Page 41 of The Starving Saints

Phosyne is still sitting on the throne when she feels something snap inside her.

The pain emanates from her throat, just below her jaw. It is sharp, stabbing, nowhere close to her heart, but the meaning

is undeniable enough. Either she is dying or—

Or something has happened to Ser Voyne.

All she needs to do to check is close her eyes, but she doesn’t want to look away from her audience for even a second. They

ring the throne and Jacynde behind it, staying at a polite distance for the time being. She can’t quite make out where one

figure ends and the other begins. In the gloom of the throne room, they are little more than smudges of flashing pigment,

glittering gold where their lips part and they show their teeth.

They aren’t talking. Aren’t making any sound at all now, save for their breathing.

They are waiting.

Phosyne isn’t sure if they’re waiting for her to show weakness or to show strength. She’s still a little intoxicated, still

fixed on the memory of Ser Voyne’s skin under her hands, Voyne’s obedience under her voice. She’d been beautiful even in her

agony, and the memory makes her shudder. She’s not supposed to think that.

What is she becoming?