Page 42 of The Jasad Crown

It didn’t matter. Sylvia would probably have terrified Isra, since everything but Arin had terrified Isra. Arin had sometimes thought his mother weak for the way she loved him, the anguish she endured on his behalf. None of which Arin had appreciated at the time, having dedicated the whole of his focus to pleasing Rawain. Isra’s love was guaranteed, easily won, so Arin had set his sights on the unobtainable.

I do not know if I am the right man for this kingdom, Arin wanted to confess.What if I cannot do what must be done?

The last of the sun disappeared, draining away the dregs of color left in the sky. Within seconds, the windows of the Citadel brightened with freshly lit lanterns.

Arin stood in front of Isra, and he shared none of the things he wanted to say. They were useless to a dead woman. A woman who’d died at the Summit besieged by the Malik and Malika of Jasad.

He pulled a cloth from his pocket and ran it over the contours of her face, removing the dust collecting in the creases. The gardeners hadn’t bothered to maintain the statue in his absence.

When he was younger, Arin would sometimes imagine Isra’s stone face softening when he touched her cheek. Warmth replacing the chill of her, and the eyes that stared unseeingly into the distance finally turning toward Arin. Those moments when hope had melted into disappointment were the only times Arin ever wished for magic.

He folded the cloth and tucked it back into his pocket.

“I won’t be gone so long this time,” Arin said.

Arin turned, leaving his mother in the shadows.

Only the reflection of the lanterns from the Citadel illuminated Arin’s path. Rosebushes bordered the cobblestone track, the branches nurtured to magnificent heights on either side of Arin. Navigating the gardens in the evening didn’t bother him, but he knew the mazelike pathways intimidated the servants. They rarely wandered after nightfall.

Which was why when the bushes rustled, Arin halted.

Another rustle, closer this time. Arin reached inside his coat and quietly withdrew a small blade. It barely spanned the length of his palm, but it would slash a throat as effectively as any dagger.

He turned the corner, blade tucked above his thumb.

A woman materialized inches away from Arin, nearly ramming into his chest.

The breath shuddered out of Arin. He stared, and then stared more.

Velvet brown eyes widened in wonder. “You again,” she said.

Blood pounding in his ears, Arin took a step back. The prudent move, the intelligent one, was to close his eyes and wait until the hallucination passed.

“You aren’t real,” he whispered.

“Funny,” the Jasad Heir said. “I keep thinking the same of you.”

Her tunic didn’t ruffle with the wind. The iridescent fabric of her sleeves cinched at her elbow and draped loose around her wrists. Against his better judgment, Arin remembered how he’d grasped those arms as he drew her close. His swell of pride and admiration at the strength there.

Once again, her curls tumbled loose down her back. His delusion didn’t seem to care that the real version rarely wore her hair in anything other than a braid.

“Have I gone mad?” Arin asked.

She smiled. “The world will fall to ruins long before your mind does.”

“Don’t.” It tore out of Arin.

“Don’t…?”

“You aren’t real. These hallucinations are symptoms of… exhaustion. Yes. Exhaustion.”

Arin was not sure who he wanted to convince. In an instant, Arin stood inches away from her. Like a chemist teetering on the brink ofcreation or catastrophe, Arin couldn’t bring himself to take the final step toward discovery.

“Probably,” she agreed, not seeming to mind his close scrutiny. “But what would you say to me if Iwasreal?” She offered the question on a platter of humor, and Arin burned beneath a surge of his old frustration. She was a mere figment, but a bitterly convincing one. The real Sylvia had the same avoidant tactic of threading sincerity with comedy, masking fear with aggression, sorrow with coldness.

If Arin was stone, then she was a river. Always moving, always flowing, no matter how fast the tide or how frequently she broke against its shores.

The wind ruffled his hair. It left hers still.

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