Page 141

He had watched her kill from impossible distances—watched silver hair and moon-pale skin become little more than a phantom before another body struck the earth. The Ashen Blade did not hesitate. She became the hesitation in others.

Four.

Five.

His stomach tightened.

Vaelor continued speaking, oblivious. “…Ravenholm grows increasingly difficult to predict. Drevain’s death has certainly complicated matters.”

“It has,” Lucan answered automatically.

Six.

Seven.

No movement.

A cold unease slid beneath his ribs. Had she seen something? Changed her mind? No—that was impossible.

Elarian did not freeze.

She decided. Always. Unless…

His thoughts returned, unbidden, to that morning.

You are the only person in this court I trust.

Gods.

He had handed an assassin something infinitely heavier than a poisoned dagger. He had given her his trust, and she had no idea what to do with it. A strange sensation, one he had not felt since he was a frightened human beneath Aurelion’s gaze, unfurled low in his stomach.

Doubt.

Stomach-twisting, blood-curdling doubt.

Had he misjudged the assignment? Asked too much of a woman whose world he had spent the better part of a fortnight dismantling piece by careful piece? He had watched her shed hatred as readily as blood, replacing it with something neither of them possessed a name for. Somewhere between the chains, the bloodwine, the broken glass, and the quiet mornings she always pretended not to remember, the careful balance between captor and captive had begun to rot away.

He had expected resentment; had prepared for betrayal.

He had not prepared for trust.

Vaelor’s voice drifted through the ruined sanctuary like smoke.

“The Bloodlord has grown increasingly interested in the disturbances surrounding the Evermist. And this…Ashen Blade you speak of, more myth than elf.”

“She is no longer a problem,” Lucan answered without thought, his tongue speaking while his mind remained fixed upon the darkness beyond the broken column.

Still nothing.

The silence became unbearable.

It was then he understood the true horror of the situation; because if Elarian had decided not to kill Vaelor, she would already have stepped from the shadows. She would have looked Lucan in the eye, would have forced him to reckon with her refusal, then buried her dagger in his heart before dying by Vaelor’s hand.

Instead…

She was still waiting.

Still trying.