Page 102 of Cursed Shadows 5

I differentiated between Aleana’s and Taroh’s letters by thickness. One, a true letter, the other a mere scrap.

Eamon has three tucked envelopes… and to differentiate between them, he has inked the names onto their faces.

‘Aleana’ is the first envelope to touch the flames.

We watch, waiting for the last bit of paper to be gone, before Eamon lets another fall—one addressed to Caius.

My lips tuck inwards, and I bite down on them.

The familiar itch of shame tugs at me, because I had allowed myself to forget about Caius, that he is Eamon’s blood cousin, Daxeel’s brother…

Suppose I assumed his death did not hurt them.

I might have been wrong.

My mouth relaxes, then tilts, as the last of Caius’ message is devoured.

I shift my gaze to the final letter pinched in Eamon’s fingers, a grip so tense that the honeyed hue of his knuckles has whitened to bleached stone.

My curiosity was a tugged marionette string before… and now it’s a stone slinging around my insides.

I catch a glimpse of the inked name before he tosses it into the flames without care; it doesn’t slide from his fingertips as the first two did, it is discarded with a flick of the wrist.

‘Ridge.’

DAXEEL

††††††

The front gardens of Hemlock House are covered in pink and blue chalks.

Rune reclines against the fence in the far corner, a faint frown on his brow and a severe line stroked across his mouth. The gleam of his eyes is bitter, and he looks out into the distant rage of the street festival.

But his sour mood isn’t enough to dim the cheers and hoots from those who march the parade through the streets of Kithe.

The folk of Hemlock gather in the gardens to watch the stream of colour and chalk and paint dance by.

The mood in the gardens is mixed. Morticia and her husband, just arrived from the light lands, are sharing drinks out on the street, laughing as chalk bombs are pifted through the air at all angles.

Melantha is tucked under a blanket on the swing bench, Tris sitting primly by her side, hands firm on her belly. Eamon’s seed has settled in her womb, but she is some time away from showing.

Daxeel considers them from the doorway, arms folded over his chest, not a lick of colour on his black breeches and sweater.

He is about to kick his weight back and push into the home when Melantha stops him.

“Daxeel, go and find your cousin.”

He turns a dull look on his mother.

Melantha merely spares him a swift glance before she drops her gaze to Tris. Tris, who hasn’t been let out of Melantha’s sight since the success of her impregnation.

Tris is more valuable now than she has ever been, now that Daxeel and Eamon are the last of the Sgail bloodline still in breeding years.

“Why?” he asks, as dull as his blank stare.

His mother lifts a tired, yet soft look to him. “Morticia will take Tris to the light lands come the Warmth. Eamon should see his mother off.”

Tris beams, bright.

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