Page 132 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

When had she last told him that she loved him? Because despite his faults and the anger over the recent months, she had loved him dearly. Perhaps that had been why she felt so betrayed. She only wanted him to show her how much he loved her, too.

Emillie’s hands shook as a fresh wave of grief throttled her. Air burned her throat on an inhale, tears rolling unbidden down her cheeks. It gripped her insides like a vice, wrenching them to and fro and threatening to never leave her be. As if she deserved such reprieve after slinging such accusations at him.

The teacup tumbled from her hands, breaking on the rug as she doubled over, clutching her middle. Pain crashed through her, rising and falling like ripples in a pond. Her heart cracked.

Her father had looked at her in those last moments. It had been her face he sought as he crumpled to the floor. No words. He could not speak around the blood flooding from his throat. All too quickly, the man she had looked up to and admired all throughout her childhood had died. Died and took a version of her with him that could never be recovered.

Whether it was from Emillie’s quiet wails or just because she was passing by, Kyra slid into the space beside her, tucking her body in close and pulling Emillie into her arms. She smelled of sweet vanilla as she rocked back and forth, the scent at once soothing and enlivening. Emillie buried her face into Kyra’s shoulder and sobbed, sucking in deep breaths of those calm notes.

Emillie did not know how long she sat cradled in her arms. All she knew was the tears ceasing to flow, not because the pain had dissipated, but because there just were no more to shed. Each heartbeat took her farther away from the last moment she had seen her father, heard his voice, and felt that swell of pride as he finally stood up for Ariadne. The thought unto itself sent her spiraling into the darkness from which she could not navigate out.

It was not until her body stopped shaking that Kyra, without relieving the soothing pressure she had wrapped Emillie in, murmured, “I’m sorry.”

The two words seemed so silly. Kyra had lost both of her parents in a dhemon raid several years earlier. She knew the devastation of losing both parents—just like Emillie. Though Emillie could hardly remember her own mother, she had mourned her too many times to count. She was blessed to have had Ariadne as a guide throughout her life.

Now she did not even know if her sister lived. The lack of information from Madan spoke volumes. If he had been confident in Ariadne’s safety, he would have told her. As it were, he had not written about her in his letter. She was likely as lost to the world as her parents.

Emillie was alone.

The front door opened, letting in a draft of unseasonable cold. Emillie sat a little straighter but did not look around at who had entered the foyer. She leaned toward Kyra, silently praying whoever had entered the Nightingale manor—her manor, for she would never again return to the Harlow Estate—did not seek her.

The thought soured. Her family home for centuries no longer belonged to them. It sat in the hands of a Caersan unworthy of any title, let alone that of a monarch.

“Emillie?”

She froze, then turned her head slowly to look over Kyra’s shoulder at the one who had entered. Revelie stood at the entrance to the parlor, her dark eyes wide and cheeks flushed from likely riding out to the manor.

“Gods.” Emillie choked on the word as she squeezed Kyra’s hand before throwing herself at her friend, a fresh sob ripping from her throat.

Revelie caught her, wrapping her arms around her tight. “Emillie, what happened?”

“He is dead,” Emillie breathed in her welcoming jasmine scent. “Loren killed him.”

“Who is dead?” Revelie held her out at arm's length, scanning her in horror. “Alek?”

She shook her head, that horrible emptiness clawing its way forward again. The ice dripped back into her veins, and she shook as the image of her father on the floor swam back to the forefront of her mind.

“The Princeps,” Kyra offered, laying a gentle hand on Emillie’s back.

The pure horror and grief that swept across Revelie’s face was but a shadow of the pain ripping through Emillie. The Caersan woman covered her mouth with a gloved hand. “By the gods, Emillie…did you see it?”

Emillie nodded, refusing to open her mouth for fear of never again reining in her sorrows. It was not until Revelie led her back to the couch and sat her down again that Emillie croaked, “He made himself King.”

In an instant, Revelie went very still. She glanced over Emillie’s head to where Kyra sat, then back. “What do you mean?”

“Has it not yet been announced?” Kyra laid a hand on Emillie’s knee, then pulled it back.

Its absence stung. In front of one of her best friends, Emillie had no qualms about hiding who she was anymore. Revelie knew well enough about Kyra and how much Emillie had pined over the woman. Pretending they were merely a maid and her mistress would be an insult to their friendship.

Kyra, on the other hand, did not know when such motions were allowed.

“Not last I heard,” Revelie admitted. “Though I have avoided leaving the shop or home since all the soldiers arrived.”

Emillie wiped the tears from her face, welcoming any distraction from the constant ache in her chest. No amount of conversation could fill the hollow there, but at least it kept the horrible thoughts at bay. “They kept us from leaving for Waer Province. Have they been impeding business?”

The Caersan’s empty laugh said enough. Nonetheless, she added, “What business? They have effectively quashed any sales in Laeton. Mage and fae merchants leave by the dozen—pack up during the day and are gone by nightfall. No one wants to be around those ruffians.”

“Laeton will be starved,” Emillie said, twisting her fingers into her skirts. “King Gard better pray our autumn harvests prove bountiful, or no one will make it through the winter.”

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