The coppery tang of blood, thick and cloying, choked the air. Arin stumbled back, a choked gasp escaping her lips. Maeve. Lying there. Her own knife, the one Marilye had given her from Caldan for their twisted performance, plunged into the maid's chest. The sight made her stomach lurch. Fear, cold and sharp, clawed its way up her throat, mixing with a furious despair.
Someone was framing her. Worse, someone knew about the blade. The one she'd tucked away beneath a loose floorboard, a secret she thought only she and Caldan shared. A dark, insidious dread tightened around her heart. She wanted to run, to flee this chamber, this palace, this entire city built on blood and lies.
But a strange, morbid curiosity rooted her to the spot. The scent was wrong. Not the natural decay of death, but something else. A putrid sweetness, like rot sped up, enhanced, corrupted by magic. Her eyes scanned the grotesque words carved into Maeve's flesh: Only one dagger belongs to the prince.
