But he was becoming what existed outside the Rise, what lived inside the thick, unnatural mist—the foulness that the fallen Kingdom of Atlantia had cursed these lands with. Some four hundred years after the War of Two Kings had ended, they were still a plague.
The Craven were creations of the Atlantians, the product of their poisonous kiss, which acted like an infection, turning innocent men, women, and children into starved creatures whose body and mind became twisted and decayed by ceaseless hunger.
Even though the majority of Atlantians had been hunted into extinction, many still existed, and there only needed to be one Atlantian alive for there to be a dozen Craven, if not more. They weren’t completely mindless. They could be controlled, but only by the Dark One.
And this poor man had fought back and escaped, but he must have known what the bite meant. From birth, we all knew. It was a part of the kingdom’s blood-soaked history. He was cursed, and there was nothing that could be done. Had he come back to say goodbye to his wife? To a child? Had he thought he would be different? Blessed by the gods?
Chosen?
It didn’t matter.
Sighing, I replaced the sheet, leaving his upper chest bare. Trying not to breathe too deeply, I set my palm on his skin. His flesh…it felt all wrong, like cold leather. I concentrated on the beaches of Carsodonia, the capital, and the dazzling blue waters of the Stroud. I remembered the clouds, how fat and fluffy they were. How they looked like peace must feel. And I thought of the Queen’s Gardens outside of Castle Teerman, where I could simply be and not think or feel anything, where everything, including my own mind, was quiet.
I thought of the warmth those too-brief moments with Hawke had brought forth.
Marlowe’s shivers subsided, and the twitching behind his eyes slowed. The puckered skin at the corners of his eyes smoothed out.
“Marlowe?” I said, ignoring the dull pain that started to blossom behind my eyes. A headache would eventually come. One always did when I repeatedly opened myself or used my gift.
The chest under my hand rose deeply, and clumped lashes fluttered. His eyes opened, and I tensed. They were blue. Mostly. Bolts of red shot through the irises. Soon, there would be no blue left. Only the color of blood.
His dry lips parted. “Are you…are you Rhain? Have you come to take me at my end?”
He thought I was the God of the Common Man and Endings, a god of death.
“No. I’m not.” Knowing that his pain would be eased long enough for this to be completed, I lifted my left hand and did the one thing I was expressly forbidden to do. Not just by the Duke and Duchess of Masadonia, or by the Queen, but also by the gods. I did what Hawke had asked in regard to the mask, but I’d refused. I pulled down my hood and then removed the white domino mask I wore just in case my cloak slipped, revealing my face.
I figured, or hoped, that the gods would make an exception in cases like this.
His crimson-laced gaze drifted over my features, starting where wisps of burnt copper hair curled against my forehead, then the right side of my face, followed by my left. His stare lingered there, over the evidence of what a Craven’s claws could do. I wondered if he thought the same thing the Duke always did.
Such a shame.
Those three words seemed to be the Duke’s favorite. That and: you have disappointed me.
“Who are you?” he rasped out.
“My name is Penellaphe, but my brother and a few others call me Poppy.”
“Poppy?” he whispered.
I nodded. “It’s a strange nickname, but my mother used to call me that. It sort of stuck.”
Marlowe blinked slowly. “Why are…？” The corners of his mouth cracked, the new wounds seeping blood and darkness. “Why are you here?”
Forcing a smile, I tightened my grip on the hilt of the dagger and did another thing that should end with me being hauled to the Temple but hadn’t yet because this wasn’t the first time I’d revealed myself to the dying. “I am the Maiden.”
His chest rose with a sharp inhale, and he closed his eyes. A tremor coursed through him. “You’re the Chosen, ‘born in the shroud of the gods, protected even inside the womb, veiled from birth.’”
That was me.
“You…you are here for me.” His eyes opened, and I noticed the red had spread until only a hint of blue remained. “You will…give me dignity.”
I nodded.
Anyone cursed by a Craven’s bite did not die in their beds quietly and as peacefully as possible. They were not afforded that kindness or sympathy. Instead, they were generally dragged to the town square to be burned alive in front of a mass of citizens. It didn’t matter that most became cursed either protecting those who cheered their horrific demise or working to better the kingdom.