Page 94 of Prince of Darkness and Deceit

I can fulfill my deal with the Fae. I can use my magic to help Darius. And I can save Verdanthia from the Fae’s wrath.

I just need a little time.

I’m sure of it.

I wake before the sun, my limbs heavy and my head clouded with exhaustion. Every muscle protests as I swing my legs over the end of my lumpy mattress, but there’s no time to indulge the ache blooming beneath my skin.

I’ve been neglecting patients, and I need to check on a few before one of the Fae comes to collect me today.

The morning air is still, the kind of hush that clings just before dawn. I braid my hair with slow, stiff fingers and slip out into the quiet streets with my satchel flung over my shoulder.

A peek inside confirms I’m low on bandages. I’ll stop by the healing wing at the barracks to up my supplies before I go. Just in case.

I make it through town without seeing a single soul.

That’s not the worst thing. Word of what happened at the tavern has spread. Now my neighbors' wariness around me is greater than ever.

Nevertheless, I’ll make house calls for my most vulnerable patients. If they deny me entrance because of my association with the Fae, that’s their choice. But it’s my responsibility to try and care for them.

Resolved, I shake off my lingering fatigue and run through the mental list of who I need to see today and who can wait until tomorrow.

The list flits away on the breeze when I turn the barracks’ corner and see a slumped form propped against the wall.

I blink in shock, then rush forward and drop to my knees. The smell of copper and sweat hits my nostrils as I reach for the man’s pulse.

His face is swollen with one eye sealed shut, blood crusted along his temple and jaw. Purple bruises bloom across his bare arms. His breath comes in shallow, ragged pulls.

Despite his state, there’s no denying who he is.

“Gods.” My voice trembles, just like my hands. “What happened to you?”

But I already know. Deep down, I’ve known since I saw him.

Fief’s good eye flutters open. For a moment, he stares at me. Then fear floods his face, sharp and unfiltered. His body slumps sideways, a feeble attempt to put space between us. Like I’m the danger. Like I did this to him.

Maybe I did.

Because the moment the Fae heard his name—heard he harmed his wife—he was a marked man.

And I don’t know what unsettles me more. What the powerful males did to him…

Or the part of me that believes he deserved it.

19

I sit in the back row in the temple, my head tilted back, staring at the shadows rippling across the vaulted ceiling, cast by the flickering oil lamps mounted to intricately carved pine columns.

The priest’s monotone chant drones over the space, a rhythm meant to soothe. Instead, it scratches at my skull, agitating the storm already brewing in my mind.

Fief’s battered face flashes in my head again—bloody, swollen, gasping through broken teeth.

Should I pray to Judan for absolution? The God of Order values justice. If I place my conflict at his altar, would he relieve me of the uncertainty that’s made it difficult to eat these past twenty-four hours?

Or should I pray to Ignar? The God of Flames thrives on vengeance. Surely he wouldn’t blink twice at what happened to Fief. What the Fae did to Fief.

The Gods only know how often Fief laid hands on his wife, how often she or her son suffered the brute’s wrath. It was time for him to answer for his cruelty.

I press my palms against my knees, breathing slowly. I’m supposed to feel remorse. But I don’t. Not really.