Egan sighs. “Not if I can help it.”
The announcement will, however. My brother will want to instill hope among our people as soon as possible, to make his rebuilding efforts easier. I can’t help but think it’s a good plan—even if it comes at my brother’s expense.
He’s made his choice, however. We aren’t children anymore, playing with wooden swords and joking about what Egan would look like wearing the crown.
It’s on his head right now. Golden and bright.
And—by the looks of his exhaustion—heavy.
Finally, he looks up at me again. “And what of the Nightshade?”
“He isn’t planning anything.”
He blinks in surprise. “You’re sure?”
I nod, and he looks past me. “Good. That’s good. Thank you.”
He returns to his map, and I consider my conversation with the prisoner. Never have I understood more why Grim would rather be in a cell than rule a kingdom.
For the next few days, I think about all that my brother is sacrificing for the good of the island. I’ve never wanted to be king, but now? I see it as the curse it is. Living life for everyone else. Never being able to make a choice that isn’t rooted in duty.
He shouldn’t have to bear the brunt of it alone.
I’ll do anything I can to make his role easier. It’s the least I can do. It’s what my mother would have wanted.
I walk into the throne room, resolved to take my next orders now that Grimshaw has been dealt with, and am knocked out of my thoughts by the sound of crying.
No. Crying is too weak a word. This sound, thiswailingscrapes against my bones.
A woman is on her knees in front of the king, trembling.
I’m startled to see my brother rise to his feet; he’s not supposed to leave his throne when receiving visitors.
What he does next breaks every rule of decorum. He approaches the woman, then kneels in front of her and grabs her hands.
“I am truly, truly sorry.”
I take a step closer and—
Agnes. His guardian. Why is she crying? I rush forward.
Her sobs echo through the gilded room. “I will go myself—Iwill go,” she says, tears giving way to a voice forged of pure and unyielding strength.
“It will mean your death,” my brother tells her gently.
“I am dead without her.”
Without her.
My blood goes cold. I spot Enya at the side of the room and grab her arm. “What happened?” I demand, though I fear I already know.
“Her daughter snuck into the Midnight Woods.”
Ara. The daughter she fought to have. The baby with red cheeks that we all took turns holding. On Lightlark, babies are honored, even coveted.
No. Agnes is a valued guardian and member of her realm. Egan cares for her. He would send any warriors to go find Ara, if there was a chance of recovery. But now I understand why my brother isn’t ordering guards to go find her. I understand why he’s telling her that it would be a death sentence. Those Star Isle woods have been overtaken by night creatures for centuries. If Ara’s still alive, she won’t be soon.
“She’s still screaming,” Agnes says, her racking sobs making her teeth chatter. Her skin is gray in pallor. Until now, I’ve never seen her cry, not once. “She’s still—she’s still living.”
