I should not have said yes.

  The word sits inside my mouth like a stolen coin, heavy and ill-fitting. Noon. The fountain. I will be there.

  Fool.

  The castle breathes differently from the grove. It does not exhale. It inhales and keeps.

  The ceilings stretch upward in vaulted arrogance, painted with saints and conquerors and scenes of divine favor. Gold leaf clings to the ribs of the arches. Tapestries descend like waterfalls of woven triumph—battles immortalized in silk thread, men astride horses, women kneeling in gratitude. I walk beneath them and feel smaller with every step, as though I am trespassing inside a cathedral erected to celebrate the extinction of my kind.

  You are trespassing.

  “I know,” I whisper.

  My boots make no sound on the polished marble. I keep close to the walls, slipping between columns, beneath the shadowed mouths of alcoves. Servants pass in brisk lines, arms full of folded linens, trays, flowers. I bow my head. My hair is tucked in front of my face; my eyes remain their false blue.

  I should not have said yes.

  And yet—

  Genevieve’s face rises unbidden in my mind: the way her laughter had startled itself into existence, fragile and astonished; the way her hands trembled not from fear, but from cold; the way she looked at me as though I were not a threat, nor a curiosity, but a presence.

  She sees you.

  “No,” I murmur. “She does not.”

  She cannot.

  If she knew what I am—what I have done, what I will do—she would look at me as they all did.

  Monster. Curse. Blight.

  I turn a corner and nearly lose my breath.

  He stands at the far end of the corridor, speaking to a man in court livery. Sunlight pours through a tall arched window and lays itself along his shoulders as though he has earned it.

  Blond hair—longer now. Not the brutal crop of a soldier, but a controlled fall to the nape of his neck. Polished boots. Tailored coat of foreign cut, deep emerald trimmed in gold. A signet ring flashes as he gestures.

  And his eyes.

  Green.

  Not soft green. Not sage or spring.

  The sharp, unnatural green of crushed glass held to light.

  My lungs forget their purpose.

  Run.

  No.

  Kill him.

  My fingers twitch.

  It has been eight years. Eight years since dawn split open and men poured into the grove like disease. Eight years since I saw him mounted and still as marble, observing as others dragged my mother by her wrists.

  He had looked younger then. Leaner. His face unlined by confidence. His hair nearly shaved to the scalp beneath a soldier’s helm.

  But the eyes do not change.

  They are the same.

  I know them the way prey knows the shape of a predator’s shadow.

  The air shifts.

  The marble beneath my shoes darkens faintly, moisture blooming like a bruise. The tapestries stir though there is no draft. Somewhere above us, glass trembles in its lead frame.

  Now.

  “No.”

  My voice is a thread.

  He laughs at something the liveryman says. The sound is low, assured. A man who has never doubted the correctness of his own actions.

  Heat crawls up my spine. My vision sharpens to painful clarity. I see the small scar at the corner of his jaw. I see the faint line at his brow. I see how his posture has altered—less rigid, more comfortable in authority.

  He is older.

  He survived.

  And we did not.

  The voices press closer.

  He burned them.

  He watched.

  He smiled.

  My pulse hammers against my skull. The false blue in my eyes flickers. For a heartbeat—just one—the red strains against the surface.

  The ivy along the far wall cracks its mortar prison. Leaves unfurl, trembling violently. A thin seam fractures in the marble between us.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  He pauses mid-sentence.

  His head tilts slightly.

  Does he feel it?

  Careful.

  I press my palm flat against the wall. Stone answers stone. The fracture seals. The ivy stills. The moisture evaporates.

  I am shaking.

  This is not the grove. Not the forest. Not an empty field beneath starlight.

  There are witnesses everywhere. Guards at the stairwell. Servants at the bend of the hall. Windows overlooking courtyards.

  If I strike here, I will not escape.

  If I strike here—

  Genevieve.

  The thought cleaves through the fever.

  He shifts his weight and turns.

  And walks in the direction from which I came.

  Toward her.

  The world narrows.

  He does not know I am here. He does not remember the child who ran.

  But I remember him.

  I move.

  Silence has always loved me. I follow at a distance, keeping to the shadow of columns and doorframes. My breath evens itself by force.

  Kill him.

  “Not here.”

  Coward.

  “I am not afraid of him.”

  You are afraid of being seen.

  Yes.

  Yes, I am.

  He ascends a shallow staircase toward the private wing. The air grows quieter here—less traffic, more opulence. Framed portraits in gilded frames. Polished suits of ceremonial armor. Arrangements of winter roses in porcelain urns.

  The scent of jasmine lingers faintly in the air.

  My heart stumbles.

  He cannot be going—

  He is.

  Toward her.

  My magic prickles along my arms like frostbite.

  Why does he walk there?

  Does he seek her counsel? Her favor? Her hand?

  The idea curdles in my stomach.

  I do not know why the thought unsettles me so deeply. I have known her scarcely a day. She is a noblewoman of a kingdom that sanctioned slaughter. She is not mine.

  Yours.

  “No.”

  You want her.

  My throat tightens.

  I want—

  I want to see her again.

  I want to hear her say my name in that careful, wondering way.

  I want to stand near the firelight and feel, for one impossible moment, that I am not alone in the world.

  And I do not want him near her.

  The corridor opens into a crossway. Ahead, sunlight spills from tall garden windows. I glimpse the ironwork of the fountain gates.

  He slows.

  A guard stationed by the arch straightens immediately.

  “Sir.”

  Sir.

  The word confirms what his bearing already declared. He is not merely a soldier anymore.

  He belongs here.

  Rage rises again, swift and suffocating.

  Belongs.

  My mother belonged to the grove. The grove belonged to the earth. The earth belonged to no one.

  And yet she burned.

  The jasmine trembles outside the window. Snow along the stone ledge liquefies, trickling downward in thin rivulets.

  He steps through the arch.

  Into her sanctuary.

  My pulse becomes a roar.

  Now.

  “No.”

  He will take her too.

  The thought strikes like a blade.

  Take her.

  As though women are possessions to be removed.

  My nails bite into my palms. The scent of jasmine rises faintly around me—my magic responding to my distress, seeking equilibrium.

  I cannot kill him here.

  If I strike now, I risk her safety. I risk drawing every guard in the wing.

  I risk losing the chance to do it properly.

  Properly.

  The word is cold. Precise.

  He deserves more than a swift death in a corridor.

  He deserves to understand why.

  He deserves to look into red eyes and remember the grove.

  My breath steadies.

  The voices withdraw slightly, though not kindly.

  Delay is weakness.

  “No,” I whisper. “Delay is survival.”

  I step forward to the edge of the arch but remain hidden by its curve. Through the iron lattice I see him pause at the fountain.

  She is not here.

  Perhaps she has not arrived. Perhaps he has come to meet another.

  Relief and dread tangle within me.

  If she meets him here—

  If she smiles at him as she smiled at me—

  The thought makes something feral unfurl inside my ribs.

  I do not know this feeling.

  It is not the clean burn of hatred.

  It is sharper. Smaller. Terrified.

  I close my eyes briefly.

  I am not a child.

  I am not the girl who hid behind birch bark and watched men tear her world apart.

  I am Sybil Hardakel.

  And I will not lose another thing I care for.

  He circles the fountain slowly, inspecting the garden as though assessing property. His green gaze sweeps over jasmine, snow, ivy.

  I imagine those eyes turned toward my mother as flame rose.

  My vision flashes red.

  The fountain water ripples violently.

  He stops.

  He looks down at it, frowning.

  I force the magic still.

  Breathe.

  Not now.

  Soon.

  He lifts his hand to adjust his cuff. The emerald ring catches light. The gesture is elegant. Cultivated.

  How easily brutality cloaks itself in silk.

  My jaw tightens until it aches.

  I will learn his name.

  I will learn his habits.

  I will discover where he spends time, where he walks alone, where stone gives way to shadow.

  And when I strike, it will be in a place where no one hears him scream.

  The thought does not frighten me.

  It steadies me.

  He turns slightly, glancing toward the inner path.

  I retreat deeper into shadow.

  I will follow.

  I will watch.

  I will wait.

  And when the time is right—

  I will end him.

  Not here.

  Not now.

  But I swear upon the ash of the grove and the memory of her voice—

  Green eyes will close.

  And this time, I will not run.