The Way We Fall

Chapter 152 (Tigris)

Her father was so grey and motionless that he might as well have been dead. Tigris sat in the wicker chair beside his bed, speaking to his weakening body.

"I met a whisper today," she told her silent father. His eyes stared at her blankly, blinking slowly. "He was very nice. I've learned some interesting things about what you've done to his kin. He was a good man. Undeserving of your hate."

No response. Tigris swallowed hard.

"He's dead. I'm sure you're glad to hear that." The words were harsh, bitter in her mouth. She waited patiently, watching for a flinch or wince. But her father remained perfectly still, unresponsive save for his perfectly timed blinks.

Tigris sagged forward. "Without him, the city has no chance. The griffin cannot fall to steel or skill. I know Verita has been wrong before but this time... but this time she seems so certain. The city is doomed without a whisper."

His silence chafed at her in a way it never had. She struggled to keep her voice steady.

"The whisper could have saved us all," she told her father, a pit opening up within her, "He was a good man. I could tell."

If her father had been able to speak, he probably would have scoffed. She could practically hear his scornful words now. "He is an inkblood. He is corrupt. He would see you dead. There is no good within him."

"He saved my life," Tigris argued back to the silent reprimand, "My back was turned and I was losing the fight. He saved me, even after all that you did to him and his family. And he was going to save the city."

Fire filled her veins. Her blood roared as she stared down at her father. He no longer blinked at her. He only stared, his mouth hanging open slightly. His skin was grey.

He looked dead.

Her voice trembled when she spoke again. "He was a good inkblood. Something you told me was impossible. Something you made me murder hundreds for."

He didn't blink. His icy eyes, as unyielding as ever, gazed at her. She couldn't read the emotion within him.

She sucked in a breath, gathering her composure. She leaned forward, clasping her father's limp hand in hers. She squeezed it tightly, tears tangling with her words.

"Finn wasn't lying, was he?" Tigris whispered hoarsely.

He didn't respond. He didn't need to. Tigris knew the words to be true the moment they left her mouth. Perhaps she should have felt angry, furious, ready to burn the world just like Finn had. A better ruler would have been incensed at the crimes against their people. But Tigris merely felt weary, an ache seeping into her bones.

She retracted her hand slowly, staring into the haggard face of the man who was king. He used to seem so imposing, so untouchable. But now his face was unshaven. His pale skin was washed out, even with the grey morning light playing across his hollow cheeks. He looked thin, muscle wasted away from his sorrow. He no longer looked like a king.

He no longer looked like her father.

Tigris unsheathed her sword.

"You've wronged so many people," she murmured, laying the blade across her lap, inches away from his face. "I should kill you after all that you've done."

She knew he was awake. She knew he was listening. She could see it in the faint light tucked within his eyes. Tigris wondered if after everything he'd done if he would welcome her blade. She let the length of the metal draw closer to his still neck.

"It should be so easy," she whispered, "To hate you."

The silence stretched between them. Her hand trembled.