She bent the very blood in his veins to her will, flinging him against the wall and slamming him into the hard mantle, the sounds of his bones snapping the sweetest music to her ears. Circling around the desk to where her father had fallen, she felt his blood calling to her. Fighting her control with every last bit of his strength. He was strong-willed. He was stubborn.

But she was indomitable.

With a flick of her fingers she had him sprawled out on the floor, his arms pinned to his sides by the force of her magic. He struggled to move, thrashing against the bonds of her will, but for now his blood was hers to command.

Shan produced a dagger from the sheath up her sleeve, feeling its comforting weight in her hands. Her father eyed it, recognition shining in his gaze. Out of all the weapons she could have chosen—the knives he had gifted her for her most recent birthday, the steel-tipped claws she earned from the Academy—she chose this.

Her mother’s dagger in her bare hands.

Shan sank to her knees, not caring that her fine, silken dress was stained in the process. “Goodbye, Father.” Placing the knife against his throat, she only hesitated when she saw him smile.

“You were always my favorite,” he rasped out. “Do me proud.”

Grimacing, Shan dragged her knife through his skin, feeling it split under the strength of her hand. She cut deep, down to the bone, embedding the steel in his flesh. The blood welled and spilled, but she dared not remove it, not until it was done.

She couldn’t have him healing himself. She doubted the punishment would be as light as it was last time. Then she had been but a child of eight, lashing out in a fit of anger and despair. When he had driven her mother from their home in one of his fits of paranoid violence, and she had taken up her dagger and turned it against him.

She had failed then. She wouldn’t fail now.

This was carefully planned vengeance, and she watched until the light faded from his eyes, his blood seeping into her dress and staining her hands. Still she remained, waiting for the body to grow cold, for the skin to pale, for all signs of life to vanish.

The door creaked open, and Bart whispered, “Is it done?”

When her father’s guards didn’t rush in after him, she knew that he had played his part as well. Shan dragged her fingers through her father’s blood one last time. This blood lacked vibrancy, cloying and congealing. There was power still there, but it was dulled.

It was the blood of a dead man.

“Yes,” Shan said, relieved, empty and tired all at once.