Page 85 of Burn

Rancor churned in my gut, which intensified as a towering shadow materialized beside me. Adding insult to injury, a mane of dark blue hair filled my peripheral vision. I had forgotten about Winter.

Despite the hideous display, the prince’s baritone filled the void. “This is a born fool.”

My head swiveled toward Jeryn’s granite profile. By Seasons, he observed the victim’s remains without so much as a wince. Not an ounce of emotion compromised that arctic visage, his indifference making my skin crawl.

Then his words struck me. The victim was a born soul.

“How do you know?” I prompted while other silhouettes joined us, including Poet, my mother, and our friends.

In response, the Winter Prince tilted his head to further study the corpse. The spiked toe of his boot extended to nudge the person’s stomach, their skin flaking to ash at the contact. When it did, Jeryn knelt and grabbed the same area none-too-gently, collecting more specks and sprinkling them into the air.

Poet snarled at the man, and my lips curled in abhorrence. Of all the disrespectful, contemptible acts. Yet the prince kept scrutinizing the body like an experiment, nothing more than a specimen beneath a microscope.

I rounded fully toward him and fought to keep my tone civil. “In our nation, it is customary not to defile the dead.”

Jeryn merely flicked his eyes at me and then cut away, as if my comment were as inconsequential as the buzzing of a fly. A minor distraction. Based on the expressions of Mother and my friends, if I didn’t punch him first, they would.

To say nothing of the jester. Poet’s muscles tensed, his tongue—if not his dagger—about to flay the man.

At that precious moment, the prince’s voice pointed out, “The womb is shrunken and frail, particularly near the uterus.” Wiping his hands as though they were filthy, Jeryn rose. “Summer trades with Winter for preventatives to keep the born from procreating in their cells and infesting the Season with their spawn. It’s a permanent solution that renders the recipient infertile for life and helps control Summer’s captive population.” He jerked his chin to the victim. “A womb this slight on a grown fool means they were given a dosage.”

With precision, Jeryn clicked his head in our direction. The black ice of his pupils settled on me, then Poet, then Mother. “The last time I checked, Autumn doesn’t possess this drug.”

No, we certainly did not. The potent mixture of which Jeryn spoke had been customized and commissioned by Summer from Winter’s scientists.

Autumn would never commit such an atrocity. And because this nation didn’t render its prisoners infertile, the components stacked up. One of the mad. The prince’s assessment meant the deceased had been one of the mad.

Summer’s mad, to be exact. They were the only people from Rhys’s kingdom living here.

I swept my attention to the body as murmurs filtered around me. Among them, Mother’s furious voice addressed one of the guards. “Who did this?”

Aire stepped in to respond. “That is unknown, Your Majesty. I didn’t sense anyone’s presence. Thus far, the routes to and from the dungeons are clear, and the troops found no signs of entry or exit.” He measured his words, the weight of them clear. “It is as if they’ve vanished.”

Vanished. Which implied they’d used a passage not likely to be spotted. I traded confidential glances with Poet.

The secret tunnels. The ones Rhys had been searching for in this area.

Because the late Masters had shared their knowledge with Rhys, the king could have directed these new butchers to the dungeons. Summer must have instructed the agents on how to evade the guards, then gave them tools to breach the cells.

That repulsive excuse for a monarch. So he wasn’t waiting purely for Reaper’s Fest.

Whomever he’d sent to do his filthy work had failed to kill me. But they’d succeeded in maiming one of the innocent people the jester and I were campaigning to liberate. Our actions may save the born someday. Until then, our choices endangered them too.

If the murderers targeted a born soul, it could be a warning or an act of retribution for my return. Either way, this had been done by whoever poisoned me.

“Search the castle inside and out,” I heard Mother instruct Aire. “I want every square inch inspected, each resident interviewed, and every sentinel questioned.” Her orders carried across the pasture to the troops. “There is a saboteur at large. A slayer in our midst who has already committed two atrocities. Find them.”

“They won’t,” I whispered to myself, redirecting my gaze to the dead body. “They won’t find them.”

Provided the enemies didn’t live in the castle, and assuming they’d used one of the tunnels, they were long gone. For now, at least.

Aire and his brethren departed to fulfill Mother’s orders. While courtiers murmured to one another, our friends attempted to dilute rising accusations from getting out of hand, and Mother delivered more instructions to additional guards.

I thought of Merit, the soldier we’d lost. I thought of the born souls Rhys had tried to use as scapegoats for his own deception. I thought of the Masters, who’d sacrificed themselves for their version of the so-called greater good.

I thought of Nicu, who could have been the target of this wretched crime.

The montage compiled as I caught sight of the prince. It was not my imagination when I noticed him flicking a speck of ash from his sleeve. I balled my hands into fists, then forced them to relax.

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