She shook her head slowly, sifting through Val’s words for the heart of her confusion. “How could you control her—how could you call her here? It shouldn’t be possible. You’re not bonded to her.”
Tristan latched on to the word “bonded,” his gaze flicking toward the females’ enclosure, but Veronyka was too preoccupied to care.
Val tilted her head, considering Veronyka for a moment. Then, deep in the back of Veronyka’s mind, a door burst open.
Instantly she knew what it was—a permanent connection to Val. It was a kind of bond, she thought, but while her connection with Xephyra went both ways, wide-open and easily accessed, this channel was narrow and unstable—open, but still guarded.
Veronyka understood in a blazing moment of clarity that Val had somehow used this connection to make Xephyra trust her. Veronyka’s presence was a part of Val, a constant fixture in her mind, and Xephyra had sensed it. It reminded Veronyka uncomfortably of the strong connection between her and Tristan—and the way Val had reacted to it. If Veronyka was a part of Val’s mind, then Val was a part of Veronyka’s, and she must have felt Veronyka accidentally opened a similar channel between her and Tristan.
While Tristan was unaware of their connection, Val had known about her link with Veronyka and exploited it, using Veronyka’s bond to Xephyra to get what she wanted. It filled Veronyka with blinding fury. The things Val had done in her name made her feel contaminated and dirty. And it wasn’t just recently. Veronyka’s life was filled with instances of Val doing shocking, terrible deeds—and always, supposedly, for Veronyka’s sake. Val had kept so much from her, kept her in the dark her whole life. Not just about Val and their grandmother, but about Veronyka and her magic.
And Veronyka had had enough.
She bore down on her mental barriers, and the connection between them flickered. The doorway slammed shut, but it wasn’t gone entirely, and its presence changed everything between them. There were no imaginary boundaries and no false sense of security. Val was inside her mind, and nowhere was safe.
Veronyka couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe, either, except for a shallow inhalation that wheezed into her lungs.
“I hate you,” she said at last. The words were quiet, and Val leaned in, unable to hear them. “I hate you!” Veronyka screamed, and cocked her arm back and slapped her sister across the face.
Val stiffened, her face alarmingly still, save for the red mark slowly blooming across her cheek. At her sides, her hands curled into fists.
Veronyka was panting slightly, shocked at what she had done, though she felt no remorse for it.
A spasm flickered across Val’s features before her gaze dropped. Veronyka thought she looked oddly chastened—until she slowly drew a dagger from her belt. The blade was obsidian set in a bone handle. It looked ancient, but age didn’t make it any less sharp.
Time shuddered to a stop, and Veronyka was brought back to that fateful moment in their cabin when Val had pulled a knife on Xephyra. Her bondmate let out a soft croon from inside the enclosure beside them, but otherwise, everything was quiet.
Tristan tensed, as if he meant to take a step forward. While he clearly didn’t fully comprehend their argument, the flash of the blade kicked him into action.
Val thrust the knife between them, causing him to halt in his tracks, the point inches from his throat. Seeing the weapon leveled at Tristan unfroze Veronyka’s numbness, though she didn’t dare move.
Val took a careful, measured step toward Veronyka and then moved the knife to rest against her cheek. Val’s closeness filled Veronyka with a strange mix of feelings: the comfort and familiarity of her sister’s scent, combined with the instinctual fear of the cold, sharp edge against her flesh. Veronyka barely breathed, afraid the movement would sink the blade into her skin. Her mind buzzed. Would Val do this? Would this be her last and worst crime?
Val, please, she whispered internally. But the door was shut, and there was no response.
“Val, please,” Tristan echoed, his voice soft and desperate. “I don’t understand.”
“You will.” Val spoke the words slowly, as if relishing this moment. Then, in a lightning-fast move, she angled the blade and plunged it downward.
Veronyka gasped as the knife slid across her skin—but it was the flat, dull edge that pressed against her body. The razor-sharp blade faced outward, tearing through her tunic and the fabric she used to bind her breasts beneath it. Veronyka’s reactionary inhale of breath forced her chest to expand as her sister dragged the knife to the side, tearing her tunic in half and fully exposing Veronyka for the liar that she was.
“Let me introduce you to my sister,” Val spat, her voice savage and ugly in her triumph. “Veronyka.”
Day 18, Fifth Moon, 170AE
Dear Avalkyra, I am sorry that meeting did not go the way you wanted it to, but you know I could not sign that document. To annul our father’s marriage to my mother would indeed lessen your sentence, and you would be charged not with the murder of a queen regent, but with the murder of a lowly consort. You would walk away after paying the funeral fee.
And yes, annulling my mother’s marriage would also make me illegitimate, and therefore solidify your claim to the throne.
But things have changed, and I must think of the future.
These past months of silence have been hard for me, dear sister; I was not ready to give you forgiveness. I was not ready to understand. But we are out of time.
I must speak to you again, in private. I am sorry that I did not reply to your other letters. . . . I hope I am not too late in replying now.
Yours, Pheronia
Sometimes to protect those you love, you have to hurt them.
- CHAPTER 37 -
VERONYKA
VERONYKA FELL TO HER knees, clutching at the shreds of her tunic. The world around her closed in, and everything went black-and-white. There was no sound, no burning beacon or battle preparations. It was just her and Tristan and the girl who used to be her sister.
It took an eternity to meet his eyes. She wanted to cower, to hide away from him, but something had changed within her. Newfound bravery, coupled with a recent magical awakening, had her seeking out the door that belonged to him—the one she’d somehow created by accident, the one that was there and waiting, making it easy to connect with him.
Veronyka swung it wide, opening herself to him, inviting his wrath like a sunflower chasing the blazing heat of the sun. She wanted to hurt, wanted the pain that he, surely, must be feeling as well. She wanted to drink it in, to ache with it, to tear the wound wide open.
Only, it wasn’t there.
There was nothing there. No anger, no betrayal—just stunned, empty silence.