Page 43 of Wicked Prince of Shadows (Wicked Princes #2)

Vetle passed near the northern archway, speaking to one of his captains in a low voice. He caught my gaze across the courtyard, and for a heartbeat we just looked at each other. Everything in me wanted to go to him now and hide in the strength of his arms, but I just lifted my chin.

A slight smile curved his lips. Those same lips that had worshipped me and claimed me. I could still feel the echo of his body pressed to mine, the weight of his love, the promise in his voice. But now there was a different weight on his shoulders—familiar, but heavier than before.

Then Maltric approached him, his steps heavy and favoring his right side.

Vetle listened to whatever Maltric was saying and frowned.

I couldn’t hear from where I stood, nor was I the best at reading lips.

Yet as I watched them speak, it seemed as if Vetle said, “it means what?” And as his manner intensified, his hands then braced against his waist as he scowled and leaned forward.

Whatever Maltric said troubled him, and his wings flared, then snapped against his back. He disappeared beneath the arch with Maltric behind him.

I wanted to run after him and ask what had happened. But something held me back.

I focused again on tidying up the courtyard and clearing space for the makeshift shelters.

Osric knelt on the ground beside a large jagged chunk of boulder, the same place where he had been painting, his brow furrowed with thin lines.

He pushed at the rock, but it didn’t budge, splatters of color leaking beneath it.

I hurried to his side, placing my hand on his shoulder. “What is it?” I asked.

“It fell…on my paints. That was all I had left.” His voice was tight as his face pinched. “Paintings are gone too. But I wanted to see if I could save any of them. Unless they’re just…gone. I think they’re gone.”

His voice cracked on that last word. The way his face twisted to stop the tears cut me deeply.

I hugged him, holding him close and pleading inside to sound strong when I spoke. “This will all be over soon, Osric. And I know where to get you paints when it’s done. Paints and canvas.”

I felt him nod against my shoulder, his slight frame still trembling. When he pulled back, his eyes were red-rimmed but determined. "Just so long as you don’t go anywhere without me."

"I don’t plan on it." I brushed the dust from his white hair. "There are painters and artists in my city. My favorites are on the outside walls. There’s one, Noni, she makes paints from things you find anywhere like beets, nettles, turmeric, walnuts, clay, blueberries, and so much more. Sometimes she just uses vegetable scraps. We’ll visit all of the shops and artists if we can.

And I’ll get you the best paints I can find. Every color you can imagine."

He managed a watery smile, then squared his shoulders. "I should help the others. I’m glad I let the others paint with me."

My heart broke at that, and I had to turn my face away to keep from crying. He didn’t need to see my tears. What he needed was strength and confidence as we all worked toward making the best of a terrible situation.

As he hurried to join the other children clearing away rocks in the right corner, I turned my attention to the wreckage around us.

The celebration that had felt so magical just hours ago now seemed like a fever dream.

My body still hummed with the memory of Vetle's touch, the way he'd claimed me against that wall, the words we'd spoken to each other. But now—

Now we had to survive.

I passed a group of women who were sorting through the food from the tables, seeming to see if any of it could be salvaged. Their voices reached me as I continued on.

“Baza said there’s no more water. The fountains and cisterns aren’t filling any more.”

“It’ll all be done soon, one way or another.”

“Scrape the dirt off that and save it. We’ve eaten worse.”

“Are all the storerooms gone now?”

“Most likely.”

Their voices haunted me.

I went then to Bren who stood with her back and one wing against a shifted pillar. “What needs to be brought in first?”

She gave me a grim nod. “Only one storeroom is left. Kitchen is crushed. Either get blankets and medicine out of the west wing, or help in the chain line to get what we can out of the rubble in the center. If you’ve got the energy for the stairs, blankets and medicine are where we’ll need more help. ”

“Then I can do that.” I headed toward the west wing, my feet unsteady on the cracked marble.

The path took me through corridors I'd walked earlier tonight, though they seemed like entirely different passages now.

Dust hung thick in the air, and several of the oil lamps had gone out, leaving long stretches in shadow.

I wasn't alone. A handful of others moved in the same direction—guards, servants, anyone strong enough to carry supplies.

We navigated carefully, testing each step before committing our weight.

The marble groaned beneath us in places, and more than once I had to squeeze past fallen debris or detour around sections where the floor had buckled.

Occasionally the palace groaned as if it might give way again or as if it were a beast dying.

I hurried along, passing without speaking further. No one else seemed in much of a talking mood either.

A few whispered prayers as they worked, but most were silent, focused. The occasional glance passed between us—checking, reassuring, anchoring but wordless.

As I made my fifth trip back, I noted a blanket had fallen. I scooped it up, sweat running down my brow and back. The blanket itched against my skin.

Something else was…wrong.

I was breathing harder than before as if the air had become thinner. And the darkness? It hadn’t changed at all since the moon set. Shouldn’t the sun have started to rise already?

I quickened my pace as I gathered up more blankets and pillows, then brought them back to the courtyard. Others were craning their heads back and peering up at the colorless sky. It had to have been at least two hours. Maybe three.

I made another trip up and back, my heart beating faster and the tension rising.

The eastern horizon remained as dark as before, no hint of dawn breaking through.

"Where's the sun?" a soft voice whispered nearby, hidden in the shadows.

Weak and watery as the sun had been, I missed it now. It didn’t sound as if this had happened before. This wasn’t part of the ordinary cycle here.

My heart pounded harder as I made my way back toward the corridor to fetch another armful of supplies. The stone floor was cold beneath my feet, grit scraping against my soles with every step. I turned the corner and froze.

Vetle stood in profile at the far end of the corridor, highlighted by one of the few still-burning sconces. Rasoul faced him, holding the potted plant in both hands.

Its flower had unfurled. The petals spread open like a sigh, soft and luminous.

But they were white.

White—without a single trace of crimson, violet, or gold or any other color. Not even a shade.

No sign of transformation.

No confirmation of altered blood.

No hope.

I gripped my hand into a fist against my chest, fingernails biting into my palm.

I drew closer, terrified of what this meant and knowing I couldn’t stay away.

Perhaps the translations had revealed something else that could help?

This couldn’t mean—it didn’t mean that the only way left was death. Could it?

Rasoul’s expression was difficult to read, half in shadow, but he didn’t speak. He simply nodded, reverent and grim, then cradled the flower against his chest.

Vetle’s jaw flexed. His shoulders lifted with a slow inhale, and then he reached out, pressing his hand briefly to Rasoul’s shoulder.

“Finish gathering the medical supplies,” he said low, his voice raw gravel. “Make sure the poultices and bandages are brought out to the courtyard. All will be well. This will end.”

Rasoul gave a low bow and slipped away down the hallway. Vetle watched him go, and for a moment, he didn’t move.

Then his head turned toward me.

Our eyes met.

The silence between us stretched like a chasm. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The white petals of that flower burned in my mind—a verdict rendered without mercy or hope.

He started toward me, his footfalls deliberate and measured. Each step echoed off the damaged walls, the sound hollow and final. His wings dragged slightly behind him, as if even they felt the weight of what that colorless bloom meant.

I wanted to run. To hide. To pretend I hadn't seen. But my feet remained rooted to the cracked marble.

When he reached me, he stopped just close enough that I could smell the myrrh and cloves that clung to him. His amber eyes searched my face, and I watched something fracture behind them—some last fragile hope he'd been clinging to. That we’d been clinging to.

And now—unless something had changed…now I had to decide whether I would accept obliteration or fight it.

As much as it hurt…I knew. If Maltric had no other solution, there was only one way forward.

And I’d do it. For Vetle. For Osric. For all these people who didn’t deserve to be shredded and their souls cast out into the streams of time. But, though I didn’t believe there was anything else, I asked…just in case.

“What did Maltric say?” I asked, my voice almost breaking. “Did he find anything else? He said that there were some definitions—”

Vetle stopped in front of me, his gaze haunted. His hand rose to my cheek, his cool palm cradling my face with a gentleness that made my chest ache. "He found something," he said quietly. "But not what we hoped for."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I'd known—it had been too much to hope for. This place truly had been abandoned. Why had I dared to hope when it was so obvious this was the only way it could end?

Hearing it spoken now made it real in a way that hollowed out my chest. If there were any other way that didn’t involve killing someone I cared about, I’d take it.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze even as tears burned the backs of my eyes. "What did he find exactly?"

His expression broke, and he pulled me into his arms, one hand moving to the back of my head and the other at my waist. “I’m so sorry, Sabine,” he whispered hoarsely. “This is the only way.”

His arms cinched around me, and his heart thundered against my cheek. He said nothing, only rocked me once—gently, like he could delay time with motion alone.

Then I felt him shift. His body tensed as he reached for something tucked inside his robe.

It hit me a half-second before he pressed the damp cloth over my mouth and nose—honeysuckle and something sharper, something wrong.

“Wait—” I jerked back, but he was faster. His hand came around, pressing the cloth gently but firmly over my nose and mouth.

The world narrowed to scent and panic.

My whole body spasmed, instinct roaring. I twisted and thrashed. My fists pounding against his chest, I tried to scream, but the sound came out as a muffled whimper.

His hand threaded through my hair, holding the back of my head as he whispered, “Don’t fight it, Sabine. Let sleep take you. When you wake, it will all be over.”

Darkness swallowed me whole.