“I only heard whispers.
“From the staff.
“It was… awful.”
Her words trailed off, choked by the weight of what couldn’t be said aloud.
My heart skipped, then pounded violently against my ribs, a drumbeat of dread.
“And Lord Winston?”
The name tasted bitter, foul on my tongue, a reminder of hands that had never touched me without leaving scars.
Mary’s lips pressed together, the briefest flicker of relief—or perhaps disdain—shadowing her features.
“He didn’t make it.”
She exhaled, slow, controlled.
“He’s gone to his maker in hell.”
I sagged back into the pillows, my body limp with confusion and release.
Relief washed over me—brief, treacherous.
And then—guilt.Crushing, suffocating guilt.
The burden of lives lost—claimed by my creation—settled on me like a mountain, stealing the air from my lungs.
A shattering thought struck me like a hammer to the chest?—
Had I killed Amir, too?
Was it my poison that ended him?
The notion coiled in my gut, a serpent of regret and terror, tightening around my heart until I feared it would break.
My hands—once balanced, sure instruments of healing and alchemy?—
Now stained with destruction.
How many had fallen?
How many had been killed by my hand?
“The fact that you survived is a miracle.”
Mary’s voice pulled me back from the abyss.
I stared at her, empty.Numb.
“Is it?”I murmured, my gaze shifting to the wall, to nothing.
“I should be dead, too.”
The words hung in the air.
In my mind, I was pulled back—to that chamber of shadow and gold, where opulence met nightmare.
