Page 95 of A Broken Throne of Bronze

My bedchamber is filled with images of Viridian.

I should be thinking of Loren. Part of me will always love him, deep down. But my mind only forms one image. One face.

And my hands, as if controlled by some outside force, sketch it onto paper.

Though no matter how much I wish it could be otherwise, Viridian and I come from different worlds. We belong to different walks of life.

There is no future for us. No way around the inevitable heartbreak.

Even if we do marry.

Loren’s mere presence has made that abundantly clear. Seeing him in that prison cell again resurfaced everything I’d first thought about Viridian when I arrived.

That noble fae and humans are too different. That I could never move past what Viridian’s done. That in his gilded world, he could ever understand mine.

I sit at my vanity table, bent over another half-finished sketch.

Pushing my sketchbook away, I look at myself in the mirror. My auburn waves hang loose in a tangled mess. There are dark circles under my eyes, which don’t surprise me. I haven’t slept well—plagued by more dreams of Death and bodies in shallow graves.

Not that I know what the dreams mean.

But the words spoken by Death are the same each time.

“When the time comes, you must choose. Choose life, without love, in a cursed land. Or choose death in the name of love and sacred sacrifice.”

Choose love? I let out a bitter laugh. What love do I have left?

If we ever leave this place, I know Loren will welcome me back with open arms. But now, I’m not so sure that I will ever love him the way I once did.

And Viridian…

He hasn’t made any attempt to see me. Hasn’t sent any messages. Hasn’t asked me to dine with him.

Nothing.

Perhaps he’s turned his back on me. Perhaps he remembers why he didn’t want me. Why would he marry a human, when there are so many eligible noble fae females who would make for a much better partner than me? And someday, a much better High Queen?

I hold my face in my hands, uncomfortably digging my elbows into my vanity table.

A gentle knock sounds at my door.

“Tiffy?” I ask, lifting my head. “Is that you?”

“No,” Lymseia says, opening the door slightly so I can see her. “May I come in?”

I wipe my face and straighten my back. “Yes.”

Lymseia slips into the room. She dons her usual fighting leathers, her blue-black hair pulled into a long braid that falls down her back. It’s strange to see her without her steel short swords hanging from her hips.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I reply weakly.

Lymseia sits across from me, on the edge of my bed. “I was going to ask if you were all right, but honestly, you look terrible.”

I manage to chuckle. But even that sounds like a shell of what it should be. “Thank you for reminding me.”

Lymseia’s mouth perks up. “Don’t mention it.”

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