Page 43 of Heart of Night
I glimpse my father’s signature at the bottom of the paper as he turns it over one last time before placing it back on the desk.
“Harian Aleji was executed the same day as your father upon questioning. This was found days later in Alex’s home. He was one of the most feared assassins of my father’s era, running errands even for His Majesty himself.”
I don’t have words even to comment on the fact of Erina admitting that his father employed an assassin—the same assassin my father hired to kill the King of Tavras.
The lump in my throat grows larger and larger with every detail coming back to my mind.
“My father wasn’t a tyrant, Wolayna, you know that. You met him several times.” Erina’s expression softens as if the memory of his father is dear to him. “He offered your father a fair deal long before he became a traitor. You.”
“Me?” I don’t care that I stare at the current King of Tavras like a fool. He caught me off guard, and this is eradicating all capacities to remain composed.
“Consolidating the Milevishja line into the Jelnedyn line by marrying the Prince of Tavras to the … would-be-Princess of Tavras.” The awkwardness is heavy in the air as if there was a time when a younger version of him considered the merits of marrying me on a romantic level.
“Our parents agreed to a secret engagement. I was told at a young age you’d be the girl I’d marry. I have the contract right here.” He picks up another piece of paper, holding it up for me, and I recognize my father’s signature at the bottom. “You should have been mine, Ayna. But your father made a mistake…”
His words fade as I remember that day we shared a marzipan croissant under the table when we were kids and he invited me to the palace.
“I could show you around. Menia could tailor a dress for you, and we could walk the hallways like we’re the pair destined to ascend the throne one day.” A smile plays on his lips, his roundish cheeks forming dimples. He’s pretty for his age, not overly tall or stretched in awkward proportions like some boys his age. Like from a picture from fairytale books. Even his sepia and gold jacket looks like he stepped right off a miniature version of a throne, no matter if he’s hiding under a table with a merchant daughter.
“Wouldn’t that be considered treason?” I whisper, the fingers of my free hand half-covering my mouth.
The smile on Erina’s face slips. “For you, not me.”
He’d known. Guardians, he’d known back then. And my parents had left me oblivious to a duty they expected of me. My heart breaks for a whole new reason, cracking in places I didn’t even know it could shatter. I’d always believed in the wrongness of his execution, in some sort of ploy that had put him at the king’s mercy. And now… now I don’t know what to think, except for: I was supposed to marry this man all along. My father intended to have him killed. To clear the throne of the Jelnedyn line.
And I have royal blood.
“I want to see Myron.” Because if he’s alive, I know that this is all a dream and I won’t need to deal with the truth of it.
Erina purses his lips, picking up the ring again and shoving it onto my finger in a not-so-gentle motion. “Don’t worry, Wolayna. Everything is as it was meant to be. Even if you love your Crow King, you’ll be mine. I’ll make sure of it.” His gaze hardens as he holds my hand like in a vise. “The Jelnedyn line will not be challenged ever again.”
I breathe in through my nose, forcing down air as the room closes in on me. “Why not kill me? You already sent me off to die in the fairylands. Why not kill me now and save yourself the trouble?”
Erina cocks his head, pulling me close to his side so I stand beside him like a bride marching for an altar. “Trust me, I’ve considered it. I was considering it the day you were brought to my palace. But when I saw you”—his gaze creeps over my face, lingering on my mouth—“I decided you’d be more valuable by my side than forgotten in a grave. By marrying you, there will be no heirs of your line that won’t be of mine as well. No heirs of the House Milevishja who could one day question my claim to the throne, even if the Guardians have been hiding another unlikely heir of your line in the pockets of this realm. The Milevishja royal line will disappear, assimilated into the House Jelnedyn, and when I’m done with you, there will be nothing left for your Crow to mourn.”
There are no such things as fairy tales. Life simply delivers one blow after the other.
Until even hope is smothered and the only thing living inside your chest is a wasteland.
The ring feels like a shackle, and I can’t muster the courage to look at Erina as he pulls me to my feet and leads me from the office.
Twenty-One
Ayna
The path down the winding stairs makes me dizzy, the hem of my gown catching on the sharp edges of the stone steps and my hand slithering along the wooden handrail that is now the only thing keeping me upright. Erina is taking me somewhere, but it’s not a cheerful engagement party the way a normal king would do. Whether his court knows or not that he intends to marry the last living Milevishja royal, I can’t tell. There is little I can be certain about with everything that has happened in the past twenty-four hours.
I’m no longer a merchant’s daughter or that of a traitor. I’m the daughter of a king who was ready to put blood on his hands to take back what should have been his birthright. Treason of a very different sort. The question remains: On which side? Was Erina’s father’s order to execute my father treason or are my father’s attempts to hire an assassin? Is a traitor on the throne now?
My gaze snags on the glinting gold band resting atop Erina’s short hair. This man knows exactly what he wants and has no problem sacrificing others’ happiness for it. Their lives as well if his decision to send me to the Crow Court can be taken as a measure of his character. Had I died in the Seeing Forest, the Milevishja royal blood would have disappeared with me, and no one would have been any wiser.
But I didn’t die. Myron didn’t let me. And if the thick, moldy stench of the air greeting us as we reach the torch-lit bottom of the stairs is anything to go by, it’s safe to say that he just brought me to the dungeons. Whether he’ll lock me up here or Myron is actually down here, I don’t dare think about, or that relentless spark of hope will come to life all over again just to be stomped out by Erina’s boots with a finality I won’t recover from.
“Not far, Wolayna,” Erina narrates, his shoulders straight and posture regal as ever, even down here where the mere sight of bars and cells combined with the odor makes me cave in on myself. I’ve spent too many months in a dark hole like this, and if the shaking of my body is anything to go by, the trauma still roots deep. “At the end of the corridor.”
He gestures ahead where two men in leathers stand guard by a narrow, steel-reinforced door. They dip their chins but don’t fold into a full bow, their attention on the hulking form behind me.
Herinor has been as silent as only fairies can be, but his presence is a constant. Since Erina pulled me from the office, he’s followed us like a shadow, and I could swear the tension in his body has only increased.