‘Vivian’ lay sprawled on the cold floor of the bedroom; her breaths were shallow, accompanied by sharp, jagged shards of agony through her broken ribs. Rough bandages clung loosely to her skin, offering little relief. Her head was pressed on the floor; she had fallen from her bed and could not get back up. She had been in that awkward, painful position for the past six hours. No one cared, no one had asked questions, and no one bothered to help her. Her tears had formed pools on the floor and dried. The wood had soaked with her tears, and despite the new puddle drying, the damp feeling still remained. She stared, unblinking, through the half-open doorway into the dimly lit hallway, where servants walked past without a glance, as if she were invisible, as if she were nothing.

  This neglect, this ignorance—this was how her sister had been forced to live.

  Her throat burnt for water, and her stomach grumbled. She had soiled herself; unable to control her bladder, she sat in her own stench. After some time her door was closed, a maid with a handkerchief covering his nose closed the door on her, leaving her in the darkness.

  This was her identity, that of a half-caste; she had merely spent half a day like this and could not bear it; if she could end her own life, she would. She had attempted to bite out her tongue and bleed to death, but she was too weak, her jaw refusing to cooperate.

  She was seething in so much rage and hatred; the great heir to a distinguished family had been forced to lie in her own shit; she cursed Vivian’s name over and over, dwelling on how she would peel that little bitch’s skin off slowly before selling her body on auction. She would force her to work for the rest of her life serving imprisoned ferals; if they broke her jaw, she would merely laugh; if they forced her to breed over and over again, she would enjoy the show. Empathy was something ‘Vivian’ would never have towards her sister; after all, it was her birthright to live a pathetic life. Her resentment festered, rotting into her bones, and one singular thought seared through the pain—Vivian must pay.

  Vivian had orchestrated this humiliation, stripping her of her power and trapping her in this wretched body, leaving her to suffer in a bedchamber that was ill-befitting of her. Her lips curled back in a snarl, but it quickly faded as the searing agony resumed in her limbs. She needed strength; she needed her body back. Every cell of her being itched to tear Vivian apart.

  Then, like an answer to an unholy prayer, she felt it—a tingling at the tips of her fingers, a stinging, aching itch in her broken limbs. She focused, watching as bones, sinew, and skin slowly, agonisingly began to knit themselves back together. Her fingers stretched and bent; her wrist began to twist back into place. It was an abominable process, each fragment reconnecting with such pain that made her want to scream. But she held it in, teeth clenched against the pain.

  Once she had regained partial use of her arm, she dragged her body across the floor until she reached the edge of a low table where ‘Vivian’s’ sword rested. Her fingers curled around the end, bringing it down to her level.

  “Your good days are over, you fucking bitch,” she spat through a cracked, raw throat. That once confident voice sounded hoarse and ugly.

  ˋ?-?-?ˊ

  Drucilla watched the banquet idly, her gaze drifting over the crowd, and finally landed on her brother Zeus, who was still surrounded by a small throng of admirers, his laughter ringing out, enchanting them to a stupor.

  Her fingers tapped lightly on her thigh, her expression disinterested despite the splendour of the celebration and the hundreds of eyes darting her way. This was all mind-numbingly dull to her.

  Eventually, Kaladin approached her, standing by her sitting form. “I assume you are bored out of your wits.” Drucilla raised a brow at him, her eyes noticing the women who were watching him like hawks; he was hiding here, using her as a shield.

  She entertained him, having nothing better to do. “This entire evening is exhausting.” She let out a sigh. “I am itching to kill something; the expedition could not come fast enough.”

  Kaladin’s lips twisted into a faint smirk. “I imagine something interesting is bound to happen soon enough.”

  Drucilla returned her attention to Zeus, whose fan flicked open as someone reached out to touch his chest. She grimaced in disgust. “He’s surprisingly skilled at embroidery. He’ll make an excellent husband for Verena…if he’s interested.”

  “I suppose the Queen has plans for him?” Kaladin asked.

  Drucilla scoffed, “Mother does not care what he does, which is why he is an idiotic drunk.” She rubbed the side of her temples as if looking at him frustrated her greatly.

  “Are you planning to take a consort yourself? Your harem has been empty for sixty years.” Kaladin asked casually, his gaze fixed on the gathering but his attention evidently on her.

  “My mother has someone in mind. The next King of Nerissa.”

  Kaladin inclined his head, considering. “If he succeeds in claiming the throne after the civil war, he could indeed make a fitting match,” he replied. “Uniting sky and sea would certainly be a great feat.”

  Drucilla’s lips curled. “Precisely. It’s only sensible. What about you? Anyone catching your eye?”

  Kaladin felt his heart drop, but he forced his body to remain relaxed, his expression serene. Her question was deadly, and he knew better than to answer recklessly.

  “Of course not,” he replied, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. “I know the Queen Mother’s thoughts on such matters.”

  Satisfaction evident on her face, she turned her eyes away from him. “Good. You know very well, that Mother doesn’t care much for sharing her things, so do not do something foolish like fall in love; that will only send you to the abyss faster than your remaining lifespan.” She looked him over one more time. “Well, someone like you, your hands are too bloodied to ever leave my Mother’s side.”

  Kaladin offered no further comment; he kept his eyes on nothing in particular, trying not to accidentally glance at the woman in the shimmering deep blue dress. She was laughing; he could hear her; he thought she must have looked beautiful; she sounded heavenly, but he could not look at her, not now, not tonight.

  ˋ?-?-?ˊ

  A high, screeching sound disrupted the laughter of the hall—a violent scrape of metal against wood. Zarek’s head snapped towards the doors, where a figure emerged, dragging a sword along the floor, drawing the attention of the beastmen in the room.

  It was ‘Vivian’.

  Her hair hung in filthy, tangled strands around her face, obscuring her features, but her eyes blazed as she searched the crowd, unhinged and feral. Every step she took left a smear of blood and grime in her wake. Lord Vortigern’s face twisted with displeasure, his mouth set in a harsh line. “How dare you appear in such a state among my guests?”

  The girl’s eyes locked onto Verena, her face wild with hate. With a guttural scream, she lunged at her, sword raised, calling Verena’s name like a curse. “You fucking bitch! I’ll kill you!” Her voice cracked; she needed to end Verena’s life no matter what.

  Verena merely watched, making no movements to defend herself. But Lord Vortigern stepped in before the girl could reach his heir, anger flashing in his eyes as he positioned himself as a barrier. “Enough,” he snarled, glaring down at the girl, his disgust evident. She faltered, looking at him, a flicker of confusion and heartbreak crossing her face.

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  “Father,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Can’t you recognise me?”

  Him too?

  The man that doted on her and raised her meticulously, it shocked her greatly to see the disdain in his eyes.

  “Oh? This is indeed interesting.” Drucilla said, leaning forward to watch the show; seeing the clash of swords made her blood boil as if it were the hour of battle.

  Lord Vortigern sniffed, and his nose scrunched up as he smelt her. “You’re nothing but a wretched sight,” he said, “coming here to humiliate my guests like this, does it please you?”

  “Father I—”

  Without hesitation, he raised his own sword and slashed across her chest cutting from her right shoulder to her navel, a wound that would have been fatal to most. Blood poured down her body, and she staggered, staring at him in shock.

  She couldn’t believe her own father would raise a sword to her.

  “Why…?” She gasped, her hand pressed to the wound as it began to heal. But he did not answer, only turning away to call for guards to drag her out, dismissing her like an inconvenience—an eyesore—a stain on his family line.

  Zarek felt uneasy as he turned to Hadassah, who watched the scene without a trace of empathy. “What now?” ‘Vivian’ was still alive; dragging her out solved nothing.

  “What happens to a child who’s been betrayed by her father?” she asked, before raising her face to meet his eyes. “Her world ends.”

  For the first time, Zarek saw a new emotion in Hadassah, one he had yet to meet until now.

  Sadism.

  ‘Vivian’ laughed.

  She laughed so loudly it startled those who had glanced away in disinterest. She raised her head to the ceiling as tears fell from her face. What had she done to deserve this? She had done nothing wrong! What was her sin? What had she done so differently from other people? She did not understand.

  She leaped one more time, this time not at Verena, but at her father. “Why?! Why, Father?!” she cried, slashing wildly. Lord Vortigern did not bother drawing out his sword again; he raised a hand; a wall of wood should have been raised from the ground blocking her; her bare feet should have then sank into the tree, keeping her still.

  But nothing happened.

  And by the time he could realise he had no control over the Vortigern tree, it was too late.

  The best way to kill a beastman who could regenerate was through beheading.

  And that was how he died.

  His head rolled off his neck to ‘Verena’s’ feet. His eyes looked up at his daughter, expecting horror or shock, but he saw none of that.

  The last thing he saw before his consciousness faded was Verena’s unmoved face—cold, unfeeling, uncaring, unbothered.

  ‘Vivian’ did not mourn her father’s death; blinded by despair, she attacked ‘Verena’, her hands reaching out in fury. But with a flick of her fingers, ‘Verena’ summoned vines from the Vortigern Tree, moving in tandem, binding Vivian where she stood, halting her in place. Her limbs and mouth were wrapped in veins, her eyes were red, and tears dripped down from her face as she tried to fight back but to no avail.

  “You filthy half-caste,” ‘Verena’ whispered; her body shook violently as if in anger, but her hair covered her eyes, keeping her emotions hidden from the crowd. She turned sharply to Princess Drucilla, who took in the scene with schadenfreude.

  “I request permission to behead the half-caste.”

  Drucilla laughed, “Do you need my permission for something that simple?”

  No, no one needed permission to kill a human.

  As for Lord Vortigern, Drucilla watched the disembodied head, “It seems your father was truly a weak male.” She reclined, relaxing as she watched. “If you die to a beast, you can only blame yourself for being weak. If you die to a half-caste, you are just pathetic.”

  ‘Verena’ had nothing to say to ‘Vivian’, but she did wonder, if she ever considered that she would die a half caste. The veins wrapped around ‘Vivian’s’ neck, and her head was ripped off, her body collapsing in a final spray of blood.

  Zarek’s stomach twisted as he watched the violent spectacle unfold, the severed head of the girl still hanging on a vein, blood draining from her head like a common animal. He turned to Hadassah, who remained calm as if the violence had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

  “Was…was this part of Vivian’s plan?” he asked, struggling to find his voice.

  Hadassah smiled, “No, this was my plan.”

  She had to admit, Vivian’s original plan was good. She had planned for Zeus to falsify an engagement to her sister, and Verena would coincidentally watch Zeus and her together, and in humiliation she would try to kill Vivian; Zeus would end her life right there. As for Lord Vortigern, she planned to trick him into cheating on the dragon Queen, which would naturally end his life. Hadassah felt that was too drawn out, too easy; she wanted this; she wanted a spectacle.

  Hadassah walked up to the now-fallen body of Vivian.

  “One shell.” She said loud enough for everyone to hear. “I will sell this body for one shell.”

  The hall erupted in laughter. Sell a dirty half-caste’s body for one shell? What sort of joke was that? Who would buy that?

  “I highly doubt anyone here would buy that,” Zeus said, raising his fan higher up his face so only his eyes could be seen. “How about we give it to the common folk? They might have some use for it.”

  They all knew what uses the body of a young woman would have to the common folk, and no one bothered to interfere, only taking delight in the senseless cruelty.

  Zarek took it all in, realising for the first time just how much he found her ruthlessness terribly attractive.

  Hadassah’s sharp gaze caught his reaction, and her brow arched. “Surprised?” she asked, her smile shifting back to the innocent expression he was used to.

  His heart raced as he met her eyes. “Pleasantly so.”

  ˋ?-?-?ˊ

  The banquet passed without any more pleasant surprises, and by the time Hadassah returned to her room at the inn, she could barely muster the energy to peel off her clothes. She changed into something light and simple, planning to sleep after doing some work.

  She dragged herself to her work table, scribbling notes for the new runes she would need before leaving for Veres. Finally, she was one step closer, and this time she was prepared. There was no future where she would die on her journey, nor would she get lost.

  Yet, somehow, through all of this, some sadness lingered. As if something was coming to an end, it was a complex feeling she could not fully discern.

  “I suppose you are waiting for me.”

  She looked up to see him standing on her windowsill as usual, a smile on his face. In that moment, she realised then just how much she’d missed him.

  “Kaladin.” She pushed herself up from the floor, nearly stumbling, but he was faster, rushing to catch her.

  Under the moonlight, Kaladin looked charming to her; his hair had taken on a blueish tinge.

  “Liar, you said a few weeks,” she managed, regaining her balance. His arms wrapped around her, his warmth a comfort that made her eyes sting—it felt so familiar, like some sort of home.

  “My apologies, princess, but I’m here to make it up to you.”

  “How?”

  “Could you loan me some of your time?”

  Of course, she would never say no.

  “You don’t need to ask next time.”

  Kaladin smiled and held her close, lifting them both into the air. They left through the window, darting past the beast city into the grasslands. The cool night breeze brushed against her skin, mingling with the warmth radiating from him. It felt liberating, flying like this. Despite Rahn’s wings, she had never asked him to take her anywhere, considering it a burden on him.

  So this was her first time flying such a distance, so care freely.

  They descended near a small stream that meandered through the open grasslands, its surface catching glints of moonlight. Gently, he set her down beside him, her feet touching the damp night grass, and then he turned to face her.

  “Can I have the first dance princess?”

  He did not have the opportunity to ask her, and now he would dance with her to his heart’s content.

  “I can’t dance,” she replied, a laugh slipping through her words muddled with her embarrassment.

  “Then I’ll lead.” He took her hand, guiding it to his shoulder, his own hand settling at her waist. He was only a few centimetres taller than her, so his eyes met hers without much effort.

  He smiled down at her, his eyes reflecting the starlit sky. “It’s simple. All you have to do is trust me and follow my lead.”

  She looked down, nervously glancing at their joined hands, and muttered, “Easy for you to say.”

  “Look at me, not your feet,” he said, “trust me.”

  Was trust something so easy to give?

  And yet, she blindly gave it to him.

  He took a small step back, and she mirrored him. Then a step to the side, and she followed suit. With each awkward step, her stiffness eased, her confidence growing as he hastened in speed.

  “See? It’s not so hard, is it?”

  Though he said that, she knew they weren’t dancing any of the beast court dances; this was simply for her.

  “You are always kind to me, Kaladin.”

  Even now, he was teaching such a simplified dance that no one used just so she could feel confident enough to dance with him.

  For a second, she wished he was not a Harbinger, and she was not a human.

  “I like humans a lot, I owe them a great deal.”

  “I see, I guess you must see this as helping my race then.” She said lightly.

  He hummed as he spun her. “I see this as serving you, Hadassah. Now hold on tight.”

  The next step they took was on air, and eventually they danced to the little stream. Her feet touching the water but never sinking through the surface. And as they danced, fireflies listed from the grass.

  Surely, if she were not a human, she would have loved Kaladin.

  He only stopped their dance when he noticed she had spun herself into a dizzying frenzy. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. His touch lingered, his eyes appreciated how beautiful she looked, and in that stillness, he leaned forward, his lips brushing her forehead.

  “Happy birthday, princess.”

  ‘It seems I am a crybaby.’

  She did not take herself so emotionally broken, but hearing his words, her eyes watered so quickly that she could not stop them. For nineteen years, her father had been the one to tell her Happy Birthday, and tonight, even if she had forgotten, a random man knew and cared enough to tell her.

  “How did you know?”

  How did he know? She had never told anyone, as beastmen did not seem to celebrate such a thing. It was a human tradition, and even then, how could he possibly guess the date of her birth.

  “Did Neveah tell you?” She asked, figuring that Neveah must have found out somehow.

  Kaladin did not reply, but she chose to take his silence as confirmation.