My room is still dark when I come back. The figure crouching by the black fireplace is still there. I place the torch in the sconce on the wall and shut the door. Then, I just stand there, staring into space, trying to gather my thoughts.

"I was right," says Hadrian.

His eyes are fixed on me. There's no fear in them—yet. Perhaps there will be no fear. He predicted what was coming better than I did. After the events of today, he must have realized that a quick death was probably the best outcome he could hope for. Killing him would be an act of mercy, just like Aurelia had said.

The thought of Aurelia makes me frown. She wanted him dead and it seems she will get her wish, after all. The head of her second brother as a wedding present. Will she cry when those green eyes identical to hers will stare at her, unseeing, dead? Won't it feel as if a part of her has died?

I pick my dagger from the table and walk over to Hadrian.

He sits up straighter, as much as his tied hands allow him, pressing against the fireplace screen, the cast-iron designs probably digging into his back. His eyes never leave my face. I crouch in front of him, and for a moment, we just stare at each other. He still doesn't look scared, and only his rapid breathing betrays agitation.

"Is this it?" he whispers. "Is it now?"

After having been beaten up and barely fed for a few days, he doesn't look particularly royal, but his skin still looks soft and clear where unmarked by bruises, and his face with its big cat-like eyes and delicate features still looks, despite everything, handsome.

Something stirs in me when I look at him. I've killed a few men in my life, but I've never felt such doubt. When I knew what had to be done, I just did it. I know what has to be done now. Yet it bothers me, the knowledge that I'm about to spill the life that fills his body onto this carpet, turning him from a living, breathing, inscrutable creature into a meaningless sack of meat and bones.

'Don't ruin the carpet', he said when Ferox tried to cut my head off. My finger tense around the dagger's handle at the memory.

On the other hand, he did prevent the execution.

"Why did you stop Ferox?" I say. "When he wanted to kill me?"

He blinks. "Because...you saved me from falling."

"You did realize that?"

He frowns. "Of course, I did."

"You were drunk. You told Ferox to stop before he ruined the carpet."

A surprising smile appears on his lips. "That was more likely to stop him, rather than appealing to his mercy or common sense. He'd always possessed little of both."

I go quiet. He's just trying to manipulate me, for sure. And yet...

I don't hate him.

The realization has been there for a while, but only now I really let it sink. I experience plenty of confusing feelings regarding him, anger being the leading one, but hatred is not among them. I hated the men who murdered my family, slaughtering innocent, unarmed people who were only trying to protect their children. I had no trouble cutting those murderers down when I got the opportunity. But killing someone I don't really hate, someone tied up and helpless?

Wouldn't I be more like them instead of the man I want to be?

I lean forward. He jerks instinctively but then stills himself. He knows there's no way out. His eyes linger on my face.

I reach behind him and cut the rope binding his hands. Then I stand up.

"Get up," I say.

He raises slowly, rubbing his wrists, watching me with confusion. Then, an expression of bitter understanding appears in his eyes.

"I see," he says. "Having trouble killing a man tied up? Should we enact a duel, so that you will feel better about yourself? Am I getting a spoon or a hairbrush to defend myself? Or should I --"

"Undress," I say.

He pauses mid-sentence, a crease appearing between his brows. Then his lips curve into contemptuous smile.

"Oh my," he says. "I actually thought you were above rape. My bad. Decided to make the most of our last night together?"

Ignoring him, I go to the wardrobe, open its doors and search among the outfits. It's full of fancy clothes, some more elaborate than the others. I pick the simplest shirt, waistcoat and breeches I can find and turn to Hadrian. He stands still and, for a change, silent, watching me intently.

"There," I say, throwing the clothes on the bed. "Put those on. We're going for a ride."

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