Not a single person stepped in front of me to ask what I was doing steering a clearly drunk woman away from the ball. Most of them smirked, turning to whisper to their friends—already creating vicious gossip.
Rythos fell into step next to me, his expression serious, eyes hard. Courtiers glanced at his face and away, and we suddenly had a clear path to the door.
“You’re being remarkably well controlled,” he murmured.
I glanced at him, and he stiffened. “Fuck. Keep your head down.”
Turning my attention back to Prisca, I allowed Rythos to lead the way.
“What happened to her?” a feminine voice asked.
I recognized this woman. This was Farrow’s daughter. The hybrid who was now beholden to Prisca. Our first piece of luck.
“We need to get her to her room,” Rythos said.
She gave me a cool look. “I’ll take her.”
I showed her my teeth. Rythos elbowed me.
“She’s unwell,” he said carefully. “We will escort her.”
“I’m not letting you take her alone.”
“Come with us, then,” Rythos gritted out.
I was already turning, guiding Prisca up the steps. She stumbled again, almost going down, and Rythos took her other arm, until we were practically carrying her between us.
As soon as we were far enough from the ballroom to avoid most of the curious eyes, I hauled Prisca into my arms, striding faster.
“Get a healer,” I ordered Rythos. “One of ours.”
Our eyes met and he nodded. He knew exactly who to find.
“Why would she need a healer?” The woman puffed behind us, her shorter legs and heavy gown making it difficult for her to keep up.
Ignoring her, I glanced down the corridor. “Which room is hers?”
No one could know just how much I knew about this woman.
“That one,” the woman pointed. She opened the door, and I strode inside, laying Prisca on the bed. Her breathing had turned thready, her skin almost gray. She shivered occasionally, and her lips had already taken on a blue tinge. Dread expanded through my veins, tinged with a kind of brutal helplessness I hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
“You can leave now,” the woman said.
My gaze met hers, and she flinched at whatever she saw in my eyes. “Get away from her,” she hissed.
“What is your name?”
“Madinia.”
“Madinia, look at her.”
The woman complied, and her eyes widened.
“Poison.”
“Yes. You need to leave.”
She immediately shook her head. “I’ll inform the queen.”
My dagger was nestled against her throat before I was aware I’d moved. “Say anything of this, and you’ll wish for a death as kind as poison.”
She shuddered, but to her credit, she met my gaze. “You’re not the prince. Who are you?”
I just smiled. She stared at me. “I won’t say anything.”
“Good. Leave.”
Her breath hitched, and I reached for patience I didn’t have. “You’ll be noticed missing. We’ll take good care of her.”
She frowned. “Please don’t let her die.”
The thought was intolerable. Ridiculous. Prisca wouldn’t die. I wouldn’t allow it.
Whatever the woman saw on my face convinced her. She nodded at me. Stepping close to Prisca, she reached for her hand, giving it a squeeze. “Fight. Please.”
Whirling, she strode from the room.
Rythos was immediately there, pushing open the door and gesturing for the healer to approach the bed.
He stepped inside and stalked toward the bed, dark eyes narrowed. I’d known the hybrid for years, and yet his existence—and incredible power—was such a secret, no one knew his true name. He was known only as “the healer.”
I watched closely, waiting for him to start his work. But he took one look at Prisca and sighed. “Viperbane,” he said. “A terrible death.”
“Fix her.”
He bowed his head. “Impossible. There are some poisons without an antidote. This is one of them. Most people live mere minutes after ingestion. All you can do at this point is gather her family to say their goodbyes.”
Fog filled the edges of my vision. I couldn’t hear over the sound of the blood thundering in my ears. Someone was hitting my arm, and I slowly turned my head.
“Let him go, Lorian.”
I snarled. Rythos’s eyes had gone wider than I’d ever seen them. “You’re killing him, Lorian. He can’t help her if he’s dead.”
Slowly turning my head, I found my hand wrapped around the healer’s throat. It took everything in me to slowly unwrap my fingers until he slumped to the floor, still choking.
I was vaguely aware that I was speaking, and that each word made the healer turn paler. Rythos bowed his head, and even my friend refused to look into my eyes.
The healer turned and hurried to Prisca’s side. The room was silent.
“Find her brother,” I rasped.
I was in hell. The flames burned me alive until I cried out desperately, begging for it to stop.
Someone was talking in a low, gravelly murmur that both hurt my ears and made me long for the voice to come closer.
There were no words for this kind of agony. Darkness called to me, and I wanted nothing more than to be done with this pain. Done with all of it.
The voice paused, and I ached for it to continue. Somehow, I managed to crack my eyes open to slits. I was on my bed, surrounded by people. Lorian’s eyes met mine.
“Dying.”
“You’re not dying. Don’t be dramatic,” he snarled.
But the deep line between his eyes told me he lied. I attempted a smile, but my eyes were drifting shut once more.
“Tell my brother…brothers…”
“I’ll tell them nothing. You die here, Prisca, and I won’t tell anyone a single fucking thing.”
His hand was cool as it brushed my forehead. What had happened? One minute, I’d been dancing, and the next…
“Poison.”
“Yes. But you will fight it.”
“So tired.”
“I know you’re tired. I know. But they need you.” He leaned closer until his mouth was pressed against my neck, right below my ear. “I need you.”
Was I imagining his words? My eyes were shut, but Lorian was close enough that his scent drifted toward me, and I basked in it.
He lifted his head slightly, and I mourned the loss of his heat. “Those prisoners in the king’s dungeon? If you die, they’re all dead too. All of them. Including your friend and your brother.”
My heart twisted. “Save them.”
“Never. You hear me? You fight, or everyone dies.”
My eyes burned. I opened my mouth to beg, to plead…
Unconsciousness beckoned.
I opened Demos’s door. He was so young, his cheeks rounded. His eyes had a mischievous glint in them, and he gave me a very adult, put-upon look.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m scared.”
He sighed. “Come here.”
He held out his hand and helped me climb onto his bed.
“What are you scared of?”
“I don’t know.” Everything. I was scared of the dark, of the sound the tree made when the branches hit my window. Of the shadow that tree cast on my bedroom wall.
“I think Mama and Papa are scared too,” Demos said.
They couldn’t be scared. They were big.
“They keep whispering.” Demos scowled. “And Mama was crying yesterday.”
“Crying? Truly?” The thought of Mama crying made my stomach hurt.
Something tapped on the window. The tree.
Demos stiffened. He didn’t have a tree outside his window.