Isyllt followed the king into the room and stepped into Kiril’s arms. She cupped his face in white hands and kissed him, the familiar scent of her hair filling his nose. Her grey eyes were shadowed and dark with worry; he winced from his reflection there. So tired. So old.

“You have to rest,” she said. “You’ll kill yourself this way.”

He would die, sooner or later. Sooner every year. Leave her grieving beside his bed like Mathiros beside Lychandra. He lowered her hands away from his face. She was too young to be a widow-certainly too young to be his. He might have told her so, but he couldn’t get enough breath. His chest ached like a bruise.

“Kiril.” Mathiros’s voice cracked on his name. “Is there nothing-Anything-” Tears soaked his beard, splashed his wife’s hand. Kiril wanted to cringe at the pain in his eyes. “You can’t do this!”

Whether he spoke to Kiril or Lychandra or Erishal herself, the sorcerer couldn’t say. His palms slicked with cold sweat and Isyllt’s hand tightened on his.

Lychandra’s eyes sagged and she whispered to her husband. His name turned into a cough and she gagged, turning her head to vomit. Mathiros flinched; the liquid that soaked the side of the bed was watery, clotted with blood dark as soil or tea dregs. Her organs were failing, and no skill or magic could undo the damage now.

The king knotted his fist in the gauzy curtains as if he meant to rip them from the bed. “Kiril, please!”

Kiril closed his eyes. Mathiros hadn’t pleaded with him, with anyone, since he was a child. He’d never been able to say no to the boy.

The queen hitched and shuddered, twisting stained linen. Isyllt gasped-she felt it too, the icy presence filling the room. The black diamond rings they both wore began to spark and glow. Kiril’s vision darkened. Mathiros screamed his wife’s name.

Kiril reached, scraping himself raw, and threw every bit of strength against the shadow. For an instant it balked, mantling over the room. He couldn’t breathe, could feel nothing but that black chill.