Page 77 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

An apology formed by reflex. “Sorry, I—”

“It’s my crown, my throne,” he interrupted. “Don’t get big ideas.”

He hadn’t brought up the possibility of me usurping him for years. I’d thought he was pleased with our arrangement, with my control over the military and his command of the court and the public’s admiration. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

A response would’ve been wasted breath because Berian’s eyes fluttered, already slipping shut. His fingers twitched once then fell slack.

The sour tang of relief slipped in alongside the shame roiling in my gut. Relief that he wouldn’t see my face when the hurt finally broke through the mask. Shame that I’d felt it at all.

Perhaps it had been nothing more than the pain speaking. Or…perhaps his cruelty had simply become a reflex, so ingrained he couldn’t resist cutting even while half-senseless. Regardless of his intentions, its impact remained the same.

He either didn’t care or couldn’t see me as human anymore.

I let go of his hand and stood. My joints ached from lingering injury, from disuse, from the constant, grinding tension I’d carried since my parents died.

I’d visited Berian in his study multiple times per week for decades, but I hadn’t been in his bedroom in years. As I looked around, I noticed there were no knickknacks adorning the walls, no perches for a furry companion. The only warmth came from the overheated hearth.

It wasn’t lost on me that I could describe my own rooms the same way.

As I turned to leave, a swath of beige caught my eye. Berian’s veska cloak lay slung over the back of a nearby chair, the dense pattern of pelts gleaming faintly in the firelight. The clasp—a heavy thing of magically worked gold bearing the royal sigil—rested against the cushion, abandoned in haste.

I didn’t realize I’d reached to grab it until the cold of the clasp settled in my palm. I knew, in the part of my mind still functioning like a rational person, that I should put it back. It smelled faintly of medicine and all the hallmarks of a comfortable life.

And it was an abomination.

Berian won’t miss it, I decided viciously, thinking of the furry little demon who half-loved, half-hated me.

Berian had a dozen other cloaks. He had rooms full of luxuries, servants falling over themselves to meet his every need, a crown that bent the world to his will even now, as his body failed him.

And I had—

I didn’t dare finish the thought.

I tore the cloak from the chair and strode from the room without another glance back, boots clanking sharply against stone. I’d consider it payment for every cutting remark, public humiliation, casual cruelty dressed up as brotherly concern.

The guards stiffened as I passed, their gazes flicking briefly to the fur draped over my arm then away again.

They wouldn’t dare stop me when shadows stalked my every step down the hallway. Not when the cloak was already smoking from the rare display of evocation magic streaming out of my hands as I held it.

I stomped down the corridor, threw open my apartment door and tossed the flaming cloak into the hearth.

Then I added my own flames to it in a torrent of rage kept in too long. The darkest part of me needed to watch it burn. By the time the gold clasp started to melt, my hands were shaking and my room was filled with smoke.

So fucking worth it.

I slept with the smell of burned veska fur in my nostrils that night. Which was to say: I lay down, closed my eyes, and endured.

Every night since I’d left Lunette behind, my mind had returned to her in my dreams with a persistence bordering on cruelty. And every night, I woke with my hands clenching the sheets, shadows writhing along the walls, my soul feeling as if it had been flayed open.

This night was no different.

In the dream, she approached me as a phantom molded by my guilt. Her fiery red hair danced in the breeze, mingling with the scattered red, orange, and yellow leaves around her cabin. She stood just out of reach, watching me with those infuriatingly perceptive lilac eyes.

I walked toward her, arms outstretched, spurred on by the almost frantic belief that everything would be all right if I could just hold her hand, feel her warmth beside me, know that she was breathing. But she said nothing, only shook her head once, slow and sorrowful, as I failed to reach her again and again.

When I woke this time, it was with a frustrated snarl on my lips and my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest. Dawn was just beginning to paint the sky with faint hues of pink and orange.

I dressed without calling for my valet. My shadows had been restless since I’d woken, pressing against the edges of my skin like something testing a seam. I worried they’d lash out at anyone touching me. I was mostly healed, but pain was an old companion—one I hoped would keep me on my best behavior.