Page 84 of Crown of Storm and Silence
She regales me with increasingly elaborate complaints about the healers' bedside manner ("That one with the gray beard kept muttering about 'fairy constitution' as if I were some delicate flower") and spins wild theories about what the kitchen staffmust think of her food requests ("I'm sure they believe I'm developing some sort of exotic pregnancy craving by proxy").
"And another thing," she continues, gesturing dramatically with her bandaged hand, "do you know they wouldn't let me have any mirrors? Apparently, 'vanity is counterproductive to healing.' Can you imagine? I could have had bird's nest hair for all I knew."
"Your hair looks lovely," I assure her, and it does—her silver strands catch the crystal light beautifully.
"Well, of course it does now," she says with mock indignation. "But the principle of the thing! A fairy without a mirror is like a fish without water. We simply must maintain our standards."
Her humor is infectious, and I find myself relaxing for the first time in days. This is what I needed—normal conversation, familiar banter, the comfort of a friendship that transcends whatever complications surround us.
"We should let you rest," Kaan says finally, noting the slight shadows under her eyes despite her animated conversation. "The healers said you need to regain your strength."
"Of course," Banu agrees, though I catch a flicker of something—disappointment? relief?—across her features. Her eyes shift to Kaan, taking in his battle gear with obvious curiosity. "Though I have to ask—what's with all the weaponry? Planning a particularly dramatic evening stroll, or are you off to start another war?"
I glance at Kaan, and the dread that had lifted during our lighthearted conversation crashes back over me like a cold wave. His journey to Kara Cehennem, the poison spreading through his veins, the very real possibility that this might be one of our last moments together.
"I'm not sure yet," Kaan says quietly, his voice carrying the weight of uncertainty.
Banu's expression shifts, the playful light in her eyes dimming as she looks between us both. "What's happening?" she asks, her tone suddenly serious. "What aren't you telling me?"
I reach for her hand. "Tomorrow. But, for now, rest," I say, not knowing where to start.
She nods. "I'll hold you to that."
As we leave the medical wing, each step feels heavier than the last. Kaan walks by my side. I look at his large hand, wanting to place my small one in his, but he speaks. "You don't have to be present for this." I glance up at his handsome face. "Yes, I do."
The words hang between us like a vow—or a curse. Because deep in my bones, beneath the determination and fierce love, I can feel it: the certainty that everything we've built, everything we've fought for, is about to shatter.
And this time, there might not be enough pieces left to put back together.
29
Home Sweet Home
Kaan
The portalto Kara Cehennem tears reality apart with vicious satisfaction, depositing me onto obsidian steps that gleam with polished malice in the eternal twilight. My father's palace rises before me—a monument to architectural hubris carved from crystallized screams. Gothic spires claw at a sky that hasn't seen proper sunlight since the realm's creation, while gargoyles perch on every corner with expressions that suggest they're deeply disappointed in humanity's recent performance.
The air tastes of sulfur and old blood, familiar as a childhood lullaby I've spent centuries trying to forget. Each breath brings back memories I'd rather leave buried—the scent of fear, the metallic tang of spilled innocence, the particular aroma that clings to places where hope goes to die.
"Young master," a voice says from the shadows, and I turn to see Vakif materializing from the darkness like a particularly unwelcome tax assessment. My father's head steward looks exactly as he did two centuries ago—death warmed over. Hispale eyes hold the same mixture of servility and barely contained contempt that I remember from my youth.
"Vakif," I reply with deadly pleasantness. "Still perfecting your impression of death warmed over, I see. Have you considered actually dying? It might be an improvement."
A flicker of amusement crosses his gaunt features, but he ignores the barb entirely. "Your father awaits in the dining hall, my lord. He's... eager to see you."
"I'm sure he is," I mutter, following him through corridors that haven't changed since my youth. Still lined with tapestries depicting various creative applications of suffering, still designed to remind visitors that they walk through the domain of something that finds genuine pleasure in pain. My boots echo against polished stone that probably costs more than most kingdoms' annual budgets, each step taking me deeper into the heart of my childhood nightmares.
The walls are decorated with portraits of my father's greatest victories—most of which involve the creative destruction of things that once annoyed him. Here's the Fall of Altin Kale, rendered in oils that seem to scream when you look too closely. There's the Siege of Isik Limani, where he turned an entire city's population into decorative wind chimes. Very tasteful, if you appreciate mass murder as interior design.
"Tell me, Vakif," I say conversationally as we walk, "does he still insist on the elaborate place settings? The ones with seventeen different forks for various methods of intimidation?"
"His lordship maintains all the traditional courtesies," Vakif replies diplomatically, which means yes, and probably worse than I remember.
"Wonderful. Nothing says 'family reunion' like dining utensils designed by someone with a pathological fear of simplicity."
We approach the massive doors to the dining hall—carved from what appears to be crystallized tears and decorated with scenes that would make professional torturers weep with envy. The handles are shaped like writhing serpents, because apparently my father's interior designer has never met a metaphor too heavy-handed to embrace with enthusiasm.
The dining room reveals itself in all its malevolent splendor as the doors swing open. The space is vast enough to house a small city, dominated by a table that could seat an army and probably has. Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling like frozen waterfalls of light, casting prismatic patterns across walls decorated with portraits of conquest and creative violence. The air thrums with barely contained power, as if the very atmosphere is holding its breath in anticipation.
