Page 144 of Shadows and Roses

She understood. Damon was her responsibility as well. She’d allowed him into the Queen's Wing, gave him too much trust. Which was why she allowed the chaos—the flying food and knives—where normally simply walking was enough.

The end came three hours later. Damon was stubborn and strong, fueled by his endless anger. She had thought they were alike in that way, but he had never learned to use his anger as a weapon; it used him. The rope didn’t slacken when he could no longer walk, holding him upright while slowly roasting his body from the feet up. She forced herself to eat, as she always did, the smell of cooked human flesh disgustingly sweet. Her nobles grew bored, most of them soon ignoring the man who refused to die.

When a new wave of nobles arrived, the Queen casually stood and glided toward the hearth. Guards cleared a path. She slipped her needle-thin blade from its sheath.

A glance at the guards holding the ropes stopped Damon’s movement. He weaved unsteadily, barely conscious.

Her blade flicked, opening a shallow cut across his stomach. His hoarse scream sounded inhuman, his eyes slowly focusing on her, the hate rising to renewed heights.

She cut him again.

How many cuts before her audience was satisfied? The sizzle of his blood was too loud in the silence. What would convince them that a peasantwho dared style himself as one of them, who dared to threaten their Queen, had been thoroughly punished?

Not a single noble could walk the coals for a few minutes before fainting, much less three hours.

Enough.

Her arm moved almost carelessly. A line of red drew across his throat. The trickle of blood became a stream, steam rising from the coals until his hate wavered and finally disappeared.

She walked back, trailing blood from her blade. Applause and cheers erupted. Lowered heads preceded her passage.

Her gaze swept her Escorts. Their cold masks held. Castien’s expression revealed nothing. But she could always see behind the mask.

Grief. Sorrow. Sympathy.

Pride.

Chapter 40

Castien

They buried him far from Kevam. Despite all he’d done and how it ended, Damon had been their friend too long. He deserved proper rites. But Kevam didn’t need to rest with his murderer.

Jerrl refused to attend. No one blamed him. A rift grew in the rebels’ ranks, clearly marked by the responses towards those who had gone to the funeral. Some took Damon’s side. All the captains had kneeled to the Queen, but not all the rebels believed the accusations. Jerrl would have his hands full. Anais, as well.

Castien had no military background and little influence on the rebels. He had never fully committed to their cause. He couldn’t help there, so he spent his time in the Queen's Wing. Guarding children, occasionally teaching them art and music, learning the healing arts, practicing with the blade—he found throwing knives to be particularly entertaining. And occasionally spending a night with Anais.

Darius had enlightened him on a little secret—that if her door was open after dark, she might be interested in company. Her door had been closed for a full week after he’d returned from the funeral. He worried that she was avoiding him, but she was friendly during the day, just tired and busy. Then he worried that she would fall ill from overwork.

Tonight, finally, a warm glow spilled into the hall from her doorway. Castien kept his steps measured, proud that he was holding himself back from sprinting past the roses. Jerome gavehim a slight nod. The captain had not been there that night. His replacements were still being punished, and Castien had heard that they would have been dismissed altogether if Anais hadn’t insisted she commanded them to stay behind. A command Jerome would have ignored. A command any of her Escorts would have ignored.

The courtesan thought they would be more suspicious of him by association. Rather, they seemed to respect him more. Well, Octavius had taken one look at his bandaged arm and grumbled about blocking with his damn bracer, but Jerome had thanked him. Two curt, yet grateful words.Thank you.

Castien had saved her life.

He hoped that was enough to keep him in her good graces for this conversation.

His knuckles rapped the door.

"Come."

The wolf pup—hardly a pup anymore—lifted her head, stared at him, and settled back down. Castien had caught Jerome attempting to train the creature. Ash would make a loyal guard.

"Sit, please," Anais murmured. She hadn’t looked up yet, still reading a messenger scroll. "I’ll just be a moment."

Castien stepped to her table but stayed on his feet. "If you’re busy, I can come back another time."

"No, no." She sighed and set aside the scroll. "You’re right, this can wait. My eyes feel like they’re bleeding from all the messages lately. And these are only the ones Vern’s passed on to me!"

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