V

Darius sat in an armchair of wine-coloured leather, the arms formed of two watchful hippogriffs cast in bronze with clawfoot legs. The crackle of the roaring fireplace divided his features into warmth and gloom.

He picked up the latest scroll he’d received from one of his enforcers and unfurled it, watching the shadow-ink scrawl across the hidden message: Found this during our raid on the docks. Should put you on the right path. Your Eagle Eye.

He regarded it with a slight inching up of the mouth before lifting a box of simple black wood. It had no sheen or polish, utterly pedestrian in design, and yet it exuded such contemptible energy that even the sight of it would cause a mere human to burst several blood vessels.

“A memory box.” Darius stroked beneath his chin. That certainly answered Amira’s inquiry into Thalistan’s recent troubles. Negative emotion was a source of power for occassi. They often extracted it raw from traumatic memories and used it to bolster their own power or to imbue objects with it. If someone was performing this procedure overseas then that could be dire news for the rex.

Darius only knew of one creature who could make boxes like this. A business owner by the name of Sergius Severis. And a colleague for even longer. He’d have to make preparations to pay him a visit.

Darius retrieved a black cherry and cream cheese tart from his tray and nibbled at the fine crust, taking a larger bite to taste the feather-light cream and the tartness of the cherries.

Kirill arrived shortly after, carrying a missive on a silver platter. “A letter has arrived from Soleterea, Your Majesty.”

Darius recognised the official stationary and gold wax seal could only come from Rosâtre. He broke the seal with his claw to devour the contents, hoping Amira had suffered a change of heart following his request. He scanned to the end of the letter, stunned to silence at its words. He read through it one more time. And then another.

“Is something amiss, Your Majesty?”

“Laila’s coming to Mortos…” His head slowly rose in realisation. He could scarcely believe the words he had read until he had given them voice. A warmth rose in his chest, resting on his lips in a smile. He turned to his servant. “Kirill, I’m going to need you to prepare some rooms in the Regina’s Wing.”

Kirill bowed. “I will prepare them at once, Your Majesty.”

He bit down on his lip, struggling to suppress his glee. As an envoy of importance, he ought to receive her as he would a favoured guest. Though he anticipated Laila would not much enjoy spending her nights in the sepulchral rooms of the Citadel. Perhaps if he lightened it somewhat—introduced some lamps of stained leaded glass, a phonograph to play soft music. Anything to banish from her the dark and silent. He knew it would take time for a maiden of her type to adjust to both.

Laila pressed her cheek against the window of her carriage, watching slivers of rain slide down the glass. Her arrival to Mortos had been heralded by the profuse showers she’d come to know and loathe of the climate, and the severity of the storm had prevented the hippogriffs from flight. Yet in spite of the ill weather, she had found herself soothed by the petrichor.

Cressida sat across from her, polishing her ivory-stocked sunbeam pistol. The two had not exchanged more than five words since the start of the journey. Laila couldn’t help but feel bothered by it. She found herself longing for Léandre’s calming presence or Lyra’s spitfire, anything other than this professional silence.

“I feel I must deeply apologise for dragging you all the way out here, Ser d’Orille,” Laila said when she could no longer take the silence.

“Not at all, madame.” Cressida lifted her pistol and inspected the barrel. “It is my duty to keep you safe.”

Laila feigned a grateful smile and glanced down at her file. She’d been attempting to prime herself as much as possible on what she’d missed, and it would seem that Mortos had had an eventful two decades in her absence. A civil war had fractured the country over a four-year period, instigated by Darius implementing strict and punitive measures over the distribution of the mystical moongrass—a powder of diluted occassi venom mixed with luneflower leaves.

When it was discovered the residents of Thalistan were becoming severely addicted, her mother had been quick to lock the doors to trade. Darius’s subsequent response was thorough. He worked around the clock to execute alchemists and suppliers, dodging several attempts on his life and quelling many rebellions as peddlers clambered to seize what remained of the drug.

Tendrils of mist squirmed in from the trees of the forested trail they drove down as Laila read. Within a blink, the road eclipsed entirely. Another, and a dense white shroud had smothered anything in sight.

Laila lifted her head from the window in alert. The nape of her neck tingled. She knew it was madness, having her stomach sink in dread at the mere sight of a fog, but her nightmares of this country were still too potent to let herself be fooled. When in Mortos, a fog was never merely a fog.

“I can’t see a thing out there.” She hugged her bright red cape about her shoulders. “Can you?”

“The driver is still going, madame. I wouldn’t fret about it.”

This assurance did little to settle Laila’s nerves. She tried and failed not to fidget in her seat, to think of anything but the blankness surrounding her and what might lurk within. But the fog had stolen her only comfort.

She closed her eyes and tried to focus on timing her breaths like she’d been taught. However, in cutting off her sight, she only focused more on the sound of her blood rushing through her ears. Oh, she missed Léandre. If Léandre were here—

“I need to stop,” Laila decided. “I—I need to stop. Tell the driver to stop. I need—”

A shadow smacked against the window too fast for sight, jostling the carriage.

Laila screamed as a face emerged from the mist with a snarl, spraying spittle against the window. The swamp creature’s features were rotting away in clumps and being supplanted by toadstools—ghostly white caps sprouted from every orifice.

Before either of the carriage’s occupants could react, a hand burst through the window and seized Cressida. The creature took a ravenous bite out her neck, tearing out her artery. She released a blood-filled gurgle of a cry as more infected leikhens feasted upon her warm, ripe flesh, and within two more chomps, her head had been bitten clean off.

“Oh, gods… oh, gods…” Laila kicked out her legs and propelled herself to a far off corner as the creatures hauled the remains of Cressida’s body out of the window and ripped off bloodied chunks to devour. She knew the meal would only occupy them for a few blessed moments before they hungered for her next.

Her hands readied themselves to summon aether, but it would not come. She was too numbed by fear. “Come on. Come on.” She tried again and again, to no avail, striking inside herself for a flame that would not ignite.

You’re going to die here, taunted a voice that sounded remarkably like her mother’s. You’re going to die here because you’re too stupid and worthless and incompetent—

An arrow punctured one of the creature’s flesh-filled mouths and splattered its cranial matter along the carriage seats. More arrows followed. Each abomination was felled, one by one, as wads of toadstool and flesh seeped down the window glass.

There were scarce few moments of silence before another figure approached the door and opened it, revealing a uniformed occassella.

“Everything should be all right now, miss,” spoke the husky smoker’s voice of a Mortesian Rose, an epithet bestowed upon those with carmine tresses and skin so cadaverously pale it revealed every periwinkle vein. “We’ve dispensed with the swamp creatures.”

Laila shuddered as she wrapped her arms about her.

The occassella looked her over with limpid blue eyes. “You must be the star princess arriving from Soleterea. The rex told us you might come down this road. You’ll be safe with us now. I promise.” She tipped her fur shako. “I’m Sabina Levitia. One of the rex’s enforcers.” She wore the distinguished uniform with pride—a black velvet atilla with gold braiding and matching pelisse.

“A… pleasure to meet you.” Laila struggled to gain her bearings. “Forgive me, I just…”

“No need to trouble yourself, miss. You’ve been through quite a shock.” Her mouth quirked into a vixen smile that reminded Laila slightly of Lyra. The chiselled crease between her lips became even more emphasised. “But we ought to have you transferred to a new carriage. Please, come with me.”

She held out her white-gloved hand to assist Laila out of her carriage. Laila seized it eagerly.

Darius learned of the attack long before he saw her. He had Laila’s journey traced through the watchful eyes of his gargoyles until she finally arrived, backlit by pink-orange sun through the gnarled peaks of decrepit treetops.

Darius stood at the bottom of the Citadel steps, watching as her carriage entered the courtyard.

He saw her first as a head of curls teasing against her shoulders, half tied back by pink ribbon. Beneath her red cape was a gown of sheer pink tulle embroidered with flowers, berries, and sequins falling in a continuous cursive.

The sight of her transported him to the first time he’d seen her step onto Mortesian soil, sapping all words and moisture from his lips.

He approached Laila as she closed the space between them, reaching for her hand to press it chastely to his lips. “It’s a pleasure to receive you in the Citadel again, Your Radiance.”

“Darius Rex.” Laila curtseyed, her composure a practised façade tinkered to perfection. “I daresay the country has not changed one bit since I last visited.”

“Yes, I am terribly sorry for your rough journey.” He held out his arm for her to take. “Please, allow me to escort you to the drawing room so that you may decompress.”

She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. He escorted her up the steps into the Citadel and into the drawing room, candlelit from brass lamps that coddled the room in a balmy glow. A much more primitive counterpart to the ætherald energy humming through the gridlines in Vysteria.

Laila slinked into the room, her fingers skirting the wrought iron frame of the divan before she gripped it.

“Are you all right?” Darius asked, closing the door behind him.

She let him have it the moment she heard the lock click. “No, I am not all right. Not one day I’ve spent here and already I’ve been assailed on my journey. A good sprite lost her life today right in front of my eyes.”

Darius slumped against the door, head bent in compassion. “My apologies. I’ve been trying to keep the roads better monitored, but our routes through the wilderness still require… improvement.”

“Well, your condolences are insufficient.” Laila abandoned the stability offered by the divan in favour of pacing. “It’d be nice if for once I could step foot on this accursed island without a pack of monsters trying to devour me. But no, that’s asking for too much, I suppose—”

Darius straightened up by the door. “Laila.”

She recognised the intent behind using her name but was too tightly wound to stop now she’d started. “Honestly, what’s next? What more does this hovel of horrors have yet in store for me, I ask you? You would think after it had taken so much of me to muster the nerve to visit here again that I might, I don’t know, be blessed with a slightly less terrifying reception—”

“Laila.” He was stepping closer to her now.

She bulled past him. “I know, I am ranting. I recognise you likely don’t care to hear anything I am saying right now, and that what I may have encountered today may have been another mundane aspect of life for you. But, quite frankly, I have experienced something truly horrid and it would be nice if I could just—”

“Laila.” He stepped into her path to take her face in his hands, her body colliding flush against his.

Laila exhaled the last of her frustration in heavy breaths. His body against hers quieted the rabble in her chest, his unhurried pulse calming her own.

“It’s all right,” he said, bringing her into a tight embrace. He stroked the ends of her hair. She hadn’t realised how gratifying it would feel to have her ramblings received with consolation rather than chastisement for once. “You’re safe now. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Her eyes fluttered closed as she melted into the embrace. She had not meant to. He was just so much the same as she’d last felt him, last smelled him, that she had to angle herself not to get distracted by the sweet musk of his cologne and the memories it stirred.

“I—” She pulled back from him, pivoting to face the other way. “I need to freshen up.”

“Of course,” he said, pocketing his now empty hands. “Take however long you need. When you’re ready, I shall have dinner prepared.” He opened the door to call for a servant. “Please escort Princess Laila to the Regina Wing and have her settled comfortably.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The ghoul inclined her head to one side. “If you’d follow me, Princess.”

She glanced at Darius one last time before following the servant from the room.

He’d spared no expense on the preparations, having considered everything from the prism-cut crystal glasses to the ornately patterned flatware. Every dish that arrived was more elegant than the last: figs stuffed with white cheese wrapped in dry-cured ham; raw oysters with strawberry mignonette; saffron rice bejewelled with pomegranate seeds. All were arranged around the steaming main course: a whole roast swan stuffed with oysters and dipped in rose petal sauce, set alongside a boat of pomegranate reduction.

Darius fidgeted absently with his band collar as he waited for Laila to enter, her shoes clacking against the mirrored floors.

“I could smell everything from down the hall. You have outdone yourself.” She tucked a loose curl of hair behind her ear, and it sprang free once more as she took in her surroundings. “Oh my.”

The room was speckled with tiny crystal formations seeping from the walls and ceiling like dew, embalming them in incandescent heat. Laila took a tentative step forward to press her finger against a crystal.

“I had them harvested from the ores of one of our caves,” Darius explained, watching her whimsical delight. A beacon that far outshone any light source the room provided. “I find it reminiscent of the night sky.”

At least he could offer her this, an artificial imitation of her past celestial life so that she might become a star again.

Laila traced the formations on the wall like she might attach them together in a constellation. “It’s sublime.” Her grin unfurled like the petals of a yellow bud in the centre of a pink rose before she stepped away to sit at the table.

He pulled out the chair for her. “I tried to ensure a few things arrived from your home to make you most comfortable.” He tucked in her chair once she was seated. “Rose, pomegranates, strawberries. There are a lot of your favourites present.”

She surveyed his offering with a critical brow raised that, for a moment, reminded him of Amira.

What to offer the maiden who, from the moment she was brought to air, had been swaddled in silks and spoon-fed with silver? Who traded in sensuality like they were spices? You could placate her, dangle shiny trinkets before her gaze, clasp her long, brown throat in pretty baubles. Mere morsels for her ephemeral appetites; she’d not be cosseted by material gains alone, and he knew it.

Even when he’d come on metaphorical bended knee with his kingdom offered in hand, she’d rejected it an instant. But he wondered if she’d accept him now with his ribs exposed, the pulsing black fruit in the centre of it ripe for the picking. He’d never been able to lay himself bare in such a way before—two centuries of neglect had merely fossilised the worst of his attributes. But he longed to open himself to her.

“Do you… like it?” Uncertainty lengthened each syllable in the sentence.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel something crack through the petrification in his chest when she smiled at him and said, “It’ll do.”

He returned the smile as he watched Laila fill her plate with whatever delicacies happened to be within reach.

“Be sure to try the figs—they’re fresh.” He helped himself to one. “As is everything you see before you on the table. The swan I hunted myself this morning. Oh, I wish you could’ve seen it when I picked it out for you. It had such a long and delicate neck… A fine catch it was indeed. As you can see, I’d kill to have you here.”

She tried not to read too deeply into the statement as she sipped from her glass of rosé. Her favourite. “I have to ask, why go to all this trouble?”

“We never did get to have that dinner I wanted when I was last in your home.” Darius ate his fig with a smile. “Besides, you are a royal guest and I wanted your first official evening here to be perfect.”

“Well, disastrous journey here aside”—she sampled one of the figs, enjoying the texture of salted ham—“I must admit this is… rather perfect.”

The smile that accompanied her words stripped him back, saturated him with light, and it was all he could do to merely reach for her hand and clasp it like an oyster around a pearl.

Laila looked down at their interlacing fingers, her breath seizing. She pulled away. “I suppose we’d better start on that swan, no?”

“Indeed.” Darius hid his frown. Her reaction was not what he’d been expecting. “Though I must ask what it is that brings you to my doorstep. I feel it must be imperative, given how much you loathe it here.”

A protestation worked its way up her throat, high and ringing like silver. “I don’t loathe it here.”

Darius raised a brow in response.

“My mother outlined the purpose behind my visit in her correspondence, I am sure.” Laila took a sip of wine to steady her nerves. She would need it, if her inkling of where this conversation were to head was correct.

“Yes, she said it was to offer support from Soleterea that she cannot provide me in person. Still, I… thought perhaps there might have been… something else influencing your decision.”

Laila traced the rim of her glass. “Something else such as?”

“Perhaps you wanted to see me.” His voice had lowered, soft as a bedroom whisper. “Perhaps you… missed me.”

“Darius.” Laila sighed, having hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “It’s been twenty years. Surely you don’t mean to say you’ve been living on the hope I’d come back to you all this time?”

“Is that truly so hard to believe?”

“Yes,” she replied, exasperated at the very notion. She sucked in a breath. “I’m flattered you feel so strongly about me. Truly, I am. But… the reason I came here, Darius, is strictly political in nature. Nothing more.”

“I see.” He dropped his hand from the table, his nape burning in embarrassment. How many times would he play the fool for a mere turn of her head? He swiped away his shame and lacquered a veneer of gallantry instead. “I’ll serve the swan, then.”

He picked up the carving knife and fork, slicing away the meat with ease. If it were only possible, he would excise from their memories the last few moments of conversation as well.

Laila couldn’t stomach this impermeable wall of silence rising between them. Of having the screech of cutlery be the only interplay. “I should…” She started to stand from her chair. “I should go.”

“Go?” Darius echoed her in disbelief. “Go where?”

“To Drakalyk Castle,” she said, whilst edging towards the door.

“Laila, it’s late.” Darius stabbed his carving knife into the swan, gesturing towards the darkened windows. “The moon is out and there is still an indeterminate number of ravenous monsters who’d love to have you for dinner.”

“What does it matter to you?”

“You believe I’d cast you out into the night because you rebuffed my affections?” He couldn’t suppress the wound in his voice. “Do you really think so low of me?”

Her clicking heels skidded to a halt before she turned, reluctant to face the sheen of hurt in his eyes. “It’d be easier if I did.”