Page 67 of Wicked Prince of Shadows
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.
