A Vow of Vengeance and Silk

The arrow struck Pip with the cruel silence of betrayal. One moment he stood there, his ever-present coin dancing across his knuckles, his cocky grin peeking through the grime and blood, the next, the feathered shaft protruded from his chest like some grotesque bloom. His breath left him in a surprised "oof," his knees buckling as if the strings holding him upright had been cut. The coin, that damned, ever-spinning piece of luck, tumbled from his fingers, striking the cavern floor with a sound like shattered glass. It spun. And spun. And came to rest at Seraphine's feet. Tails up. She should have known then. The world erupted into violence. Shadows detached from walls, stepping forward as if born from the darkness itself. Steel flashed in the candlelight, a dozen blades unsheathing at once. Someone screamed, maybe Rook, maybe one of the Thorn Court soldiers, maybe her own voice ripped from her throat. The sound was swallowed by the clash of steel, the wet thud of bodies hitting stone.

Then the scent hit her. Lavender. The fragrance wrapped around her like a shroud, dragging her back through years of memories: Yvaine's nursery with its lace curtains, the sachets tucked beneath her pillow, the way she'd hum while weaving poison through Seraphine's hair. "For protection," she'd murmured, fingers gentle as they braided. "The world bites hardest those it calls beautiful." She turned just in time to see the knife. "Hello, sister." Yvaine's blade pressed against her throat, the edge cold as winter. Her breath was warm against Seraphine's ear, scented with lavender and something darker beneath, bitter almonds. The same perfume she'd worn that morning in the gardens, when she'd kissed her cheek and promised to stand by her at the altar. She didn't think. She threw her head back with all her strength. Cartilage crunched. Blood sprayed hot against her neck. Yvaine shrieked, but her grip tightened. The knife bit deeper, parting skin. Seraphine felt the warm trickle of blood snake down her collarbone.

"Predictable," Yvaine hissed, her voice thick with pain and something worse pride. Then a hand closed around her wrist. Kaelan. Blood poured from a gash above his brow, painting half his face crimson, but his grip was iron. His other arm cradled broken ribs, his breath coming in shallow gasps, but his eyes, His eyes burned. "Run," he told her. Yvaine laughed. The sound became a wet gurgle as Rook's crossbow bolt punched through her throat. Seraphine watched her sister fall. Watched the light fade from eyes that had once held nothing but affection for her. Watched Yvaine's fingers twitch toward the hidden pocket in her skirts, the one that had always held honey drops dusted with rose petals. Her favorite. The wound at her side burned. Not from the knife. From the poison smeared along its edge. She knew the recipe by heart: wolfsbane and honey. Her own creation. The one she'd taught Yvaine when they were girls, heads bent together over stolen alchemy texts, giggling in the candlelight. The cavern tilted. Kaelan caught her as her knees gave out, his arms wrapping around her waist. His mouth moved, words lost beneath the roaring in her ears. Across the chamber, Tristan laughed. And the last thing she saw before darkness took her was Pip's coin, finally still, finally at peace, resting in a pool of his own blood. Heads up.

The cavern floor became a mosaic of carnage. Seraphine's vision swam as she took in the scene, fallen soldiers in Thorn Court colors, their blood seeping into the stone grooves. The queen stood amidst the chaos, her sword dripping, her armor splattered. Kaelan's grip on her tightened as he barked orders to remaining fighters. The prince's laughter cut through the groans of the wounded. "You think this ends here?" he coughed, blood on his lips. "The king's forces surround these tunnels. Your rebellion dies at dawn." The queen backhanded him again, but the damage was done, doubt flickered in the eyes of the survivors. A gash along Rook's thigh bled freely. She cursed as she bound it with torn fabric, her hands steady despite the pain. "Should've known better than to trust a Vaelis," she muttered, eyes flicking to Seraphine. "No Seraphine's fingers grew numb. The wolfsbane slithered through her veins, turning her blood to ice. Visions flickered, Yvaine as a child, handing her a honey drop. "For my favorite sister." The memory twisted as the poison did, becoming the knife at her , He lifted her into his arms, his breath ragged. "We need the antidote," he growled at Lady Vaelis. Her mother's face was unreadable. "The recipe is hers alone," she said, nodding at Seraphine. "If she dies, the secret dies with her." Pip's lifeless hand still reached for the coin. Tails upbad luck to the end. Seraphine's fading mind clung to superstition, had he let the arrow hit him? Had he seen something the rest hadn't? Lysara wiped her blade clean. "We move now," she declared. "Before the king's hounds find this place." Her eyes met Seraphine's. "Unless the Poison Bride has one last trick?" As they carried Seraphine toward the tunnels, Tristan's laughter followed. But beneath it, almost imperceptible, was the scrape of metal on stone. A shadow moved where none should be. The candle. Darkness swallowed Seraphine whole. Somewhere in its depths, Yvaine's voice echoed: "You always were too soft, sister."