wanted to laugh, but it came out as a wet, rattling cough instead. “Isn’t that... what you wanted?” My voice was barely a whisper, scraping past my parched throat. “To watch me... suffer?”
His jaw tightened. “Not like this.” His hands moved beneath me, one supporting my shoulders, the other sliding under my knees.
The world tilted as he lifted me from the filthy dungeon floor that had been my bed these past weeks. Everything hurt. The slight jostling of his steps sent fresh agony through my head, and each breath felt like swallowing fire. I couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped me.
“Shh,” Valen murmured, the gentleness in his voice so incongruous with everything I knew of him that I was now certain I was hallucinating. “I’ve got you.”
My head lolled against his chest, and despite everything, I found myself drawing comfort from his touch. How pathetic I’d become, seeking solace from my jailer. But loneliness and pain makes beggars of us all, I supposed.
He carried me from the cell, each step sending fresh waves of pain through my body. The dungeon corridor stretched before us, torchlight casting long shadows that danced like specters along the stone walls. The air smelled of damp and decay and ancient suffering.
“You should have told me she was this bad,” Valen growled at someone I couldn’t see. “She’s no use to me dead.”
No use. Of course. Whatever his reasons for keeping me alive, they weren’t born of compassion. The momentary comfort I’d felt in his arms soured, replaced by hollow resignation.
“Please,” I murmured into the fabric of his shirt. “Just let me die.”
His arms tightened around me. “No,” he said again, but this time, there was something else in his voice, a thread of what almost sounded like desperation. “You don’t get to escape that easily, Princess.”
We stopped abruptly, and through the haze of fever, I realized we stood before another cell. It looked almost the same as mine. Old, but with chains that glinted dully in the torchlight.
“She needs help,” Valen said, addressing whoever resided within.
A long silence followed, broken only by the steady drip of water somewhere in the darkness and the rasp of my labored breathing.
“And why,” came a voice finally, low and gruff in its evident disuse, “should that concern me?”
Something stirred in my memory at the sound of that voice. A conversation. Had I dreamed it? I couldn’t be certain.
“Because this is the only way to keep her alive,” Valen replied, tension evident in every syllable. “And because I’m asking you to.”
A soft, dangerous chuckle echoed from the cell. “You lost the right to ask anything of me long ago, brother.”
Valen’s chest rose and fell in a controlled breath. “You know I would heal her myself if I could.”
“But you can’t,” the voice replied, closer now. I forced my eyes open, trying to see past Valen’s shoulder into the cell. I could see nothing but swirls of darkness. “And I will not.”
My harbinger. My death. The realization came unbidden, but it felt right.
This prisoner, this being in chains… he was my harbinger. He’d come to herald my end, to guide me into whatever waited beyond this life. My hands lifted to reach for him.
“She’s dying,” Valen insisted. “She will die if you do not help her.”
“Yes,” my harbinger agreed, sounding almost contemplative. “She told me she wishes to die. Several times, in fact. Most recently just a few hours ago.”
Had I told him that? In my delirium, had I whispered my desire for death through the walls? I couldn’t remember, but it was true. I wanted this, my life, to end.
“You’ve been talking to her?” Valen shifted me in his arms, and I bit back a cry as pain lanced through my head. “I sat beside you for two decades and you hardly said a word to me, your own kin.”
“She talks,” my harbinger replied. “Sometimes I listen.”
The drip of water echoed in the silence that followed, a steady countdown
to something inevitable.
Drip. Pause. Drip. Drip. Pause.
“I’ll remove one of your chains,” Valen finally said, desperation now clear in his voice. “If you help her.”
The chains clinked again, a mocking sound. “One chain?” my harbinger questioned. Then he laughed—a sound like stones grinding together. “Two
chains, or she dies.”
I felt Valen go rigid. “One chain is already generous.”
“Two,” my harbinger repeated. “Or watch your bride return to dust.”
The word ‘bride’ sent a shiver through me. I finally remembered why I felt so unsettled in Valen’s presence. He had done this to me.
“Fine,” Valen spat after a long pause. “Two chains. But she must be completely healed and unchanged.”
“She will be healed,” my harbinger said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Bring her to me, Blood God, and I will save what you’ve nearly destroyed.”
“Open the prisoner’s cell,” Valen commanded, his tone brooking no argument.
There was a pause, then a nervous cough. “Your Majesty,” came a hesitant voice, “this cell hasn’t been opened in decades. King Aeldrin’s orders were —“ “King Aeldrin is dead,” Valen cut in, his voice silky with menace. “By my hand, if you recall. His orders mean nothing now.”
I felt a ghost of satisfaction at the guard’s discomfort. Let them all be uncomfortable. Let them all fear for their lives as I had watched my family fear for theirs.
“Yes, sire, but the prisoner... he’s not —“ “Do you imagine I don’t know who he is?” Valen’s chest rumbled with barely contained rage. “Open. The. Cell.”
The guard stammered something I couldn’t make out, followed by the jangle of keys and the groan of ancient metal. The sound scraped against my eardrums like nails on slate, bringing fresh waves of pain. I moaned, turning my face into Valen’s chest in a futile attempt to escape the noise. His hand wrapped around my head and pressed against my ear, as if to muffle the noise. A curious gesture for one meaning to torture me.
“Leave,” Valen said, his arms tightening around me. “If I remove these chains and you’re still here, you’ll all die.”
The guard’s breathing quickened. “Perhaps we should wait for the court healer to —“ “He would be useless here,” Valen interrupted. “This requires... a different kind of healing.”
The fever twisted his words into nonsensical patterns that fluttered around my head like moths. A different kind of healing? Different from a god’s
power, even?
The screech of hinges echoed through the dungeon, magnified by my fever into a sound so piercing I thought my skull might crack. Then came a clinking sound, rhythmic and heavy. Chains falling and dragging across stone.
“Give her to me,” said my harbinger. Up close, his voice was even more ancient than I had imagined, like mountains speaking, like the earth itself finding words.
Valen hesitated. I felt the slight tensing of his muscles, the momentary tightening of his hold on me. Was he reluctant to surrender me, or merely calculating his next move? I had learned, with Valen, everything was a game of power.
“You can trust me with your precious bride,” my harbinger said, amusement coloring his tone. “I cannot help her without touching her, and I’ve given you my word.”
“Your word has proven flexible in the past,” Valen replied, but he was already shifting me, transferring my weight to another set of arms.
The transition was disorienting. One moment I was pressed against the hot solidity of Valen’s chest, the next I was enveloped in a warmth that seemed to calm me entirely.
These new arms were strong, impossibly so, yet they cradled me with a gentleness that made something deep inside me ache with recognition.
Without thought, I nestled closer, burrowing into the embrace like a mouse seeking shelter from a storm. My nose brushed against a neck that smelled of ancient stone, of earth after rain, of something indefinably other. I inhaled deeply, the scent cutting through my fever in a way nothing else had, clearing my mind for one precious moment.
My harbinger grunted, a sound of surprise rather than displeasure, and adjusted his hold on me. One large hand splayed across the small of my back, the other cradling my head, fingers tangling in my sweat-dampened hair.
“Thank you,” I breathed, my lips brushing his neck with each syllable, “for finally coming to kill me.”
The silence that followed my words was broken only by the distant drip of water. I felt his body go utterly still, even his breathing suspended for one long moment.
Then his hand shifted, fingers sliding from my hair to brush against my fevered cheek. The touch was cool, almost soothing. “Is that what you think I
am?” he asked, his voice softer, almost intimate. “Your executioner?”
I tried to nod, but the movement sent fresh pain lancing through my skull.
“You promised,” I whispered instead. “You said I was going to die.”
“And so you will, as all mortals must,” he replied, his dropping to a soothing drawl. “But not today.”
“Then what good are you?” I muttered, petulance seeping through my delirium.
He hummed, and I felt it rumble through my lips. “A question many have asked,” he admitted, pressing my body more firmly to his. I nuzzled into his neck, trying to get as close as possible to this being who held me with such care.
He lowered his face to my shoulder and breathed me in, slow and deliberate, almost hungry, as though my scent alone could sustain him. I felt his nose trace the line where fevered skin met the pulse in my throat. My body, stripped of every last defense, shuddered with something that was not altogether fear, nor entirely wanting—it was a third thing, nameless and starving, and I knew it belonged not to me alone.
His grip gentled, the large hand splayed across my back moving in feather-light circles. The other hand found its way back to my hair, fingers combing through the knots, undoing the tangles with an impossible tenderness for something of such obvious strength.
I shifted in his arms, summoning what little resolve remained to lift my head. My lashes felt weighted with lead, but I managed to crack them open just enough to glimpse the shadowed planes of his face. The light was too dim to make out details, but I could see the strong line of his jaw, the hollow of his neck, the pale gleam of eyes watching me with an intensity that should have frightened me.
Instead, I felt satisfaction at what little I saw. At least I could confirm that death was not monstrous.
The world swam in and out of focus, and I couldn’t find the energy to keep my eyes open any longer. Instead, I pressed my forehead against the cool solidity of his cheekbone, taking comfort in that small point of contact.
“I’m so tired,” I whispered, the words scraping past my parched lips. “So very tired.”
The hand at my back continued its slow, unhurried circles, grounding me in the moment, while the other now hovered at my cheek. It was almost as if he feared harming me, as if he hadn’t touched another in years.
Maybe he hadn’t.
Slowly, his fingertips brushed my face. Fingers ghosting over my cheekbones, my temples, the hollow beneath my eyes. When they reached my lips, they paused, a feather-light touch that sent an unexpected shiver through my fevered body.
“I know, yshera,” he murmured, his breath caressing my skin. “I know.”
I wanted to ask what it meant, yshera, this foreign word spoken in a tongue I couldn’t place, but language was slipping away, drowned by exhaustion and the steady beat of his heart against my ribs. Instead, I pressed closer still, seeking solace in the rhythmic cadence.
“That’s enough,” Valen’s voice cut through the moment, startling me. He sounded far away, as though speaking from beyond the bars, but the authority in his tone was unmistakable. “You’re supposed to be helping her, not... whatever this is.”
My harbinger didn’t immediately respond, his fingers continuing their gentle patterns against my spine. I felt him exhale against my skin, his breath cool.
“Healing takes many forms,” he finally replied, his voice a low rumble that I felt more than heard. “Or have you forgotten that in your time playing in mortal revenge?”
Valen made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a growl, a sound that could have been mistaken for jealousy had I not known better. “I haven’t forgotten how you operate. Get on with it.”
The hand on my back stilled, and I found myself mourning the loss of that soothing motion.
Suddenly, the air in the cell felt charged, as if lightning were about to strike, before a loud metallic clang shattered the tension—the sound of cell bars slamming shut. Had Valen done that? Or had my harbinger’s powers
somehow caused it?
“What are you doing?” Valen snarled.
“Ensuring privacy,” my harbinger replied calmly. “You want me to heal her? I require concentration. Your presence is highly distracting.”
“I will only remove the second if she is returned to me alive and whole,”
Valen said, his voice low and dangerous. “Remember that.”
“I remember,” my harbinger replied, and there was a weight to his words that suggested centuries rather than decades, perhaps millennia. “Now be silent or leave. Your choice.”
I heard Valen’s frustrated exhale, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps. He had chosen to leave rather than watch whatever was about to happen. In my fever-addled state, I felt only relief.
My harbinger shifted me in his lap, adjusting our positions so that my head rested in the crook of his shoulder. The oppressive heat that had been consuming me for days began to recede, replaced by a coolness that started at my crown and flowed downward like clear water. The sensation was so blissful that I couldn’t hold back a moan.
“Better?” he asked, his voice closer to my ear than I’d expected.
I nodded, unable to form words as the coolness continued to spread through my body, chasing away the fever that had been eating me alive. It was like diving into a mountain stream after months in the desert—shocking, painful in its intensity, yet desperately needed.
“The infection is deep,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. “It has taken root in your blood.”
His hand moved to my feet, where the worst of the cuts were. I flinched as he touched the festering wounds, but his grip on me tightened, preventing any escape.
“Be still,” he commanded. “The discomfort will be less if you do not fight it.”
I forced myself to relax, surrendering to his touch. His fingers traced the edges of each cut, and I felt something strange. A pulling sensation, as if he were drawing the pain out through his fingertips. The ache subsided with each pass of his hand, replaced by a tingling numbness that was almost pleasant.
“The next part will hurt,” he warned then, his voice gentling. “It is the price of such healing. A piece of yourself, freely given.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I nodded anyway. What was one more piece of myself? I had already lost everything else.
“Good girl,” he said softly, the words seemingly pulled from him without thought. But for some reason, the simple praise brought tears to my eyes.
How long had it been since anyone had spoken to me with anything resembling kindness?
His hand moved to my chest, resting over my heart. At first, there was nothing—just his palm against my sternum. Then, without warning, pain exploded through me, so intense that my back lifted, my teeth clenched in a silent scream. I barely registered that he was shoving my face back into his
neck, his strong arms wrapping around me in a tight embrace.
It felt as if he were reaching inside me, past skin and bone, to grasp something essential at my core.
I whimpered into his neck, my fingers clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pain intensified. This was no physical wound. This was something deeper, more intrinsic. I felt as if he were tearing away a piece of my very self, extracting something I hadn’t known could be removed.
“Just a bit more,” he whispered, his lips brushing my temple, his voice sounding stronger than before. “You’re doing so well. So brave.”
The praise shouldn’t have mattered, not when I was being unmade from the inside out, but somehow it did. I focused on his voice, on the steady rhythm of his breathing, using it as an anchor as the pain crested.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. The tearing sensation ceased, leaving behind a strange emptiness, like a hollow space where something vital had once lived. I sagged against him, exhausted beyond measure, my body suddenly too heavy to hold upright.
“There,” he said, satisfaction evident in his tone. “It is done.”
I wanted to ask what he had taken, what piece of myself I had just surrendered, but consciousness was already slipping away. The world began to fade, the edges of reality blurring into comforting darkness. The last thing I felt was his arms tightening around me, cradling me against his chest as if I were precious rather than broken. They were not death’s cold embrace as I’d longed for, but something warmer, more complex, perhaps something I had yearned for before these dungeons.
As the darkness pulled me under, I felt my harbinger’s lips brush against my forehead, so lightly I might have imagined it.
“Sleep, yshera,” he whispered. “There will be time enough for dying later.”
