I truly can’t.

The realization just makes me cry harder, and I let myself weep over the entire situation—over my sister’s death and the destruction of my life. Over being trapped here. Over cold baths and meals of raw turnips and the fact that my arm is permanently bruised from my clumsy injections. That even Balon has given up on me. That I’ve still got so far to go before I’m free and I won’t make it. That I’m going to die in this cold, lonely tower, alone and forgotten.

I cry and cry, until I’ve got nothing left. And then I cry some more.

I hear the rustle of leathery wings before I see the green eyes. “Candra.”

Not him. Not now. Not when I’m at my most vulnerable.

“Piss off,” I choke out. “You’re not wanted here, Fellian.”

To my relief, he doesn’t mock me. He just slinks back into the shadows, green eyes disappearing.

Good.

Chapter

Twenty

Imake my medicine last four days. I tap the glass tube and squeeze every droplet out, adding a bit of water to each dose to make it last. I know I shouldn’t, but I’m low on options. I don’t eat much, either. I just lie in bed and gnaw on a turnip when I’m hungry, sip a bit of water, and then go back to lying down again. The less I move about, the less vital my medicine is…or so I hope.

Nurse would have a fit if she could see me now.

Thinking about Nurse makes me lonely. I think about Nurse, and Riza, and all of the others that took care of me on a daily basis and I took for granted. I want to hug all of them and apologize for being spoiled. I want to shower them with affection and gifts so they know how much they mean to me. I want to go home. I want to go home so badly it’s a physical ache in my chest.

On the fifth day, I wake up and immediately lose the contents of my stomach. Sweating, dizzy, I know it’s because I’ve been skimping on my medicine. I’m destroying myself slowly, and I need to do something about it.

Today, I decide, sitting up. I’m going to conquer that sled today. I’m going to make it into firewood, and I’m going to make myself a huge batch of medicine, enough to last at least a week, and then I’m going to figure something out. I’m not going to let this beat me.

I get to my feet, blackness creeping before my eyes. I blink it away and hold onto the bed frame until the shakiness in my limbs goes away. I chew on a bit of dried meat and take a bite of turnip as I tighten the laces of my dress and slip on my shoes. Once I’m ready, I carefully pick up my glowing orb and carry it downstairs with me, my knife tucked into the bodice of my dress, safely between my breasts. I’ve never let it out of my sight, not since that day that Nemeth stole it from me.

When I get to the bottom floor, though, I have to blink a few times to make certain my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. I walk to the spot where I left the sled…but there’s nothing there.

It’s gone.

I shine my light and walk the large room, just in case I’m dizzier than I thought and I’ve missed something. But no, there’s no sled at all. It’s gone, the only proof that it was ever here the recent scratch marks on the stone floor.

Nemeth stole it. It has to be him.

He’s taken the last of my firewood, and with that, he’s killed me. I take a deep breath, fighting back nausea. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m overreacting. “Knife,” I say, panting as I lean against the wall. My limbs feel weak and sluggish, and it’s just going to get worse. “Was it Nemeth? Did he take it?”

The magic blade pulses once. Yes.

Dragon shite. Now I have to go kill a Fellian.

Chapter

Twenty-One

My mind races. I know if I had a full dose of medicine in my veins or if I’d been eating properly, I’d be able to think straight.

But all I can think of is that the Fellian has stolen the last of my firewood. He’s strong enough to drag it up the stairs to his room, and that sled represents days—maybe weeks—of slow-burning fires, enough to stave off the worst of my sickness through the winter. I need it. He stole my knife from me, and now this?

He has to die.

I didn’t want to kill anyone, but he’s forcing me towards this. The logic of killing him makes more sense with every breath I take.

The Fellian has plenty of supplies. He has three of the globes that produce light. He’s got wood. He’s got books, and they’ll make a finer fire than my dresses will, even if I run out of wood. If I kill him, it all belongs to me.

It’ll be more than enough to last me until the next solstice, when more supplies will be delivered to me.

If I have to choose between the enemy or myself, I’ll obviously choose myself. Setting my light down in a safe place, I touch my bodice to make sure that my knife is in place. I can do this. I eye the stairwell, hidden in shadow. The first floor is Nemeth’s. I can go up there. Kill him. Find something to burn. Return to the kitchens and make my potion. Inject it the moment it cools, and then deal with the blood and his body later, once I feel better.

One thing at a time. Murder first.

I take a step onto the stairs, then another…and nearly collapse. I’m weaker than I thought. It’s all right, I remind myself. You can rest all you want once the potion is made. Go up the stairs one at a time, but you must go up the stairs. Kill your enemy, then everything will be fine.

I go up the steps. Slowly. Achingly slowly. I have to pause several times, and I’m not sure if the blackness swimming in front of my eyes is because of dizziness or shadows. I can do this, though. I can.

I make it to the top of the stairs and sway, holding onto the wall. Panting, I wait for my breathing to calm and then I head toward his quarters, drawing my knife from my bodice. My hand trembles with weakness, but I should be able to stab his throat, I think. That will kill a man, won’t it? Or should I go for the groin? Which one bleeds more?

Pausing outside his door, I draw a breath. I can do this. He’s proved himself to be my enemy time and time again. No hesitation.

My life versus his.

Before I can knock on the heavy door, it opens. A large form melts from the shadows, coalescing in the faint light emanating from his room. Nemeth’s green eyes reflect and shine as he gazes down at me. “Candra?”

I stab.

It’s a clumsy effort, and if I was thinking clearly, I would have tried seduction first. But I can think of nothing except my medicine, and how desperately I need that wood. So I plunge my knife towards his broad chest, towards the slabs of muscle that cover his torso.

He grabs my wrist before the blade nicks the skin, stopping me.

“What do you think you’re doing, little princess?”

“Killing you,” I choke out. I struggle against his grip, but it’s useless. He holds me in a vise, and I can’t break free. Spots swim before my eyes and I glare up at him, defiant. “I won’t let you destroy me.”

“Destroy you?” Nemeth laughs, as if the idea is ludicrous.

He gazes down at me, and as I snarl up at him, the lights seem to go out. Everything dims around me, and the last thing I see before I pass out is the bright, amused glow of those great green eyes.

I’m lost in dreams.

They’re terrible dreams, though, because even in my dreams everything hurts. My body aches and I’m sweating. The space behind my eyes throbs with pain, and I can’t seem to escape any of it. I’m so thirsty, too. My mouth is a desert, and I dream of cool glasses of water, only for them to be held away from me, taunting me.