Page 107

“Fight for your birthright,” she says, still crying as she clutches his hand between her two frail ones. “Caldenbauer is yours.”

Ayan casts a look at Lawrence, uneasy. But the king only shrugs, not terribly concerned by the whims of the dying elf.

“I’ll try…” Ayan finally says.

“Claim your throne,” Hellebore says again, not completely coherent.

“I will.” He pats her hand awkwardly. “How…how did you come to serve Camellia?”

“Algernon offered me sanctuary,” she rasps. “After Lilliana murdered your father and tried to kill you. I…I was a political refugee, biding my time until I could bring justice upon…” She draws in a breath, her eyes clouding as she tries to put together the pieces.

“Lilliana’s line,” Audra breathes, finishing for her. “So you’ve been here all this time?”

Hellebore focuses on the elf, looking confused. “Who are you?”

She steps forward, kneeling next to the bed. “I’m Audra, Ayanleon’s cousin. Do you remember me?”

“Ellaine’s daughter.”

“That’s right.” She brushes the fine hair away from Hellebore’s face. “My mother and I are going to see Ayan take his rightful place, I swear it.”

Hellebore looks at Ayan, bringing his hand to her cheek, wetting his skin with her tears. She nods, overwhelmed.

“But we need you to help us in return,” Audra says. “Camellia is a threat to Ayan—she’s a threat to all Caldenbauer. Please, tell us what she plans.”

“I had no choice,” Hellebore says to Ayan. “I…couldn’t allow…”

She begins to breathe hard, gasping as if her lungs will no longer work. She stares up at Ayan, her eyes growing wild. “So handsome.” She coughs several times, but they’re small, rasping things. “Like your…father.”

Ayan looks overwhelmed.

“Take…your birthright,” Hellebore says before she draws in one final breath and goes still.

A hush falls over the room, and I bow my head, filled to the brim with conflicting emotions. This woman did wretched things, yet part of me feels sorrow on her behalf. Or maybe I’m aching for Ayan, for a traumatic past he was too young to remember.

“Is she…?” Henrik asks Pranmore quietly.

The Woodmore nods. “She’s gone.”

Looking stunned, Ayan slowly pulls his chair back, setting Hellebore’s hand across her stomach. “Excuse me,” he says raggedly, leaving the room.

I stare at my feet, processing.

In the end, we learned answers, but none that make a difference in the grand scheme of things.

Slowly, we filter out of the room, accompanied by the heavy cloak of death.

“We must cremate her body quickly,” Pranmore says to Lawrence. “The residual effects of the dark magic she carries will leach from her and spread sickness.”

Lawrence nods. “I’ll send for someone immediately.”

I leave the rooms, needing a moment to myself. But I find Ayan seated next to the wall in the hallway, his face in his hands.

With a sigh, I sit next to him and rest my head against the wall. “Are you all right?”

He looks over wearily. “I’ve just learned that every wicked thing Camellia has done—every murder, every person she’s tortured—is essentially my fault.”

“You were a child when the Woodmores slipped you out of Ferradelle,” I argue. “You don’t have to take responsibility for any of it.”