She was in there, of course. Nowhere else for her to go. And anyway, I could smell her. I could always smell Oraya’s blood, the pulse of it. I could hear her in there, too—faint rustling of blankets on the bed.

I knocked again.

Third time, I decided, I’d just let it go.

I knocked one more time, and—

“What?”

Downright vitriolic. I couldn’t help but let a little smile tug at the corner of my mouth. There she is.

I opened the door and peered in. She sat on the bed with a book, cross-legged, her wings slightly unfolded behind her.

I took a careful assessment of her in that split-second—eyes, skin, wings, wounds.

The wounds looked better than they had the night before. Wings looked a bit more relaxed, too. I’d practically ached on her behalf yesterday, just feeling the strain of those muscles. The tension, I was sure, long predated the wings. Oraya was always trying so hard to bear all that armor. I knew she’d been holding those shields up for twenty years.

I was staring. Oraya looked unamused.

“What?” she barked, again.

I smiled at her. “You’re so charming, princess.”

She stared at me.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

She blinked twice, a little too fast. Her face changed, grumpiness shifting to—

My brow twitched.

“Look at that face,” I said. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were worried.”

“Why?” she asked, voice tight. “Where are you going?”

“Back to Sivrinaj.”

“Why?”

I gave her a tight smile that was more of a baring of teeth. “Because Rishan nobles are fucking pricks.”

Could practically hear Cairis scolding me for even giving her that much information—information that could be used against me.

Her expression shifted again. Disapproval. Hell, maybe hatred. She tried to tamp it down and failed, of course.

“Oh.”

“Mische is staying here with you, and some of the guards.” I nodded to her wings. “Keep those out for now. Ketura will be here in a few days. She can teach you how to get rid of them. Not hard once you get the hang of it.”

She stared at me, wrinkle between her brows, saying nothing.

“Try to contain your excitement at my departure,” I said flatly.

I glanced at the table. An empty bowl sat there—scraped clean. I couldn’t help feeling some satisfaction at that.

Oraya still said nothing.

I wasn’t quite used to her being so quiet.

“Well, that’s it,” I said. “Take care of yourself. See you in a few weeks.”

I started to close the door, but she said, “Raihn.”

I stopped mid-swing. Peered back in. She had leaned forward slightly, her lips pressed together, as if in protest against whatever thrashed behind them.

“Thank you,” she said. “For fixing my wings.”

My fingers tightened around the door frame.

As if that was something to thank me for. Common decency.

“Like I said, you were made for the sky,” I said. “Would be an injustice to let that be taken away.”

The faintest hint of a smile brushed her mouth, a glimmer of sun through the clouds.

Then it faded as her eyes went distant. I wondered if she was thinking of Vincent.

She blinked that expression away fast.

“Safe travels,” she said flatly, turning back to her book.

I gave her a faint smile. “Thanks.”

I left around midnight that night, armed to the teeth with two of Ketura’s guards with me. Not enough, Vale would’ve said, but I’d rather leave the rest for Oraya and Mische. Both of them were forces to be reckoned with, certainly, but Oraya was injured and Mische… well, it seemed like I saw more burn scars on her arms every time I looked at her.

I looked back one last time before we flew away. Immediately, my eyes floated up—to the second floor of the little cottage, where a set of moon-silver eyes stopped my heart in its tracks, just like they did every damned time.

Oraya leaned against the window frame, arms crossed. When my gaze met hers, she lifted one hand in an almost-wave.

It felt like some kind of small victory.

I waved goodbye to her, and then I was gone.

INTERLUDE

Time is cheap for vampires.

The slave learns this quickly. As a human, he’d felt every passing second—missed opportunities slipping by, as if swept away by an eternally rushing river. Humans mourn time, because it’s the only currency that really matters in a life so short.

There are many things about his new life that the slave despises. But of all he grieves for his fading humanity, the loss of time’s mark is the most devastating. A life in which nothing means anything is not a life at all.

Years blur by like wet paint drowned in the rain, drenching a forever-blank canvas. The vampires of the king’s court revel in this agelessness. Centuries of life had dulled the common pleasures, making their tastes extreme and cruel. Sometimes, humans are the subject of this cruelty. Other times, human lives are too short and fragile. Turned vampires, then, are the next best thing—durable, longer-lived, but every bit as disposable as the humans they once were.

The slave is nothing special. He is not the only Turned among the king’s collection. He is not even a particular favorite. Time and boredom had driven the king to accumulate a well-curated menagerie of entertainment, men and women of every build, appearance, origin.

The slave does try—truly try—to hold onto his humanity.

But it slips away from him, day by day, anyway. Soon he cannot remember how long it has been since he was Turned. When he thinks of his life from before, it feels as if he is thinking about an old friend—distant, fond memories.

He watches the sunrise every day until the rays of light bite into his skin.

Days became weeks became years became decades.

Later, he will try and fail to describe in words the extent of his degradation during that time. To those who surrounded him, he was a collection of skin and muscle, an object, a pet, not a person. When this is what you are told for years, it becomes easy to believe it. It becomes easier to survive if you believe it.

Only one person treats him differently.

The king’s wife is a quiet woman with big, dark eyes. She rarely speaks, and she rarely leaves her husband’s side. In the beginning, the slave assumes she is just the same as all the others. But later, he begins to see her as a fellow victim of her husband’s cruelty—silent camaraderie in his blows, his ownership, his commands.

It stays that way for a long time.

Then, one day, he finds himself alone with her. He had been beaten badly that day, punishment for some imagined disobedience. When the others leave the room, he remains behind, bandaging his wounds with the rote routine of something he has done a thousand times before and will do a thousand more.

She remains, too.

She does not say a word. She just takes the bandages from him and winds them around the injuries he cannot reach.

He pulls away at first, but she is gently persistent. Eventually, he relents. When she is done, she rises and leaves without a word.

He has forgotten what it feels like. A kind touch. It hurts more than one might think. He can feel her hands on him for the rest of the night. It terrifies him, because he knows now he cannot forget it.

It starts like that.

They inch closer, over months, years, comforting each other in the wake of the king’s cruelty. It takes months before they speak to each other. But the words matter less than the kindness. The line was crossed that first night, that first gentle touch.