“Besides, fae breaks are nearly always clean. It will heal within a few days,” she had said.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her I knew exactly how fae bones sounded when they cracked—how long they took to heal. And how easily they could be broken again.
The memories crashed over me, pulling me under—a blur of blood, shattered bone, and endless screams. My stomach twisted violently, and I barely made it to my chamber pot before I retched.
Again. And again.
I had only been sixteen when the war began.
“It will save countless lives,” my father had assured me. “Stay upstairs, and don’t get in anyone’s way.”
That was before the dark magic hollowed him out, stripping away the last shreds of his humanity. By the end, cruelty was his favorite pastime. He knew my stomach was weak—and he reveled in it.
He forced his “weak son” to stand at his side and watch. If I cried out or tried to intervene, it only made things worse. The prisoner’s suffering would drag on, drawn out for his twisted pleasure.
So I learned to stay silent. To endure.
And I hated myself for it.
I stayed there, hunched on the cold floor, until my muscles burned and the nausea loosened its grip.
At last, my mind cleared, but the bitter aftertaste of regret remained.
Now Astoria was trapped here too. I wouldn’t let another person die in this house.
Swiping my sleeve across my mouth, I forced myself to my feet and stumbled toward the door. The thorns outside were a problem I couldn’t ignore any longer. If the hedge thought it could keep us trapped here, it was sorely mistaken.
I would find a way through it—even if it meant tearing it apart with my bare hands. One way or another, the damned thing was coming down.