Silver stood frozen in the doorway of the ruined bedchamber, his boots glued to the threshold.
For the first time since he had donned the jester's mask, he was completely, utterly paralyzed.
His eyes swept over the quiet carnage—the shattered wooden panels, the mortar bleeding beneath her shredded fingernails, and Evangeline collapsed on the cold stone floor like a broken porcelain doll. The majestic, unyielding Queen of the Crimson Realm was gone. In her place sat a fragile young woman, her shoulders quivering under the weight of broken sobs, cradling a tiny, lifeless white body to her cheek.
When she turned her swollen, tear-stained crimson eyes toward him and extended her trembling, dirt-stained hands—asking for him, calling his name—something inside Silver violently snapped.
His throat closed up. A suffocating knot tightened in his chest. He didn't know how to comfort her.
