BEFORE.

       ELEVEN NIGHTS LATER, Tevenot finds Theodoracius in his room, kneeling beside his window, his mother's ruby pendant between his clasped hands.

       He wrenches the necklace from his son's hands before slapping him across the face.

       Theodoracius flinches when he hears the approaching footsteps, heavy and predatory, of his father.

       But he doesn't flinch when the necklace is taken from him. He doesn't flinch when the rings on Tevenot's fingers paint bruises onto his cheek. He doesn't flinch when he catches a glimpse of the ruby glinting around the neck of one of the king's mistresses.

       Ever since then, when Theodoracius closes his eyes, he dreams of standing on the edge of a cliff—but the ground is above is head, and the sky is beneath his feet, and someone is shooting arrows at his back.

       He lets himself perish. Every time.

       He can't find it in himself to take the leap.