Chapter 22 Death does not feel the sweltering heat she steps into. Flames ripple along the floorboards Mara frequently sat on, shrouding the window she so loved to look out. The room is cast in a destructive glow; thick smoke hangs in the air. But this all seems rather tame when compared to the grappling figures surrounded by fire. The future queen has pinned a weakened Tele to the floor. An Imperial shouts behind a wall of hungry flames. It seems Blair Archer's death has gone awry. Mara encircles the tense scene sprawled atop a scorched floor. The two women remain within the ring of fire-skin burned, and hair singed. Paedyn's knees dig into the Tele's blistered forearms, forcing a scream from her lips. It seems the Ordinary (who is anything but with that look of cruel detachment) is shoving Blair's ashen face toward the wall of flame. Death has not anticipated such brutality from the bride-to-be. Perhaps she will not go through with such a vicious act. But Mara recognizes the look on her face, for revenge always remains the same, no matter the features it is displayed on. Even as smoke fills her lungs and consciousness begins to fade, Paedyn knows only the vengeance burning within her. "Please," Blair whimpers. Paedyn pushes her closer to the flame. "Please..." The Imperial is shouting again. The fire swells higher. But Death only has eyes for the girl who has continually evaded her. "I told you," the future queen says hoarsely, blue eyes never straying from the terror filling the Tele's, "I would make you beg." A splitting scream fills the hazy air when the side of Blair's face meets fire. Skin bubbles, and the sickening smell of it lingers. Paedyn Gray does not so much as flinch. Mara thinks, in another lifetime, she would make a fine Death. Then, with a ragged cough, the human collapses. Death stares at the bleak scene before her. She crouches, slowly, beside the gasping Tele-pain and adrenaline are all that keep her conscious. A crude line from her temple to chin is carved out in flayed flesh. The skin is blistered, oozing in a way that makes even Mara grimace. Yet again, she is unsure what to do with this soul that now teeters on her lifeline. Just as it had during that fight in the slums, a tangible connection forms between Blair and Death. It is fading now, seeing that the Tele is no longer directly in harm's way, but Mara clings to that slippery tether between them. Once, she might have let Fate have her way with this soul. But Death has recently been reminded what it is like to live (perhaps for the love of another). You see, Mara no longer wishes to stand idly by. She will do what was not done for her. "You need to get up," she says simply. Blair's bleary gaze widens when it lands on the face of Death, who uses every bit of the power she possesses (on this plane) to force a foothold here, in this moment, with this soul. Tears stream down the Tele's face. She fails to form words. Lenny bursts through the wall of flames with a yelp, having finally found a dying pocket in the fiery hedge. "You need to get up, Blair!" He wraps his arms around the unconscious Ordinary, hoisting her into the singed sleeves of his uniform. "Please!" With one final plea, he staggers through the flames once more, carrying his future queen to safety. Death turns her attention back to the whimpering Blair. "He's right. You can stay here and die in this castle-if not now, then after a long life of bitterness. Or you can stand up and live. The choice is yours, Blair Archer. But if I had the chance to choose my fate all over again," she says sternly, "I would choose Life, not Death." The Tele stares at Mara, equally terrified and determined. Then she squeezes her eyes shut and nods. The movement has her crying out in pain, but she pushes past it and into a sitting position. Tears seep into her charred skin, and still, she stands on shaking limbs. Lenny has returned, shoving through the fire once again. "You're okay!" he shouts, wrapping an arm around Blair. She nearly collapses against him. "I've got you!" Death's connection to the Tele's soul flickers out, banishing her to solitude once again. But she watches, exactly as she has and likely always will. The pair lean on each other as they stumble across the sweltering room. Lenny shields his assignment as best he can, though not at the king's command but of his own volition. Shouts ring in the distance. The king-who Mara abandoned in the field to appear within the fiery room-has finally caught up with her. And he has brought a gaggle of guards with him. The Imperial yanks aside the fireplace's stone backing. "Get to the tunnel," he instructs, helping Blair onto the staircase below. "I will deal with this and meet you down there. Then we will figure this out." The Tele refuses to look at him. She turns her marred face away. The parade of pounding boots grows closer. Lenny extends a shaking hand toward her. His fingers brush the unblemished side of her chin, lifting it gently until Blair's watery eyes meet his. "I'm so sorry." His voice cracks. "This shouldn't have happened to you." A tear rolls down the Tele's blistered cheek. She is little more than an empty vessel, void of any and all emotion. Even Death is not capable of such bleakness. A charred beam falls from the ceiling and splinters into sparks behind them. Lenny whips around, covering his face from the debris. And when he turns back to face the soul now tied to his own, she is gone. They are eerily quiet, this Tele and Imperial. Death believes this is the longest they have gone without a word to satiate the silence. The tunnels are quite cold and damp, even by Mara's standards. The flickering lantern Lenny has carried down the winding steps paints the rounded walls in dancing shadows. Blair sits stiffly beside Death (unbeknownst to her, of course) with a constant welling of tears in her eyes. Clearing his throat, the Imperial uncorks a glass vial. "I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner," he murmurs. "I had to deal with burying your fake body, then my uncomfortable conversation with the king and his fuming Enforcer. But your night has been far worse, so I should probably stop talking." He sighs before dumping the dark contents of that vial onto a rumpled shirt. "I swiped a healing salve from the infirmary. They will definitely notice it's gone missing since they are pretty hard to come by, but that is a problem for another day." Blair says nothing. Hesitantly, Lenny lifts the cloth toward her. "Uh... May I?" The Tele slowly pulls her face from the shadows in silent permission. A gentle stream of light skims the angry, red burns marring the side of Blair's face. It's strange, seeing the once-soft skin draped in such misfortune, now blistered and swollen. Death knows pain, and this is it. Lenny swallows at the gruesome sight. "This salve should heal, but it will hurt." Again, Blair says nothing in response but winces when the salve meets her seared skin. "I'm sorry." Free from the mask, the Imperial's face plainly displays his despair. "It wasn't meant to happen this way. I didn't think Paedyn would-" "Don't," Blair grinds out. A tear rolls down her cheek, mingling with the salve there. "Right." Lenny nods, saddened. "Yeah, I'm sure you don't want to talk about it." Mara sits comfortably within the heavy silence that follows. She watches (in awe, though she wouldn't admit it) as the ointment seeps into the burned flesh to heal it from the inside out. The bubbled blisters begin to smooth; the raw skin starts to dull. It's not long before Death grows bitter at the miraculous sight. You see, a lifetime ago, Healers didn't have the luxury of cheating with powerful potions. The Imperial clears his throat in warning of the words about to leave his lips. "Though it pains me to say it, you were right. Your mother was happy I buried you before anyone saw." He draws a deep breath. "And by you, I mean the several pillows I rolled into a blanket and carried from your burning bedroom. The Imperials outside didn't argue when I said I had to take care of the body." When this earns no response, Lenny smiles weakly. "So... you're dead. Congrats." "No," Blair whispers. "I'm ruined." "Ruined?" The Imperial practically laughs in her face. "Blair, you look like a badass. I'm a little jealous." With the salve numbing her pain, the Tele freely expresses her annoyance. "The only thing worth liking about me was my appearance," she snaps. "Even with this ointment, I'm still marred for life." Lenny looks at her, really looks at her. Mara finds herself envious of such delicate regard. Once, she knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of such beholding. But she has long forgotten. "I brought you something else," the Imperial finally says. Reaching into one of the many pockets of his singed uniform, he pulls free a bundled napkin. Mara leans in to watch him unravel it and display a pair of glistening desserts. "Lemon tarts," he presents proudly. "To celebrate. And they probably aren't as good as yours, but at least mine were made with joy and shit." Yes, Death recalls that night in the kitchen quite fondly. Threats were thrown, along with several ingredients. But these desserts are not the product of that evening (those lemon tarts were swiftly eaten, of course). Mara is a bit embarrassed that she hadn't known about the Imperial's sly baking excursion. Though, she has been rather distracted as of late, justifiably so. "You... baked these?" Blair grinds out in disbelief. The Imperial beams. "Pretty impressive, huh?" "Not in the slightest," the Tele retorts. "The crust is so dry it's a choking hazard. And let me guess, you stirred the glaze with a ladle instead of a spoon." "Do they not do the same thing?" Lenny's eyes dart from her narrowed gaze before returning worriedly. "Stir?" It is like reliving that night in the kitchen, Mara concludes. She now finds it remarkable, how easily they conceive these pointless disputes. But she can see, more astutely than most, that their constant bickering has become so much more. For it is a language of their very own, a union of souls. "Whatever," Lenny concedes. "That's beside the point." He lifts the napkin between them, crumbs showering his lap. "I made these, and I like them. Not because of their appearance or the concerningly dry crust, which was definitely intentional. But because they are tart, just like you." "I'm sour." Blair's correction is quick. "You will just spit me out like everyone else." "You're an acquired taste." The Imperial's gaze grows beseeching in the flickering light. "And so much more than a pretty face-which you still have. You are funny, even when it's at my expense, and smart in a hurtful, belittling sort of way. But above all"-he pauses to take a breath-"you are strong. And this is your chance to be whoever you want, so..." Lenny turns the Tele's face toward him with the tips of his fingers. "Be the girl with the badass scar." The words are genuine, and yet, Death notes how utterly terrified Lenny sounds when saying them. That strange intrigue he feels for this Tele has further nudged its way toward his heart. But Blair Archer with her prickly nature is hardly the best place to plant any sort of affection. For she will surely choke the life from him. And yet, something within them is drawn to the other, barbs and all. Their souls are laced-like that of friends, but perhaps more. Blair draws a sudden breath. Her brown eyes are wide, searching her gingersnap's (Death likes to think this is now an endearing nickname) with a fervor that seems to paralyze him. Jostled from her trance, the Tele snatches one of those crumbling tarts from the napkin. "Right, well, in case you've forgotten, I don't care what you think." Lenny can't help but smile as Blair abruptly returns to her snide self. "Of course you don't." "Exactly." "Great." "Good." "Hmm." The Imperial frowns. "I was planning on saying 'good' next, so you kind of ruined our back-and-forth here-" He is cut off by a dramatic vocalization of Blair's disdain. "I'm so glad I'm dead, so I can be rid of you." "Right." Lenny's smile fades. He had forgotten about the separation part of this plan, Mara thinks. "And I haven't been thrown out of the castle yet, so that's something." "It will only be a matter of time," Blair reassures. "You're a horrible Imperial." "Hey, you wanted me to let you be killed." His words spark the Tele's memory. "I saw someone in that room. A woman." Death straightens. She is rarely mentioned so directly in conversation. The inclusion is quite nice. She finds herself smoothing the hair neither of them can see. Lenny lifts a brow. "What?" "She told me to get up," Blair reminisces, her brow creased. "I had never seen her before. She just... appeared. Whatever." She rolls her eyes. "I probably imagined it." Mara was hoping for a bit more detail about her cameo in the land of the living, but this would suffice. She leaves the souls there in that dark tunnel, conversing closely. Because there is not much more for her to witness, Death realizes. She started such spying in the hopes of disaster-and they have greatly disappointed. Mara was wrong. She is unused to the feeling. And the admittance of it. Then, Death believed every bond to be doomed. Lover. Friend. Foe. Now, a certain soul has begun to change her mind. Some, you see, are just meant to be. In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...