A bit like a gleaming trophy Tyroth is obviously very proud of. The fuck.
A dark-haired female dressed in the same garb as myself pours down the stairway in a swish of silver, her eyes widening when she sees me. “Ayda?” She nips a glance over her shoulder, her next words a quiet hiss. “You’re not supposed to be down here.”
Ayda.
Guess that’s my name. Good to know.
She slows, frowning. “Are you okay? What are you doing?”
Hunting for the ancient diary of Elluin Raeve Neván, hoping it hasn’t turned to compost in a wall somewhere.
“Well, you see—”
“Have you already been up there?”
That’s a baited question I certainly didn’t prepare for. Beginning to think I might’ve pricked the wrong maid …
“No?”
Her eyes almost bug out of her head. “You’re expected in the King’s chambers right now.”
My heart lurches.
Actually, that’s exactly where I need to go.
“I lost my way,” I say, offering her an awkward smile. “I didn’t sleep well. In fact”—I rub my temple—“I’m suddenly all confused about the levels. I think I lost track somewhere down—”
She snatches my arm, tucks it into the crook of hers, and tugs me farther up the stairs, past two Thorns moving against our grain before she leans close, speaking in a hushed tone. “We’re on eleven. You have another twenty-three to climb.”
“Of course.” I let loose a soft laugh similar to the one I heard the real Ayda make while I trailed her momentarily in the bowels of the palace, right before I knocked her unconscious. “Silly me.”
The female pulls a silken dusting stick from the pocket of her apron and wraps my hand around the cold handle. “You need to at least look useful going in there or the other females in the palace will talk, and that will displease him greatly. You know what he’s like.”
Yes. I do know what he’s like.
Sadistic.
Fucking.
Asshole.
I flash her another smile. “Thank you. I left mine … somewhere.”
Muttering something beneath her breath, she peels away, then turns back down the stairs, disappearing from sight.
I keep shoving up the twisting stairway that seems to go on and on, doing my best to count the levels. Easier said than done since some are stouter than others. Some, the stairway is woven through the air of wide-open atriums like a black squiggle—the atmosphere spiced with the sweet, intoxicating smell of illuminated flowers in full bloom, their glowing heads tipped to the windows.
I step onto a level with a lofty ceiling veined in silver threads, a grand double door directly ahead that’s bracketed by two sets of Thorns, their shoulder pads flaring to pointed peaks. Silver helmets cover most of their faces, wings splayed from the sides that accentuate the tapered tips of their ears.
Each of them wields a long iron sword, pointed down, both hands wrapped around the hilt. Swords that are almost longer than me.
My breath catches at the sight of the door, something inside my brain wiggling like a worm I can’t quite manage to pluck free and inspect.
Even if it weren’t for the extra guards, I’m somehow certain this is the place.
This is the sleepsuite where Elluin died.
My gaze darts from guard to guard. “I’ve got … dusting to do,” I say, waving my stick.
None of them even glance my way, though one of them raises a brow.
Right.
Permission to proceed.
Clearing my throat, I move forward when the door swings inward, releasing a familiar ashen scent.
My heart leaps into my throat.
I slide back a step, dipping my head.
Holding.
Paralyzed.
In my direct line of sight, a silver thorn-tipped boot pierces my view as I’m shoved within the crackling atmosphere of Tyroth Vaegor. Heart thrashing.
Thoughts churning.
Certain he’s looking at me with scarcely veiled vitriol in his eyes, like I’m a bug he wants to burn. Certain he’s about to shape his mangled thoughts into words that’ll crush my throat with their monstrous fists. That’ll make me feel small and weak and so fucking quiet—my tongue too heavy to speak.
There’s a long beat of silence, and I find my trembling hand tightening around the duster, the other reaching for the dagger I have stuffed in the deep pocket of my skirt—
“You’re late, Ayda.”
The foreign name snaps at my spine. Reminds me that I’m not Tyroth’s sister—not at the moment. I’m not the one that took his mother from him. The one he hates, and has since I was far too young to hate him back.