Page 113 of Crown of Light and Ashes
I've had enough of her cryptic warnings. "Thank you for your concern," I say stiffly, tossing coins on the table to pay for my drink. "But I've made my decision."
"Have you?" she asks as I stand. "Then why haven't you drunk the potion already? Why come all this way, only to hesitate now?"
The question strikes uncomfortably close to the doubt I've been battling since leaving the palace. I have no answer that doesn't expose my own uncertainty.
Mother Wren rises as well, her frail frame somehow imposing despite her age. "The price is high," she repeats. "Make certain it's one you're willing to pay."
She shuffles away, disappearing into the crowded ale house as suddenly as she appeared, leaving me alone with her warning echoing in my mind.
Outside, the air has grown even colder, winter's bite sharp against my face as the twilight deepens toward true night. As expected, theshadow steed is gone, already racing back to its master with news of my location. I don't have much time.
My hand finds the vial in my pocket, withdrawing it to examine the iridescent purple liquid inside. It seems to shift and move of its own accord within the crystal container, catching the dim light from the ale house windows.
The Blood Severance Elixir. Freedom from Kaan, from the bond, from the connection that would let him find me and our child. Freedom at the cost of pain—searing, unimaginable pain if the old woman is to be believed.
Am I willing to pay that price?
Behind me, I imagine I hear wolves howling in the distance—or perhaps something darker, hungrier—night creatures drawn to the boundary lands, or perhaps the sound of pursuit already on my trail. Either way, I cannot linger.
I uncork the vial, the liquid inside releasing a faint silvery mist that smells of lightning and burnt sugar. Mother Wren's warning weighs against Isil's journal entries, pain against safety, present suffering against future protection.
My child's future.
Tears fill my eyes, spilling over as I raise the vial to my lips.
The vial hovers at my lips, the silvery mist curling around my face like ghostly fingers. In this moment of truth, memories flash through my mind—Kaan's face as he created shadow butterflies for orphaned children, his hands gentle as he bathed my wounds, his voice soft in the darkness as he spoke of stars and ancient magic. And beneath it all, the memory of Isil's journal, of a woman who loved and feared the same man, who carried his child and never lived to see it born.
My hand trembles, the vial's contents shimmering in the fading light. One swallow for freedom. One moment of courage for a lifetime of safety.
For my child.
Chapter Thirty-One
Severed
Kaan
THE SHADOW COUNCIL chamber empties slowly, aged shadowlords filing out with wary backward glances. Their fear perfumes the air—delicious under normal circumstances, but today I barely notice. My attention drifts toward the window, toward the gardens where Nesilhan should be walking among the nightblooms. I should have gone to her straight away after she left the room, but I was a coward and was easily swayed that the shadowlords needed my attention.
"The crown ceremony preparations are complete," Emir reports, gathering documents that are scattered across the obsidian table. "The Light Court delegation arrives at dawn."
I grunt in acknowledgement, dark energy coiling with unusual restlessness around me. A wrongness pervades everything. Off-balance. Since morning, I have felt a strange hollowness in my chest—an absence where Nesilhan's presence usually burns.
"Have the southern tower prepared for Councillor Taren," I say, moving toward the window. "I want him as far from Nesilhan as possible until we understand his involvement in this prophecy manipulation."
Emir hesitates. "You still plan to proceed with the ceremony? After your... concerns?"
I turn, shadowfire darkening the room in response to his impertinence. "The ceremony proceeds as planned. Nesilhan will be named my equal before the entire court."
"As you wish, my lord." Emir bows slightly. "I will ensure everything is arranged accordingly."
I return to the window, staring out at the gardens where I last saw her— surrounded by orphaned children who no longer fear me because of her. The memory cuts deeper than it should.
"Find her," I command suddenly, unable to shake the growing unease. "Tell her I require her presence." I can’t cower away any longer. I need to tell her the truth.
"Of course." Emir exits quietly, leaving me alone with my increasingly agitated darkness.
Minutes stretch into an hour as I pace the council chamber, a knot of tension forming between my shoulders. The strange emptiness where our bond should pulse has grown more pronounced. I reach for it repeatedly, finding only echoes where her presence should be.
