rescue.
There he is.
Her flesh and blood. Her father’s twin. Her monster.
Hair like dark copper, the shadow of a beard, a thin mouth unsuited to smiles. Long nose, a brow like a
rod of iron. A handsome face, all things considered: a fine doll for evil strings. Taristan of Old Cor, a
Spindleblood prince, a traitor to the realm entire.
He barely acknowledged the court, offering only a single, sharp glance before he looked at the Elder
kneeling, the squire, and Corayne.
The yards between them disappeared. His eyes were her own, black and endless, a sky without stars,
the deepest part of the ocean. They were not empty: there was something in them, a presence Corayne
could barely sense. But she knew it too. She saw it in her dreams. Red and hungry, without form,
without mercy.
What Waits.
He stared out from her uncle’s eyes, waiting to strike.
The man who followed Taristan could only be the Red. The wizard looked skeletal, white-skinned and
blond-haired, with pale red eyes ringed with pink flesh. His mouth opened a little and he inhaled, tasting
the air. She felt a clawing heat pull over her, prodding at her exposed skin.
Toasts were called out, goblets raised again, but Corayne heard none of it. She was frozen, caught
between the knight’s dagger and her uncle’s starving glare. He looked ready to eat her whole.
He very well might.
His steps were deliberate and smooth, taking him down the table, one hand extended to his queen’s
advisors. They touched his rough fingers or kissed his knuckles, pledging allegiance, paying fealty,
congratulating him on the good match. Only the Queen’s cousin hesitated, waiting a long moment
before taking Taristan’s hand.
Taristan’s eyes never left Corayne’s face. A thread ran between them, a rope from his hands to her neck.
He pulled himself along it, closer and closer, until Corayne could hardly breathe.
She trembled when he stopped before her, glaring down with menace. Over his shoulder, Erida
watched, her head held high. There was no fear in her, no shock. No regret.
Taristan raised his fist and Corayne braced herself for a strike, curling inward.
Instead he gripped her cloak, tearing it away with the easy rip of blue cloth.
Out of the corner of her eye, Corayne saw the sword hilt flash in the light, its jewels aflame. She tried to
back away, only to feel the knight’s dagger pierce her clothing, nearly breaking the skin. There was
nowhere to hide.
“Get away from me,” she managed to bite out.
On the floor, still bleeding, Dom seethed. “I’ll kill you,” he growled at Taristan, one hand pressed to his
side. Even though three knights stood above him, hands on their swords, armored to the teeth, Corayne
believed he would try.
“So eager to repeat your mistakes, Domacridhan,” Taristan said wearily. Then he seized Corayne by the
neck, his back obscuring her from the rest of the court. To anyone watching, it would seem he was
merely speaking to a few guests, one of them kneeling in reverence. They were too busy in their revels
to notice anything amiss. “Shall I kill her in front of you too?”
He smiled into her face. Corayne wanted to spit, to struggle, but found her mouth dry and her mind blank
of any options. This was not in her charts or lists. There was no preparing for this moment. They’d
thought the Queen might not believe them, but to choose the other side? To choose him?
I have no plan for the path in front of me.
“Get away,” she said again, her hands balling into fists. While the heat of the Red’s power washed over
her, her hands and feet remained cold, nearly frozen, the sensation creeping over her wrists and ankles.
Taristan only shook his head, reaching for the sword. His grip tightened on her throat, while his other
hand closed around the hilt of the Spindleblade. He grinned when he touched it.
“That doesn’t belong to you,” he murmured, his breath oddly sweet in her face.
Something broke inside her, snapping clean. A rush of cold pushed away the heat, and with it, Corayne
slipped her hand in her pocket. Something tugged her fingers along, guiding them to the Jydi charm, the
useless trinket. It felt frozen, hard as ice, the twigs honed to keen points.
She had never been so afraid.
With a will, she looked into Taristan’s eyes. She saw flecks of crimson in them, scattered like blood
around the iris. They seemed to dance as he gripped the sword, pulling the first inches from the sheath.
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