The instant the latch clicked, True turned his attention to Farah, pulling her deeper into his arms.

Hers remained resting limp at her sides, her body lax, her tears silent, but still tracking down her face.

“Sweets,” he murmured. “Do you wish another sleeping draught?”

He offered it, for her sake, but he didn’t like the idea. They’d already given her a strong one.

“I need to rise, dress,” she told him, her voice dull and remote.

True grew more alarmed at her tone.

And her words.

Pain, he could understand.

Withdrawal was an additional concern.

“That’s the last thing you need, Farah. You need to rest. Sleep,” he refuted.

“I need to be in attendance at the procession.”

“The wedding won’t be for hours, love,” True murmured. “Regardless, it would be understood if you didn’t attend. And Mars might postpone it altogether after—”

Her head tipped back and True saw her eyes were just as remote as her voice.

This was not Farah.

Not his beautiful Farah with her shining topaz eyes that were always keen and alert and emotive.

“The torture procession,” she explained.

True blinked down at her.

“The what?”

“Did they take any assailants alive?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Then Mars will torture them, and all affected will go to the necropolis by the pit in order to watch them walk to their deaths. They will go by procession so the people will know those who attacked our palace, our king, will have no mercy.”

True grew even more alarmed.

“All?” he queried.

“All,” she asserted.

“Even Silence?”

“Especially Silence.”

Gods-damn it.

“She cannot—” True started.

“She must.” Farah made to move. “And I must.”

True tightened his arms. “You’re going nowhere.”

She stilled in his hold. “I must, True.”

“You must if you’re Firenz,” he declared. “But you are no longer Firenz. You are Dellish. And the Princess of Wodell does not attend a procession to watch torture after she lost her mother…or ever. You’ll take another sleeping draught and you’ll rest. And when you wake, I’ll be here, and I’ll help you mourn.”

She turned her head away.

True jostled her. “Farah.”

She looked at him again. “I am Firenz.”

“You are Dellish,” he asserted.

“I am not.”

“You are mine and I am Wodell.”

“I am not yours,” she whispered. “I am not anybody’s. Not any longer. I’m now actually of no one and nowhere. I am not Firenz. I am not Dellish. I am nobody.”

True’s alarm increased exponentially.

“You belong to me, sweets,” he said softly. “And I belong to you.”

“For either of those to be true, you have to wish it to be true, and you do not, Your Grace.”

Your Grace?

She hadn’t called him that since the first day they met, and he asked her not to.

“Farah—”

She turned away from him, pulling out of his arms.