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Some strange desire within her wished to be closer to Fabulosa, to remove their clothing and feel the hot press of skin against skin. To be known intimately by a master, showing her the paths and pleasures unknown.
In this moment, warm from the wine and the room and the high envoy’s unashamed touch, she wanted it more than anything she’d ever wanted.
And yet, from the edge of memory, the rest of the night swept by.
Of what she and Calix had agreed to.
Of why they had started their courtship in the first place.
And of what was at stake for both of them if they didn’t make it happen.
Teigra pulled her hands back, giving Fabulosa a sorrowful look. Her fingers felt cold and alone in their absence from her the silken skin.
Teigra sighed, resisting the intense urge to undo her withdrawal.
“I... I have to go.”
74
AURELIUS
The bare earth was cold against his cheek.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. The powdery stink of mold choked his senses.
He opened his eyes, gritty and dry, to see the cause.
Across the walls and floor of the garden lay limp strands of death, covered in cancerous patches of mildew. The air was so thick with rot that he could see the spores floating, lit by a thin light through the basement door.
Calix... ?
He tried to speak, but his throat ached like a hammer had been taken to it. As he pushed himself up, he felt utterly shattered—a dull weight hanging from every limb, every fingertip, every strand of hair, making even the smallest movements near impossible.
It didn’t hurt. Not exactly. It was just all so incredibly difficult. So difficult that it would have been easier to lay back against the damp earth and return to sleep. To join the kinship of rot and let his body flake away.
With all the effort he could muster, he resisted, grabbing the torn shreds of his once-glittering costume, now slimy with decay, and wrapped them into something approximating an outfit.
The house stumbled past, lit by a cold, overcast gloom. The rooms were empty. The coals in the hearth were absent any heat.
He found Calix outside, standing atop the hill, staring over the vineyard and the bay beyond.
Aurelius could sense the morning was cold, and yet he couldn’t feel it. He could hardly feel anything.
“Don’t!” Calix growled as he staggered toward him, his voice carrying an intensity he hadn’t heard before.
“Calix...” he squeaked, the single word taking the strength of an oration.
The prince’s face was visible now—an expression of sneering contempt. “How could you, Aurelius? After everything I told you?”
He tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.
The prince shook his head. Teeth gritted, he tossed a scroll to the ground in front of him. “Your reward!” he spat. “The only thing you’ve ever really wanted from me.”
The words on the parchment unfurled before him. It was a letter to the archon of Mestibes, proposing the negotiation of a formal military alliance—with abundant clarity that Aurelius had been the mastermind.
And at the bottom, above the barely set wax, was a line of text that stopped his heart.
This offer is conditional on the herald of Mestibes leaving Ardora, never to return.
