Page 31 of Grim and Oro
She wouldn’t exist.
Along with the realization comes a mix of happiness and fury.
MINE
“We hear ... the Covet gatherings have been delayed. Even with the added safety measures,” a council member says, voice nearly trembling with fear I can sense around him in a putrid cloud.
He flinches, as if expecting my shadows to wrap around his neck.
Good. Fear is a consistent motivator. I frown as I realize that was something my father told me.
I suppose I can’t fault him for being concerned. Not when another week has passed without another attempt at securing my heir.
I ignore him and move on with the meeting.
That same councilman has the nerve to follow me on my walk back to my quarters, through the obsidian halls, meaning I can’t simply portal as intended.
I really should kill him, I think. But my council is down to only eight members. I killed another one a few days ago, after finding out he was dealing a particularly addictive strain of nightbane.
The councilman breathlessly goes over updates from each of the villages and the warrior legions, as well as news on the state of farming and the number of my people who continue to be killed by our curse. When we reach my room, he finally brings up the topic again.
“Are the Covets not acceptable?” he says, following me inside, which should be enough to cinch his fate, if I wasn’t so damntired. Too tired to kill, apparently.
“They’re fine,” I growl, not remembering any of them except for her.
“Because, if they were not, I could see about—”
“They’re fine,” I repeat, whirling around, shadows spreading across the walls.
He swallows. Fear swells. “Very well, ruler. I will—I will see myself out.”
He practically runs out of my room, and I sigh. This day has been just as worse as the last.
I just ... I just need to clear my head. I walk into my bathroom and remove my shirt. I turn on my bath, as if I could rinse all my problems and stress away, only to hear a scream.
A familiar scream.
No. I must have imagined it.
I tense for a moment, before storming to the edge of the tub, and peering inside.
It isn’t my imagination. It’s her. The Wildling witch.
Soaking wet in my bathtub.
Why is she in my bathtub?
I shake away the ache that shoots through me, and say, with a voice conveying my annoyance thatjust when I’ve begun to try to forget her, she shows up in my fucking tub, “Have you lost your mind?”
She’s stammering like an idiot and holding out a vial. She throws it to me, and I catch it. “It’s a healing ointment,” she says. “For—for that.” She’s motioning at my scar.
How to tell her that I would rather die than heal it. It’s a reminder—a reminder of her.
A reminder that she is a wicked, deceiving witch.
She’s stammering again. It ends with, “I came to offer peace. We don’t need to be enemies.”
I would laugh, if I had the energy.
