Page 51 of Heirs of the Cursed

Something moved inside his chest, something dangerous. Ever since he’d first seen her in the square, it had been asif the walls around his heart had begun to shake and crack, threatening to tear down his façade. He’d noticed the mask of ice that hid her true feelings too, intrigued by what she fought so hard to repress. But even as the wounds bled and tightened in her back, her boreal eyes set him ablaze with undeniable regret.

He should have stopped the madam sooner.

Yet if he stayed any longer, if he showed even a flicker of care, it would have only made things worse for Naithea.

Ward closed his hands into fists, regaining his composure. The pieces of the monster his father had created fell back into place, emotionless.

“No,” he replied, and the words that were already beginning to form in his mouth tasted bitter even before he uttered them. “I would never sleep with a whore.”

He didn’t dare watch Naithea’s reaction as he placed the helmet that one of his soldiers offered him on his head. His eyes remained on the door, even though the weight of her gaze turned to sharp rocks over the pit of his stomach.

And only when the sun’s rays warmed his skin could Commander Ward feel the aberrant light in his chest extinguish again.

17

Dawnfall

‘Dead men tell no lies and faceless men will never be remembered.’

The Midnight Thief kept repeating that to himself every time he wandered through the shadows of the kingdom like a doomed ghost. To the world, Alasdair Hale had ceased to exist, and he was grateful for it. People tended to fear the unknown.

He walked over the rooftops of Dawnfall with gracefulness. His boots made no sound against the shingles, and his shadow was nearly indistinguishable. That was the fun part of the job: to look without being seen, to see beyond everyone else.

He had seen more than most. From poor children stealing in the streets to women selling their bodies . . . And he’d witnessed death at the hands of innocents who only sought freedom. Alasdair didn’t blame them, but there were many things that set him apart from those people. For one, he didn’t regret his actions and never asked for forgiveness.

Long ago, when he was a boy and his parents were still alive, he’d prayed to the goddesses. His devotion had been so unwavering that he’d told his mother he would work in one of the monasteries of Evrethia, the city that had once been known for its blind faith. Still, the world had changed, and so had he; and for that, Alasdair had repented for his prayers.

If the Triad existed, no one would have to sell themselves into slavery to survive, no one would have to endure beatings under the hands of cruel men, and he wouldn’t be a puppet for someone else to control.

The music raised its harmony among the bonfires in the square, and Alasdair turned his gaze to the moon glittering in the depths of the night. For someone whose nights went on forever, it was quite comforting to have its guide—even when he desired solitude.

Maybe I can afford one night of normalcy, the unusual thought crossed his mind.

No one knew his face and he could be gentle and pleasant if he put his mind to it. He could seize the moment. The only personwho could possibly figure out who he was hated him enough to not seek him.

Alasdair sat on one of the rooftops and watched the Night of Flames from above, a festivity held in honor of Princess Ginebra, fifth in the line of succession to the throne. Like her twin brother, Gideon, both heirs were commemorated in feasts at two different cities in Laivalon.

Dawnfall set up huge bonfires in the square to venerate the princess’s flames, offering gifts in her name and setting them ablaze so that magic would reach the sky. People dressed in warm colored attires and red flags were raised, showing respect to the heiress of fire.

The corners of his mouth tugged upward as he recognized Darcia’s distinctive golden hair between the citizens. She was dancing with two other young women, their dresses resembling the colors of the flames. Her eyes were slightly closed, her movements attracting the attention of all the attendants.

He usually encountered people who were afraid, who fled or gawked at his presence. No one had confronted him directly. Still, she had. Her wild and dangerous boreal eyes had pierced him shamelessly and her sharp tongue had tried to put him in his place.

Alasdair had searched for her ever since.

“Gorgeous,” he whispered to himself.

Darcia Voreia was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. The kind of woman for whom men and women would kill and die, and for whom the world would get down on its knees and let it all burn.

By the goddesses, Alasdair had to stop looking at her if he didn’t want to lose his mind.

As if sensing his gaze upon her, Darcia darted her eyes to the roof of the wooden structure he was sitting on. Alasdairconcealed himself among the shadows and the chimney, cursing under his breath for still being a coward after all.

He pulled out a small watch from his leather suit and slipped between the rooftops to discreetly join the feast.

Darcia made the most of her last night of short-lived freedom before her stepbrother returned. She’d taken a walk with Caeli and her friends through the market streets, and the four of them had indulged themselves in ale and card games in the Poisoned Apple until the sun set.

The square was crowded with Dawnfallians who laughed, drank, and celebrated the princess’s magic. Darcia danced until her feet hurt and her chest warmed with happiness. A smile tugged at her lips as she waved at Bassel, signaling him to find his way back to them.

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