If Wrath was angry or annoyed by my inability to shake off the last vestiges of his brother’s power, he didn’t let it show. At least not in the ways I expected.

He wasn’t always the most gracious or patient nursemaid. But he was never far, always prowling around near my borrowed room in the ruined palace. Sometimes, when I was in that foggy place between sleep and wakefulness, I saw him camped out in a chair beside my bed. His hair and clothing both rumpled. Once, I thought he held my hand. But when I roused myself from that near-impenetrable haziness, he was gone. He brought food three times a day and when I refused to eat, he’d sit there, glowering until I did. Fighting him took too much energy. So I ate.

Sometimes I’d stare at the careful lines of his tattoos. Up close, the metallic snake that started on his right hand and curled up and around to his shoulder was a masterpiece—each scale shimmered. It was more than gold, there were bits of silver and charcoal—shadows and light. I stared blankly at it while he brought my next meal. I wondered if our matching tattoos would evolve with intricate details over time. I stopped caring.

He held out more food.

Globes of plump red grapes. Hunks of hard cheese. Warmed milk sweetened with honey and spices. Cured meats and other things I stopped paying attention to. He was a mighty hunter bringing home spoils of war. I wondered when he’d give up and let me be.

“When you start doing it on your own.”

I didn’t think I’d asked aloud. I didn’t care if he read my mind. I pushed his handful of grapes away, rolled onto my side. And let the world around me fade.

Somewhere, in the distance, I thought I heard Wrath speaking. He was telling me a story about a witch. One day her heart had been ripped from her, not physically, but emotionally. The void was only filled when she went out hunting for vengeance, and even then her grief was never far. Then, when she’d been close to discovering some long-forgotten secret, she met a terrible prince. He delighted in taking what little pleasure she’d clung to, leaving her empty and vulnerable.

I tuned out the sound of Wrath’s voice. I didn’t care for this story. I knew the ending.

Vittoria was gone. I’d been fighting grief over her loss with all I had, gripping my pursuit of justice like it was my only tether to the world.

Now that my will to cling to it was gone, there was nothing left.