To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

Clinging to the shadows, I peek into the ballroom, trying to blend in with one of two large urns gushing Night Bloom vines that creep across the wall, framing the grand entrance.

It’s not often I seek Rhordyn out, but I need answers, and for once, the bastard is going to give them to me.

The huge space is half-dressed for tomorrow night’s ball. Long, gossamer strips of silver material drape from the high ceiling, transforming it into a billowing cloud. Thousands of thin, metal strings shoot down from between the pockets, tipped with tear-drop bulbs of light as if the rain is something to worship.

A swarm of servants are buzzing beneath the pretty canopy, moving furniture into place—large, round tables I’ve only ever seen stacked in one of the many storage rooms. They’re being swathed in inky cloth that puddles at the base, their surfaces decorated with gray flower arrangements too big and lush for one person to carry.

I frown, nostrils flaring, scenting the floral perfume the grand ballroom is bathed in.

Those flowers should have been left in the garden, but at least they’re using the grayslades. There’s an abundance of them around the castle.

If it were any other, I’d be showing my teeth.

Noticing movement in my peripheral, I glance along the hall to see Sophia approaching—a maid with large, pretty eyes and midnight hair, arms laden with a stack of silver platters.

I wave at her. “Excuse me!”

She startles, almost losing her cargo, then drops into a tight curtsy that makes me cringe. “Miss! Good grief, I didn’t see you there.”

“Do you know where I can find the High Master? I expected him to be here ... I don’t know, overseeing,” I say, batting my hand toward the ballroom.

Her brows almost collide. “No, Miss. And I’m not sure, Miss.”

She curtsies again, then hurries through the doors as if she can’t get away from me fast enough.

The staff aren’t usually so skittish around me.

Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I whirl to face a burly guard with dark eyes and a mop of ebony hair smoothed off his face with a lubricated sheen.

I lift a brow. “Jonas.”

“Orlaith. What were you ...” He glances over my shoulder. “What were you and Sophia talking about?”

I jerk my thumb toward her. “You mean just now?”

He nods.

“I’m, ah, looking for Rhordyn. I thought Sophia might know where to find him.”

“Oh ...” He expels a deep breath and rolls onto his heels, face softening. “That’s all?”

“What else would it be?”

“Good. The High Master is busy.” He turns and starts to walk away at a brisk pace, but I lumber forward and snatch his wrist.

“Busy where, exactly? I lack the patience to spend the next two days searching every corner of this castle.” His gaze shoots down to my white-knuckled grip, and I loosen my hold. “Sorry.”

He clears his throat, glancing at another guard stationed by the doors. Hard to be certain, but I swear they share an exasperated look.

“What do you think I’m going to do, wound the man?”

“Nosey in on our High Master’s business.”

... Justified.

Most of the guards don’t trust me, though I can hardly blame them. I’ve caught the majority in compromising positions over the years. Apparently I don’t walk loud enough—probably why I keep catching Jonas with his tongue down Marcus’ throat, despite the fact that he’s courting Sophia.

“Spill, Jonas.”

He crosses his arms. “No.”

I mirror his stance, narrow my eyes, and wait ... foot tapping the floor.

Silence.

When impatience gets the better of me, I lean in and whisper, “How’s Marcus?”

His eyes widen, the moment stretching long enough that I shift back and find a comfortable spot against the wall.

I’d never snitch, but he doesn’t know that. And it wouldn’t surprise me to catch him pissing on my rose bushes after this little powwow.

He mutters something indiscernible and sighs. “Rhordyn’s in his office on the third floor.”

Should’ve considered that.

“Thank yo—”

“Having a private meeting.” He emphasizes ‘private’ as if he’s about to crack open a dictionary and point out the meaning right here and now. “He and the High Mistress of Rouste said they’re not to be disturbed under any circumstances.”

My spine stiffens, heart feeling like it just got tangled in a thorny vine.

Private meeting ... with Zali ... in his office ...

The bitter taste is hard to swallow. So is the vision that just got plunged into my brain like a stake.

Herspread out across his desk like that woman from the book—back arched; bare breasts being groped by masculine hands; Rhordyn bent over her like a silver-scrawled shadow, face between her thighs, rumbling ...

Feasting ...

Fuck.

“Right,” I answer, trying my hardest to maintain a casual demeanor when all I want to do is vomit. “Guess I’ll just ... frolic back to my tower, then.”

He rolls his eyes and strides off down the hall, as if he’s addled by the mere sight of me.

Heart in my throat, I make my way to the third floor, straight to the grand hallway that leads to Rhordyn’s office.

Five times I almost turn around—telling myself this sort of morose curiosity is septic. Self-destructive. But my feet have a mind of their own, leading me down the path sure to ruin me.

Softening my footfalls, I draw closer, hearing the uneven burr of more than one masculine voice.

I pause.

That doesn’t sound like a man and woman locked in the throes of pleasure.

The surge of relief is so abrupt I have to clamp my lips shut to catch my sigh.

I press against the far wall and duck behind a dense, velvet curtain bunched at the side of a closed window. It offers me the perfect vantage point that’s near enough to hear every word being passed back and forth in Rhordyn’s office, and if I peek my head out the far side, I can probably catch a glimpse through the wide-open door, too.

Honestly, if this meeting was that private, he should have closed the damn thing. If Rhordyn catches me snooping, that’s going to be my exact line of defense. Everyone knows doors are my weakness. Leaving one open during a private meeting? Well, he should know better.

“Nice touch with the Vruk head, Zali. You never cease to surprise me.”

Cainon.

“There was nothing nice about it,” Zali snips. “I found that mutt feasting on a farmer and his son. The four other Vruks from the attack are now flayed and pinned to stakes as a deterrent. They weren’t the first, and they certainly won’t be the last.

Seems Zali just gained my respect.

Cainon clears his throat, and I can almost picture him crossing his arms or inspecting his nails like he’s bored with the conversation. “As much as I enjoy your stories, I need to speak with Rhordyn alone.”

“Fine,” Zali snips, the word prefacing her heavy steps, as if she’s wearing the weight of all her anger in the soles of her shoes.

Steps that are drawing in my direction ...

Shit.

I hold my breath and close my eyes, pressing myself flat against the wall, hoping she can’t see my bare feet poking out the bottom of the curtain.

Her footsteps draw closer, and my lungs start to burn as I hold ... hold ...

She pauses, and seconds pass before the curtain peels back, allowing a slice of dull afternoon light to cleave apart my hiding space ...

I wince, squinting into large, honey eyes fringed with dark lashes, waiting for the verbal blow to land—the one which will likely earn me an armored escort back to Stony Stem.

Instead, she offers me a coy smile, throws me a wink, then lets the curtain fall.

Gaping at the thick material, I listen to her retreating footsteps.

“That dismissal applied to you too, Baze.”

I sidestep to the left, peel the curtain, and peep into the study.

Cain has his back to the door, the wide breadth of his shoulders blocking half my view. Baze is out of the frame of my vision—probably propped against a wall somewhere—but I can see Rhordyn. He’s stretched out in his chair, perched behind his large, sable desk.

“He’s not going anywhere,” Rhordyn booms, and something about the way he’s watching Cainon has the hair on the back of my neck lifting.

Cainon clears his throat and widens his stance. “Very well.”

“Very well,” Rhordyn repeats. Aside from the shift of his lips, everything else about him is stone still.

“You want use of my ships?”

Cainon’sships?

Rhordyn taps a finger on the arm of his chair. “Only a hundred or so,” he says with the slightest lift of a shoulder. “You have five times that. I’m sure you can spare them.”

Five. Hundred. Ships.

Who the hell is this man?

“If Vadon has bent, he’s going to be ... problematic,” Rhordyn states, tipping his head from side to side. “He’s vastly protected by the mountains. His only weaknesses are the River Norse which is now gated and the western cleft in Reidlyn Alps that’s only accessible by boat. Our options are to either risk certain suicide by taking the mountain pass, or a much safer journey through The Shoaling Seas.” He leans forward, steepling his hands and hammering Cainon with a gaze that would bleed the empty air between them if it had a heart. “We need those ships.”

I squeeze my lips together ...

His words are the fortified walls of an impenetrable fortress.

Safe. Confident.

Unyielding.

Though I want to shelter behind their barricade, something tells me I should do the opposite. That I should run and never look back.

“Well, if your suspicions are correct, he’s only an immediate threat to your pretty lands,” Cainon responds, tone sharp. “Why should the Vruks be anyone’s problem but yours?”

I lean further to the side, glimpsing Baze’s face, his shoulder nailed to the wall, arms crossed over his chest. I search for any betrayal of expression, considering he’s generally far more animated than Rhordyn is ...

Not today.

He’s just as hard, just as stoic, looking at Cainon like a python ready to strike.

I notice the sword at his hip and my mouth goes dry ...

That’s not his wooden sword.

I’ve never seen that silver hilt before, or the big, iridescent gem crowning the pommel, lording over the length.

“Soon it won’t just be Vruks and the odd disappearance.” Rhordyn’s tone is like the pond in the middle of winter.

Smooth, cold, and deadly calm.

Cainon’s head tilts to the side, barely enough for me to notice. “Is that a threat?”

“That’s a fact.”

“Well, The Shoaling Seas chew up a tenth of everything that passes through, so the moment I toss you my badge, I throw at leastten ships down the drain. If we have no formal tie,” Cain counters, shrugging, “I can’t make any promises.”

The temperature drops so suddenly my breath turns milky, and I have to bite down on a shiver as I watch Baze’s hand shift to the hilt of his sword.

Rhordyn’s eyes grow dark. “Choose your next words wisely, Cain.”

“The orphan charge you keep locked in that tower,” he says without hesitation.

My spine locks. I’m so still I can hear the whoosh of my heartbeat thrumming through my veins.

“What about her?”

Rhordyn’s voice is so monotone I picture death.

Cold, grisly, merciless death.

“I wish to gift her my cupla,” Cainon responds, and it suddenly feels like the castle is too small to house the disruptive energy rolling off the High Master of the West.

“Is that so?”

He stands, the motion slow, fluid smooth—like he’s toying with time, striking each movement with an exclamation mark. He prowls around the edge of the table with a strong, steady gait, and Cainon shifts until they’re standing chest to chest and I have a full, unperturbed view of two powerful profiles.

They’re night and day. Sun and moon. One couldn’t be more different from the other, but both own the sky in their own wicked way.

Rhordyn’s taller, and he uses it to his advantage, looking down on Cainon like he’s no bigger than a bug on the masonry.

“It’s a very brash man who would come to a neighboring Master’s estate and bribe him in such a way. Part of me is impressed, though that part is miniscule. The rest of me wants to peel the skin off your testicles and make you eat them—force you to ingest the seeds of your future offspring.”

Cainon lifts his chin, sliding his hands deep into his pockets like this is a casual chat about the weather. “I wouldn’t threaten me, Rhor. Certainly not when you’re harboring a woman with such ... distinct Bahari attributes in your little rocky tower.”

Huh?

Rhordyn slides forward until there is no longer any space cleaving them apart. “Do you need me to remind you who you’re talking to?”

My heart is in my throat, the moment growing its own hungry pulse.

There’s something more between these two—a history I don’t understand.

Cainon drifts back a step. It’s only a small concession, but it seems significant.

Rhordyn grunts and stalks back to his chair, reclining into it in the same way he sits atop his throne.

“You would lock her up and let her rot when she could be the key to your salvation?”

Rhordyn shrugs. “Orlaith will not suffer the weight of a political pairing. So, unless you’ve miraculously stolen her heart,” he says with a flippant wave of his hand, “then you can kindly go fuck yourself. And your ships.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and sag against the wall, letting the curtain fall back into place.

He needs those ships. The people need those ships.

“The offer expires at midnight tomorrow,” Cainon states, and heavy footsteps follow. “Make the right decision for your people, Rhor. And for her.”

The parting three words are rich with disgust, showcasing his displeasure at however he perceives my situation.

Oursituation.

It’s not until Cainon’s footfalls fade that I slink away; body moving through the motions, mind churning.

That conversation exposed me—wedged a stick of guilt deep within my conscience. Because I survived a Vruk attack despite my tender age and was gifted a cushioned life, sat high and dry in my pretty tower while the world crumbled around me.

Yes, I suffer every time I close my eyes, but I’m the lucky one. I’m the one who got to live.

But what’s that life worth if it’s at the cost of others?

Most of the people who work at this castle have family in the nearby villages. Mothers. Fathers. Children. Grandchildren.

One way or another, my safety circle’s encroaching—like hands sliding around my neck.

Tightening.

Could I bear the weight of watching Cook mourn her newly born granddaughter because I couldn’t break through the bars I’ve placed around my own mind?

I know the answer to that question, and it’s a frightening one. An answer just as deadly as that circle I’ve drawn around this castle.

Borrowed time.That’s all these past nineteen years have been ...

And it seems that time is running out.