feet to the cool, moon-washed tiles. She’d loved it once, waking up first so she could see the heart of him beneath all his flash and charm, perfect peace without guile.
Somewhere in Sabor, Oleander Gentry were riding down Crows this very night. Somewhere, another child was dying of plague as their village argued over beacons. And in Pa’s shrine, their rations were dwindling, and they were one more day closer to starvation.
Fie hated the peace in Tavin’s face now, near as much as she hated the part of her that didn’t. The part of her that still lit up at his touch and his smile and his laugh, the part that yet starved for him—the part of her that had mercy for a bastard boy.
She hated it, hated him, hated herself so much, the dreadful garish room swam with tears. She could remind herself of how he’d betrayed her, the death he’d signed her people to, and still part of her would do anything to lie in that foul golden bed with him.
She wanted to cut that part of her out, let it burn with the dead queen’s room, just to end the agony she craved.
And since she couldn’t cut herself free, she would cut out the next best thing.
Fie drew the Hawk sword.
Her slippers skimmed the tiles without a sound. She took care not to let her shadow fall over his face as she ghosted closer to the bed, moonlight dripping along the glistening steel.
Return it.
Was Lakima even still alive? Or had he signed her death warrant, too? Tears spilled down her face, hot and furious and horrified with the weight of the blade in her hand.
Stop, that soft, broken part of her wept as she raised the Hawk sword, don’t—you can still love him, you can leave him be—
And the coldest part of her whispered back: Not if I want to live.
Once, she’d thought she could be like the girls she saw in the sparks of teeth. Fie wanted to be like them, beaming at the attention of a lover, laughing at their follies, making space in even the hardest of hearts for ballads and sweet poetry and the unspoken oath in the touch of a hand.
Now she knew the bitter truth: that softness came at a price she would not pay. And she would not forgive Tavin for trying to make her pay it.
He’d made her feel safe; he’d made only her feel safe. He’d been willing to give up all the Crows for it.
And that was not enough.
He didn’t stir as the shadow of the blade fell under his chin.
Fie supposed she ought to say something clever and vicious, but there was nothing clever about cutting a boy’s throat in his sleep, and her viciousness had no words. His Peacock glamour had been called off for the night, so it wasn’t even Jasimir’s face below her but Tavin’s own, every scar and bump and mark that she knew by heart, no Owl tooth required.
Pa would tell her not to drag it out.
She couldn’t make herself lay the edge to skin. The blade hovered less than a finger over his throat. The sight horrified her.
Fie whipped fury through her veins, but grief answered instead. She’d wanted to walk the rest of her roads with him. She’d wanted more. And Little Witness had told her she was right for wanting it, but how could she be, when this was where it led?
End it, her frost-cold self said. He dies now, or he dies by Rhusana’s hand. What you want is already dead.
It was never going to get easier to deal mercy. She didn’t know why she’d hoped it would. All she could do was make it swift.
Fie lifted the sword, braced herself over Tavin, let the point of the blade hang over his throat. All she had to do was fall, by every dead god she could fall—
Too late, she felt a tear roll off her nose. It landed on Tavin’s throat.
His eyes flew open.
Fie yanked the sword away as he bolted upright. She slapped a hand over her mouth before she could gasp aloud. The Sparrow witch-tooth kept her out of his sight. It would not keep her out of his earshot.
Tavin touched a hand to his collarbone, where her teardrop had slid to rest. His gaze swept the room, passing right through her.
His breath tangled in her hair. She didn’t dare stir, heart thundering in her ears like an alarm.
So close she could taste him.
So close