I go to him, my feet sinking into plush carpet, and kneel at his side. “Dalca.”
He inclines his head toward me, just barely, but it’s enough to know he’s listening.
But what can I say? I can’t touch his sorrow. Part of me thinks the merciful thing is to leave him to grieve however he wants. Every time I close my eyes, in the darkness behind my eyelids, she falls again and again. Over and over, the peaceful expression on her face bleeding into the Great King’s scorching fury. If I can’t stop replaying the image of her body hitting the ground, what must it be like for him?
The windows rattle, whipped by wind and pale rain. Just last night, he had everything—the promise of a soon-healed Regia, that the Storm would soon be no threat. There was no fear in him when he kissed me, and that made my fears seem small, too, like his confidence buoyed mine.
On the balcony, the Great Queen’s curse worked through me. It opened that casket within him and spilled all his fears, all the terror that he’d locked away. Every bit of it echoed in me, as if his fears became mine, as if I could taste every nightmare lurking in the dark ofhis heart. What was done to him in the Storm, whatever curse he was stricken with, I undid.
“Dalca.” I touch the back of his hand with the tips of my fingers. He turns his palm up and interlaces our fingers.
His gaze drops to our hands, watching the firelight flicker across our skin.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, but my words hang loud and useless in the air.
His grip tightens.
“Please, say something.”
Some light returns to his eyes.
“Dalca? Maybe we can go to my father, he might know what to—”
Dalca’s grip grows unbearably tight, as if he’s trying to crush my hand. I try to pry his fingers off, but he grabs that wrist too.
In a voice like silk, he says, “Did you want this?”
His eyes bore into mine. It wasn’t light in his eyes, but fire.
Wildfire bleeds out of him, flames in his smile and a flickering in his eyes.
The Regia’s death made Dalca—privileged prince and reckless warrior, sorrowful son and reluctant heir, the future Regia and a boy terrified of his future—nothing more than a dry husk, a body holding nothing but the desiccated remains of his dreams and loves and fears and hopes.
All it needed was a spark.
Maybe my words grated on something inside him, like a flint being struck. Or maybe there was something within him all along—maybe under the fear, under the duty, there was this. A fury waiting to be awoken.
The spark was struck. The brittle deadness ignites. The boy is gone.
In his place rages an inferno.
He rises to his feet without letting go of my hand. “Was this your plan all along?”
“Let go of me.” I’m three kinds of terrified, but I’m not about to let him intimidate me.
He drags me close, his eyes glinting with a thousand dark emotions and not one lick of reason. “The moment you came, it began. The moment you stepped into the Ven. I thought, let me keep an eye on this one. If she’s dangerous, I’d better keep her close.”
“Everything I’ve ever done... I wanted to help.” I keep my voice soft, hoping to reach him.
His breath puffs against my cheek. “Everything I’ve ever worked for, destroyed. And it all goes back to you.”
“Why would I want the Regia dead?” I push at his chest. “Justthink,Dalca! It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Your family killed one Regia, so why wouldn’t you kill another? Why wouldn’t you kill me?”
“What?” My voice comes out a choked whisper. He knows me better than this. How can he think I’m blindly following in their footsteps? I went against Pa’s wishes for him.
With a hand still clamped around my wrist, Dalca drags me into the hall. I’ve never really noticed his strength before, but now it scares me—even with all my power, I can’t pry his fingers off of me.