CHAPTER 56: HIS HEART

A tall shadow stepped into Lorraine’s room, silent and deliberate.

Leroy.

He hadn’t expected the door to be unlatched. That surprised him. Perhaps he was lucky. The thought made him scoff under his breath.

Lucky.What a damned word!

He stepped across the room slowly, the light from the hearth flickering faintly behind him. The heavy curtains of the bed were drawn shut, veiling her in twilight. He reached out and parted them, letting the silvery moonlight spill across her resting form.

She was lying on her side, facing the window. Still. Stiff like a wildflower preserved in glass: beautiful, fragile, and bound by something invisible.

He sat at the edge of the bed, and the mattress dipped under his weight. She didn’t stir. His breath shook slightly as he reached for the oil lamp on her bedside table. A small flame danced inside. He stared at her. Then lifted a hand.

His long, calloused fingers brushed back a few loose strands of hair from her forehead. Reverent. Gentle. As if touching something sacred. She was sacred to him.

His hand paused over the small wound just above her brow. The skin was clean and carefully treated. It wouldn’t scar. He closed his eyes for a moment and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He was relieved that he wouldn’t be reminded of his uselessness with a scar. He regretted that he had not protected her better.

He set the lamp down quietly, the soft clink echoing like a sigh.

"I am useless..." he whispered like he had done countless times before. "It was my mistake to think I could make your life better..."

Then he leaned forward. Pressed his lips to her forehead as a single tear rolled down the corner of his eye. His hand cradled the crown of her head, fingers curling through the softness of her hair. She smelled of wine, rosewater, and cedar, warm from sleep.

And for a moment, he let his forehead rest against hers. "Forgive me..." His chest rose and fell with something he didn’t have a name for.

She’d jumped in front of a blade for him. Without hesitation.

He’d replayed the image too many times to count. The sharp arc of steel, her body jerking forward to block it. Why?Why would she do that?

She jumped from her window. And now, had thrown herself into a blade. She’s eager to jump into danger, like she didn’t fear death at all.

"Don’t you know..." he whispered, voice rough against her skin. He kissed her brow again.

Don’t you know what you mean to me?

What would he do... What could he do in a world where she wasn’t here?

He had ignored her. Never once did he give her what she wanted. And yet... She had stayed, when no one else did, even when his own blood turned on him.

His throat tightened.

He pulled back slowly, studying her face in the quiet. Her lashes twitched slightly in sleep. She hadn’t woken. Not yet.

His fingers hovered near her cheek, trembling with words he couldn’t say.

How are you not seeing that you’re the only thing tethering me to this life?

Maybe she felt his weight on the bed. She stirred. Leroy leaned back instinctively, guilt flaring, but her eyes stayed closed, caught between sleep and the world just beneath it.

Her brows twitched faintly. He reached forward again, hesitant, and smoothed his fingers over the furrow in her brow with soft, slow strokes, as if trying to ease something deeper than a bad dream.

Her face relaxed beneath his touch. The tension in her lashes loosened. And then, just slightly, the corners of her lips lifted.

Was she dreaming? Something sweet, he hoped. Something far from all this. He kept on watching her as time melted away.

He didn’t expect it when her hand drifted up and rested gently on his shoulder. His breath hitched. He froze. Was he caught?

But she didn’t wake. She was still dreaming. Her breathing was slow and even, but her touch was instinctual. Familiar. Trusting. He cupped her cheek with his palm, warmth meeting warmth, thumb brushing softly along her jawline.

He watched her closely. Her eyelids didn’t flutter open, but her hand moved again, trailing upward in slow, searching curiosity, as if she were searching for him even in her dreams. Her fingertips brushed the side of his neck... then slid into his hair.

Leroy went completely still.

Her index finger found the braid and coiled it around, twisting it lightly, gently, like she’d done it all her life.

His breath trembled.

Something inside him broke open, and before he could stop it, tears welled in his eyes. His lips curved upward in a crooked, pained smile.

This was what she reached for. Even in sleep. Even in dreams. His braid. His body. His soul.

Him.

He let out a shaky breath, his voice a whisper that cracked in the dark. "For this?" he murmured. "For a piece of my hair, you’d die?"

His throat ached. The words felt like glass, caught between sorrow and awe.

How foolish.

How sacred.

How could someone like her be real?

How could she still want anything to do with him?

And yet, her hand was still there, cradling him like he was worth something.

And it undid him. Completely.

-----

In the twisted tunnels of damp, moss-covered stones that wound like veins beneath the red-light district, the scent of mildew mingled with something sweeter, something deadlier, lingered.

Lazira sat upon the old throne, her black velvet cloak spilling around her like a tide of molten shadow. The blood-red vyrnshade blossom at her shoulder pulsed faintly, exuding its cloying, poisonous perfume into the air, intoxicating and ominous.

Her gloved fingers, sharp at the tips like talons, curled elegantly over the arms of the throne that bore the faint carvings of a forgotten dynasty. Behind the smooth leather mask, her cold blue eyes shone like blades under moonlight, calculating smile, sharp and cruel, was concealed, curved unseen beneath the surface.

Before her, Seraphina knelt.

Gone was the jeweled serpent of the court, the woman draped in silks and wielding words like stilettos. In her place knelt something quieter, smaller. Her shoulders were hunched in her plain dark dress, hair undone, wrists trembling slightly against the ground as if it scalded her to touch it. The dungeon was no palace. And Lazira no queen that one could flatter or deceive.

Lorraine’s gaze flicked to the two eunuchs behind Seraphina—silent, still, merciless.

It was hard to tell if it had been them who broke Seraphina...

Or if it had been her.

"You decided to go against my word," Lazira said, her voice calm, cutting, and eerily unhurried. "Speak."

Her tone carried no rage. Her rage would’ve been merciful, but her silence... deadlier than the venom of the most venomous viper.

A single torch hissed somewhere behind her throne, casting dancing shadows against the wet stone walls. The soft hiss of the torch flame echoed like a serpent’s breath.

Seraphina flinched.