The streets of Gazda.

Erydia.

She had not killed him.

This is what she told herself as she ran towards the art district. Every footfall, every beat of her heart, was an echo of that reminder. She had not done it.

Still, the poison had wanted to.

What had once been a small, starved thing—was now a snarling, ravenous beast. It had been allowed to see the light and it had reveled in it. Being contained again, shunned and stopped, anger it. Made it pulse, restless and waiting in her chest. Viera knew the next time she loosened those mental bindings it would be ready.

It would overtake her.

Rain coated her skin, plastering her black hair to her face and soaking through her clothes. Leighton's jacket was still clutched to her chest, but she did not dare stop long enough to put it on. If she stopped moving, even for an instant, she worried she would not be able to start again.

The world was spinning in circles. Her legs shook and muscles strained as she pushed herself past the dark gated estates, past the locked market stalls and onto the main city street towards the art district.

Up ahead, situated high on hill above the city, lay the palace. It glowed like a beacon, like the fires of funeral pyre. All her life she'd in the shadow of that place—afraid of what she would lose if she were forced to go there.

She would not go there.

Could not go there.

Leighton was waiting for her.

The streets were alive with nighttime activity.

People strolled between pubs and dance halls. Women stood on street corners, calling out to passersby, their already thin dresses rendered translucent by the falling rain. Their dark eyes sparkled against the dim streetlights, ablaze with desire.

Music flowed and ebbed, each sound blending into the next. Couples walked arm and arm down the street. People laughed and cheered and lived—lived entirely normal lives unaffected by the goddess or by the Culling.

Viera did not stop running.

She slipped through the crowd, darting down alleyways and propelling herself past buildings as familiar and unchanging as the mark on her flesh.

She knew this city, had mapped it, memorized it, with Leighton.

There, to her left, underneath the beauty parlor sign, was where Leighton had first found her—she had been flustered and late for her shift at the bakery. He had spent the entire school day trying to talk to her. He had sat with her at lunch that day and had acknowledged her during every course break—even when the other kids whispered. Even though she hadn't talked to him, had barely looked at him. Still, he'd come looking for her. Had asked about the bruise on her cheek. The same bruise that her teachers and classmates had simply ignored.

Then, across the street, just next to that cigar stand, was where they would always meet before school so they could walk together. It was halfway between her estate and his apartment. In the warmer months, they would sometimes stop and buy glazed tarts from a nearby street vendor—they had tried nearly every flavor there was. She liked the strawberry and he liked the peach.

And to her right, down on the banks of the Tasviere—that was where they'd had their first kiss. That had been all sweating palms and heavy breathing, anxious expectation and yet—vivid surprise. She had cried afterwards because it had been so sweet and unanticipated and she didn't think she deserved him.

She still didn't think she deserved him.

She remembered the city for how it had smelled that day. The way she had felt when he had broken apart the cattails growing on the water's edge, just cracked them open and let the smoke-like innards catch on the breeze.

It had felt unreal—too picturesque to be her reality. But it was. This was real. And they had spun around, dancing and laughing in the windswept white fluff. She had laughed until it hurt—until the overwhelmed tears were forgotten in exchange for almost painful laughter.

Then there had been no more time for tears because Leighton was there, trying to catch cattail dust in his mouth. No time, because he was working the word "cat" into as many stupid puns as he could. He would spit out the dust and say something ridiculous like—That has to be catastrophic for my health. Or Viera, love, you are a cat above the rest. And her personal favorite: If your father thinks he can keep up apart, he's got his work catout for him.

She had laughed and laughed and laughed. Until she knew—she just knew that this was what she wanted forever to feel like. Like first kisses and cattail dust.

Their story spread across the city. Every street corner was a memory, every market stall was an adventure. She heard his laugh in each echo of her boots on the pavement. Could feel his hand through her hair, felt his lips against her cheeks.

He had changed her and changed the way the city felt. Leighton had painted himself on her skin and bones, branded the feel of his lips, the taste of him, on the breeze. This was not something she could escape. He was everywhere—everything.

Even when this place was a memory—the distant forgotten shore from which they'd come—she would not let herself forget where she had fallen in love with him. She could not forget each place. Like, right at the top of this hill, at the edge of the art district, where she'd first told him she loved him. When she'd first realized it herself.

As she ran, forcing her shaking legs to continue, she could almost smell the honeysuckles and fresh cut roses of early spring. She could see the smile on his lips as he had returned those words—I love you. The rain was the feel of his lips as he'd whispered it against her skin, those three words wrapped securely in a promise to always protect her. It was then, right there in that spot, she had decided, for the first time, to really believe him. To trust that he was her blessing, her joy, and she didn't have to second-guess him.

Not like she second-guessed everything else.

Viera took it all in. She let herself remember what falling for Leighton had felt like. How painful and beautifully unexpected it had been. And she ran towards him—let the remembering of it spur her forward, faster. Let those thoughts drown out the oppressive tightness in her chest and the sharp tang of brimming poison on her tongue.

She wanted a million years of him.

And when those were done, she wanted a million more.

As she reached the art district the rain slowed and she slowed with it. Up ahead, she could make out the dim lanterns of the city guards. At night, the art district was off limits to civilians. These rules were in place to protect the galleries and to dissuade any would-be art thieves. Leighton often asked for this shift—he liked the city when it was the quietest. When people were asleep and the world was calm.

But she didn't know if Leighton was on watch that night. City guards, his friends or not, wouldn't take kindly to her wandering around so late. So, she intentionally kept to the shadows as she inched towards the guard tower, trying to see if Leighton was amongst those patrolling.

The men on the overarching catwalk were guarding lazily. They talked quietly as they did, discussing the day's happenings and complaining about the still falling rain. She waited until their backs were turned, facing away from her and towards the silent district, before she darted forward.

She'd just ducked beneath their overhead walkway when she heard them shift again, heavy boots scuffing the wooden planks as they turned back towards the closed restaurants and unlit theatre. Again, Viera hid in the darkness, her breathing shallow and her legs aching. She scanned the shadowed alcoves of the gallery enties and blackened display windows.

She could not see him and was too afraid to turn back.

It occurred to Viera, just as she was standing there alone, that her father might recover and come after her. The darkness within her swirled at that—reveled in the idea of a second chance, another opportunity to fiddle with the poison she'd so carefully planted. She had been so close; she could finish what she started...

Viera pressed her back to the underbelly of the guard tower and forced herself to breathe. She pushed that urge down, easing it further into the hidden crevices of her heart and far from herself. Still, it fought back, clawed at her insides like a raging beast. It was a mistake to use it. Now it had power over her.

Viera craved the cool, quiet darkness that surrender offered.

Tempting.

She turned her attention back to the gallery opposite her. Inside that building were canvases framed in gilded frames of gold and glazed silver. They were beautiful renderings of rolling pastures and calm lakes. Lovers portrayed in passionate poses, their silhouettes no more than strokes of creams and tans. The intricate portrayals of oceans and boats sailing on dark storms seemed to call to Viera—as if the artists were creating an echo of the inner strain she always felt.

Before Leighton, Viera had often felt that only the paintings and their invisible artists understood her. She was unknown, to herself and to everyone else. The stories she'd heard as a child about the Culling and goddess-touched girls never seemed to parallel with what she felt.

The power that swirled within her was not just an innate, unnatural ability. It was more than just a talent she'd been gifted with. Sometimes, when the poison in her body was too much, when it bubbled from her and even the taste of it clung to her lips—Viera did not feel like herself.

Rather, she felt like a jailor, always holding a part of her soul captive. She had grown tired of chaining that darkness within skin that fit too tightly. It was as if the goddess had overfilled her—had split her unevenly and left that malicious power in excess and her in starvation.

She could see that warring, that desire to be free, represented in some of the paintings. Once, before she had remembered who she was and that she should not dream of unpractical things, Viera has wished to one day paint something worthy of that corner gallery. She had thought, if she could only render her own heart onto canvas, maybe it would be easier to make other people see. Maybe her father might understand.

Maybe she would understand herself.

Viera had always wanted to be a painter—had asked for a paint set every single birthday for as long as she could remember. But her father hadn't liked the idea. He instead would buy her court etiquette tutors, a ticket to the opera, or send her to lessons on the pianoforte. Those were talents and occasions befitting of the future queen of Erydia.

Queen's don't spend their days splattered in paint.

It had never mattered that she didn't want to be queen.

It had rarely mattered what she wanted. And she was tired, so very tired, of struggling. She just wanted to be normal. She wanted to be allowed to have happiness. While Viera found herself to be undeserving of many thing—happiness was the one thing she believed she should have.

It was the one thing she would fight for.

***

A slight movement caught her eye, just a rotation of shadows. Then his outline appeared, the edges of his body masked by moonlight. Leighton stepped forward, just enough so that she could see his face. She watched him glance up, to the guards above her head. He held out his hand, as if to say wait and then, when he was certain she would not be seen, he beckoned her forward, across the empty street and into a hidden alleyway.

She ran to him.

He caught her by the shoulders and pulled her into the dimly lit alley. For a long moment, they both just stood there just out of sight of the guards, her back to the wall, his hands tight on her shoulders. Leighton took her in, noted the wet clothes and her flushed cheeks.

He kept his voice low as he said, "Viera, you're soaked through."

She swallowed down the burning acidic tang of poison as it rose in her throat, that darkness stirring at her proximity to another living creature. She felt that essence reaching for him, trying to access an entry point—any slight toxin that could be utilized.

Leighton was watching her face, his eyes darting across her features as if he could see the battle waging within her. As if he could feel the brush of those poisoned fingers across his skin. No. Not him. She shoved it back down, willed the poisoned from her skin.

It took everything in her to keep her voice steady as she said, "I'm fine. There wasn't time to—" Viera stopped speaking as that darkness flared again, furious and lashing. She shook her head, trying to ward off the concern that filled his face.

He pressed the backs of his fingers against her warm cheek. They were like ice against her flaming skin. She wished he wouldn't touch her. Not just then.

The tether that she'd worked so hard to create and keep tight around her ability was in shreds. He couldn't begin to understand just how dangerous Viera was—just how dangerous this thing inside of her wanted her to be.

Through the shadowy lighting, she watched as Leighton's face shifted from worry to outrage. His fingers trailed down to her cheek to the just barely visible red bruise forming around her throat. He swallowed, deciding what he wanted to say, how he wanted to handle this.

Leighton's whisper was dry, pained, as the words stumbled from him, "Viera, I—You're shaking. What happened? Did he—"

She brushed his hand away. "I'm fine."

The gesture was all wrong, too sharp. She knew that. But she couldn't seem to get her mind to clear enough to focus on him, to see the worry in his eyes. She thought of her mother's face, the way she had looked just as Viera was about to kill her father.

No. This thing was not who she was—

Leighton looked as if he might argue with her—he knew she was lying and he had never accepted the lies before—but the look on her face, that utter terror and despair, silenced him. Leighton's callused fingers brushed that bruise, just once more, before he pulled away from her. "We need to go."

Viera only nodded. She could not speak around the poison filling her mouth. It suffocated and thrilled in equal measures. Her heartbeat rang in her ears, a constant beat which the power in her echoed. As if it were trying to learn the rhythm, to overtake it.

She saw his face change.

Leighton bit his lip and glanced around them, taking in the steaming rain covered streets and the darkness at the end of the alley. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving wet strands of it sticking up at odd angles. "You..." he hesitated, met her eyes. "You aren't reconsidering—"

"No." She forced the word out, pushing it past clenched teeth.

Those invisible hands seemed to reach for him again.

It was an internal tugging that was painful to ignore. She tried. She made herself smile even though the thing inside of her was screaming, clawing at her chest like it could get out and kill without her consent—like it had a mind of its own.

Maybe it did. Viera didn't know anymore. She had never felt anything like this. Never, in all her life, had she let it out—let it almost kill.

How could she tell him she was a monster when he was the only person who had never seen her that way?

She was afraid of herself.

Leighton only nodded and tugged the jacket from where she still clutched it in her hands. Without another word, he wrapped it around her shoulders. She slid her arms through the holes and tried to open her mouth to thank him, to tell him that she did not regret this, and that she wanted him, but no words would come.

She didn't realize how bad her hands were trembling until she slipped her fingers into his. Leighton noticed it too, she knew he did, but he didn't comment on it. He didn't say anything, he only pulled her deeper into the alley and onto the stretch of abandoned road beyond.