Blood dripped from his fingers.
Warm. Thick. Still fresh.
It painted his knuckles, soaked into the torn silk of his cuffs, and clung to the hilt of the blade like it, too, was grieving.
Cassius stood motionless in the marble corridor—his breathing ragged and shallow. A gash slashed across his throat, not deep enough to kill, but far too close. His hand still trembled where the blade had nearly ended it all.
But he hadn't done it.
Not yet.
He couldn't.
Not while she still lay there—cold and alone. He staggered forward, dragging his feet through the empty hallway, until he reached the end.
A silver door. Carved with runes.
The air behind it was colder than any winter wind, but not as cold as the silence waiting inside.
Cassius pushed the door open and walked into the tomb. There, in the center of the room, on a slab of ice-glass, lay Lavinia.
Pale.
Still.
Gone.
