I wasn’t about to wait for whatever snarky bullshit he was going to say next. I started to move—
But just as quickly, his hand was out of his pocket, fingers lifted.
Pain shot through me. My body seized. I glanced down—down at the cut he’d made on my arm, just minutes before.
I couldn’t move. Red mist slowly thickened around me—my own blood, turning against me. I wasn’t anticipating it. Mother, Septimus was a strong magic wielder. Stronger than most others I’d encountered in the Kejari. Then, I could at least fight through some of it.
Now, I was frozen, choking on air, as he stepped closer.
“You could have had everything, dove,” he murmured—and for a moment he looked so deeply disappointed, so confused. It was perhaps the only genuine emotion I’d ever seen on his face.
I tried to choke out, What are you doing?
But only managed a garbled, “Wh—”
GONG.
The world dimmed at the edges of my vision, just in time for me to see blood-soaked chaos break out in the party beyond—as Bloodborn soldiers turned on Ketura’s men. A wave of animalistic shouts rose to overtake the music, swords through flesh, teeth through throats.
But none of it was louder than Septimus’s voice as he cradled my face.
“I told you I only make winning bets, Oraya,” he whispered. “I’m sorry this time it wasn’t on you.”
He flicked his fingers.
CRACK, as my body contorted.
GONG.
Everything went black.
41
ORAYA
Consciousness didn’t want me back. I had to claw for it with my teeth and fingernails, and even then, I only managed to reclaim tatters of it.
The floor, moving beneath me.
Hands on me. Hands all over me.
Don’t fucking touch me.
I tried to say it aloud, but my throat, my tongue, wouldn’t cooperate.
Someone was pulling at my skirt, sliding their hand up my thigh. My instinct was to kick them. Instead, I tamped the impulse down and remained limp, buying myself a few seconds to gather my senses.
I was… where? I was still in the castle. I recognized that rose-stale smell.
“—Should’ve killed her by now.”
“Can’t. You know we can’t.”
A man. A woman. Both Bloodborn—I recognized that accent. Desdemona.
“Get that off,” she snapped.
“Trying,” he hissed.
The hands sliding up my skirt weren’t lecherous.
He was trying to take my blades.
Quickly, I reassembled the fuzzy memory of what had happened. Septimus. Simon. The coup. The blood all over the floor.
Raihn stumbling a little as he walked away from me.
Suddenly I was wide awake, my blood cold.
Raihn. Leaving with Cairis.
He could already be dead.
The Bloodborn man managed to unbuckle my dagger.
“Fucking fi—”
As he loosened his grip on me to lift the sheath, I grabbed the hilt and slammed the blade into his chest.
Black blood sprayed me across the face. He went flying back. It wasn’t fatal—I didn’t have enough strength behind the movement.
But it was enough to earn me time.
Desdemona was on me immediately. I had to be quick—I’d never seen her use blood magic, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have the ability. I couldn’t be stronger than her, so I had to be faster. But even that was difficult, my movements a little too sluggish as they fought the aftereffects of Septimus’s sedation.
My back slammed against the wall as Desdemona countered me. My blade buried in her side, deep.
She barely flinched, her eyes not leaving mine.
Shit.
We both knew I was fucked. She smiled as she drew her weapon back.
But then, she hesitated. Her next strike wasn’t for my throat, my heart—it was for my leg.
Her momentary pause gave me the window I needed to slip her grip, just enough that she only nicked me.
The realization hit me—my greatest advantage. Septimus could have killed me himself, easily. Desdemona could have killed me right now. Neither of them did. That was an intentional choice.
Septimus still wanted me—or at least, wanted my blood. He wouldn’t kill me. Not yet.
He’d just keep me locked up like a slave. He’d make me another tool to be leveraged.
And why the hell wouldn’t he? That’s all I’d ever been. A thing to be used at the convenience of others, or a risk to be mitigated.
Not a force in her own right.
Fuck that.
Nightfire bloomed to life in my hands, clinging to the edge of my blade. Desdemona wasn’t prepared. She stumbled, her hands flying up to protect her face.