To be honest, I was beginning to think she had no vocal cords or that she spoke only in whispers like a mouse terrified of any loud sounds. Wouldn’t surprise me if that were the case. After all, the so-called Chosen had to be either a submissive, frightened creature to allow herself to be veiled and have every aspect of her life controlled, or she believed the bullshit the false Queen—the Blood Queen—fed her. The latter was the likeliest explanation for her willing submissiveness, especially since she had a brother who had Ascended.
I’d seen the Maiden in the alcove with the Duchess a few times, the Ascended watching the men training as if she wished to feast on their flesh more than their blood. Ladies and Lords in Wait did the same, usually tittering from behind silk fans between sending not-so-coy glances at those on the field. Attraction drove them to watch, but the Maiden’s presence was an intriguing mystery, and so very little intrigued me these days.
Everyone in Solis knew the Maiden was untouched in both the literal and figurative senses and was to remain so. I couldn’t even begin to fathom what kind of archaic reasoning the Ascended had to justify that or why. To be honest, I couldn’t give two fucks, but there had been absolutely no gossip indicating that the Maiden rebelled against the cage she had been placed in. So, I doubted she watched for the same reasons the Duchess and the others did.
Then again, there was no actual gossip about the Maiden at all, likely due to the fact that most were forbidden to speak to her. There were even stories of guards having been relieved of their positions or demoted to work beyond the Rise for merely acknowledging her presence with a smile or a harmless hello.
What I knew of her was minimal. The Maiden was supposedly born in the shroud of the gods, which was yet more Ascended bullshit. Those of the working and lower classes harbored a fondness for her, which was clear in how they spoke of her in the same reverent tones as Pence had the other night. And she was said to be kind. How they would know that since they weren’t allowed to acknowledge her was anyone’s guess. Their foolish superstitions likely drove their loyalty, not anything based in reality.
The Maiden was likely as unworthy of the people’s support as the Blood Crown she represented. Because at the end of the day, there was no way she was unaware of what the Ascended truly were—how the Ascension actually came to be and that they were responsible for the monsters that had stolen so many lives.
Shoving thoughts of the Maiden aside, I entered the back hall of the dormitory and hung a left, entering a staircase. I was tired, but even if I was headed to my chamber, I wouldn’t be going to sleep. It took several hours for my head to get in the right space to shut down, which usually occurred a handful of hours before dawn—if I was lucky. Hell, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept an entire night.
Tonight, I had a real reason for avoiding the silence of my single bedchamber and its bare, lifeless walls.
I took the steps three at a time, wondering what Kieran was up to. We’d made a point not to cross paths, especially since the Lieutenant was on my ass like white on rice. With Kieran planted in the City Guard, there weren’t a lot of chances for us to happen upon each other.
He had a bit more freedom to move about, but it also meant he saw far more shit than I did. Abuses I knew he wanted to do something about but couldn’t without drawing attention to himself. And the exploitation and mistreatment of the most vulnerable in Masadonia was only getting worse.
Because that was also how the Ascended kept the people of Solis in line and not asking questions. They used fear.
Reaching the third floor, I walked out into the wide hall. It didn’t take long for me to find the room I was looking for. The stench of rot wouldn’t be noticeable yet to the others, but it was stronger. I continued forward, wondering exactly what in the wide realm of fucks I was doing.
The problem brewing in this hall wasn’t mine.
In fact, it was a boon. I could keep walking and let what would happen come to pass. After all, fewer guards made everything easier. And if I were smart, I would see every single mortal even loosely tied to the Blood Crown as an enemy.
But I could hear snores coming from behind closed doors and understood that most guards who served the Blood Crown knew no better. This floor was full of innocent men, and if I did nothing, half of them would be dead by the time the sun rose.
Or worse.
I stopped at the door, rapping my knuckles on it. There was silence and then a muffled, “Yeah?”
I reached for the handle and turned, finding it unlocked. Pushing it open, I stepped inside. My vision immediately adjusted to the narrow, dimly lit chamber, and I found who I’d come for.
Jole Crain sat on the edge of his bed that was barely more than a raised cot, his dark hair hanging forward, shielding his face as he clasped the back of his neck. Something about the way he sat reminded me of my brother after he returned from an evening of enjoying far too many spirits. A pain that was akin to a knife wound sliced through my chest. It had to be the hair. My brother’s was a bit lighter, a shade stuck somewhere between blond and brown, but it was the same length as Jole’s.
Thinking about my brother was the very last thing I needed at this moment.
I closed the door behind me as I glanced around the chamber. His armor had been left by the entrance, his weapons placed on the chest at the foot of his bed—all but one. A dagger lay beside him on the blanket, its blade the color of crimson in the low light. Bloodstone.
Jole lifted his head. Sweat dampened the wisps of hair at his forehead, a sign that the fever had taken hold. He squinted. Shadows had already blossomed under his eyes where the skin was thin and quick to decay.
And that was exactly what was happening to Jole. He was decaying. Rotting. He was already dead.
“Flynn?” he asked.
I nodded, propping myself against the wall. “Saw you return from outside the Rise.”
“Yeah?” He dropped his hand to his knee. His arm trembled.
“Thought I’d check on you and see how you were doing.”
Jole blinked and then looked away. “Feeling just…peachy.”
“You sure about that?”
He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a ragged laugh.
“You were bitten, weren’t you?” I asked.
Another laugh came from him, but this time it was shaky and harsh. I waited, and it didn’t take long for him to do the right thing. Silently, he lifted his left arm and shoved up the sleeve of his tunic.
There it was. Further confirmation of what I already knew.
Two jagged indents on his wrist. The torn flesh oozed an oily, dark substance. Reddish-blue lines already radiated from what should be a rather minor wound, running up his forearm and disappearing under his sleeve.
Jole was going to turn, becoming what he’d been dispatched to kill. A violent, rage-fueled beast with a hunger that couldn’t be satiated, and he would do it sooner rather than later.
Bodies handled the infection differently. Many made it a day or two without showing any obvious signs. Others turned in hours. He was one of the latter, and I bet that where the Craven had gotten him had a lot to do with that. It had likely hit a vein or nicked it at the very least.
Jole shuddered. “I’m cursed.”
“You’re not.” I tilted my head. “You’re just unfortunate.”
He turned his head to me. The hollows of his cheeks had deepened. “If you knew I was bitten while you were on the Rise, you should’ve reported me. It’s treasonous not to.”