Page 120 of A Broken Throne of Bronze

I nod. “Thank you. I will see you again.”

She offers me a weak smirk. “I’m counting on it.” Then, with a jerk of the horse’s reins, she rides off.

Taking a deep breath, I push open the door.

Acantha sits at our small dining table, a dim fire cracking in the hearth behind her. She rests her elbows on the table, holding her face in her hands.

I move to her immediately, touching my hands to her upper back and shoulder. “Acantha,” I breathe.

She snaps her head toward mine. Her cheeks are a bright red, stained with salty streaks left behind by her tears.

“Cryssa,” she sobs at the sight of me. “Please tell me that’s really you.”

“It’s really me.” I throw my arms around her, holding her tight.

“We sent the message to you not knowing if you’d ever receive it,” she whimpers, taking short breaths. “But we had to try to tell you.”

“I know,” I coo, rubbing my hand back and forth across her back. “How… How is he?”

“He’s stable, for now.” Acantha pulls away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “He’s been asking for you.” Her bottom lip trembles. “I didn’t know how to tell him you were… That you weren’t…”

“Shh.” I pull her close again, lightly stroking her hair. “I’m here now. I’m here.”

I push whatever emotions I had coming in here aside. Right now, she and Father are all that matters.

Viridian was right. They need me.

And I’m not going to falter.

“I’m going to go see Father now,” I tell Acantha, stepping away. “But I’ll be right back.”

She hiccups, but manages to nod.

I cross the compact room to the stairs and climb them. Then I turn left, and step into Father’s room.

Carefully, I open the door and cross the threshold. My father lays in bed, propped up with several pillows. Knit blankets cover his chest, and his head leans to the side, eyes closed. Though labored, his breath rises and falls evenly, which comes as a good sign.

Still, I can’t help but wonder how long it will be before his condition deteriorates.

But I know it will be soon.

I swallow.

Father stirs, opening his eyes. He widens them when he sees me and rubs his forehead.

“Cryssa, my darling,” Father says, moving to sit up. “Is that you or have I started hallucinating?”

“Rest, Father.” I sit at the edge of his bed and hold out my palm to urge him back down. “It’s really me. You’re not hallucinating.”

“How?” Father’s brows stitch together, glancing down at my dress. “Is that… How did you escape?”

“It’s a wedding dress,” I tell him, my voice tightening. “And I didn’t escape.” My voice softens. “He let me go.”

Understanding flashes in Father’s expression, softened by a tender look.

“When I heard the news, I had to come see you,” I continue before he can ask me more questions. “How are you feeling?”

Father coughs. It’s an airy, grating sound. “I’m well enough, for now.”

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