Six hours after Nerezeth’s heir apparent, his royal sister, his first knight, and four trackers journeyed to the Rigamort to prove the prince’s theory behind the burst of life that had cured his blood and melted the snow, they returned with more than answers. They returned with another miracle.
Upon arrival, Prince Vesper sent his royal trackers ahead to advise the castle’s heralders to blast the trumpets. Drawn by the sound, nobility, servants, and honored guests alike stirred from their feast-induced stupors and either gathered in the courtyard beneath the stars or looked out of windows at the snow-covered expanse beyond the gate.
As the procession came into view, the trumpets blared louder, shaking the castle to its icy roots. For five years, the Nerezethites had anticipated this event: the fulfillment of the prophecy—a princess to save their prince, heal their land, and align the skies.
Now there were two. One within the castle looking down from a tower, whose silver hair and birdsong voice had purportedly cured the prince and sent a rash of flowers to melt the wintry terrain; and another whose hair gleamed like ripples of liquid metal under the moon in the blizzard’s fleecy winds as she rode upon a majestic brumal stag to the gates, trudging through drifts of snow so high they swallowed the stag’s legs up to its knee joints. The prince and his troop of three brought up the rear on steeds, with five more brumal stags following in their wake.
Word quickly spread, via the trackers, that this latest princess—a spectacle of glittering lace, glowing skin, and lilac eyes that flashed amber in the darkness—was rumored to have been the prince’s true liberator, that she crossed through the badlands after defeating the Grim with her flood of flowers and sunlight. She had scars and scratches aplenty to substantiate the claim, and had also won the respect and loyalty of the lowliest and most mistrustful of their world, which explained why a cavalcade of hoarfrost goblins walked behind the brumal stags in a rare show of solidarity.
It was difficult to refute this new princess’s claim, being seated as she was astride an enchanted, untamed creature that hadn’t set a clawed foot outside of the Rigamort for centuries. As most Nerezethites had never seen the solitary creatures, the vision of six inspired a mix of hope, confusion, and euphoria.
The castle buzzed with debates between Eldorians and Nerezethites as to which girl was the true princess of the prophecy. Everyone had their favorite.
But how to choose? How to be sure? Only one princess could marry the prince, and only the prophesied pairing would bring the skies together again, which was the most crucial consideration of all. Crucial enough that a death sentence was hanging in the air, awaiting whichever girl would prove counterfeit.
A convocation of the two kingdoms’ councils would decide. The anticipation was palpable amongst the crowds gathered in the corridors of the great hall as they awaited the verdict being decided behind closed doors.
Neither princess attended. They were isolated to their own towers, their doors watched by both Eldorian and Nerezethite guards. One of them was an imposter, so neither could be trusted to speak on their own behalf until they’d proven their claim to Eldoria’s throne by some credible means.
Credible indeed. With the convocation ended, Griselda followed Sir Bartley through the crowds held at bay by a line of guards, arriving at her chambers where Lustacia awaited under lock and key. Nodding, the Nerezethite guard closest to the door let Griselda within. Her knight exchanged an uneasy look with her but stayed outside to give her and her daughter privacy.
The moment the door closed, Lustacia scrambled from the table where she’d been eating. Her goblin apparitions pounced upon the food tray in her absence. Being half-corporeal and half-spirit, they still required small doses of nourishment. The shadowy forms scattered chunks of fish pie and smears of jellied cream across the table in their wake.
Griselda turned up her nose at their lack of manners.
“Well?” Lustacia blotted crumbs from her lips with a napkin. She had changed into a more comfortable ensemble—a navy velvet gown with simple beading about the neck and wrists. “Did you see her up close? Her gaze was so like Lyra’s. Even from up here it glinted in the darkness as she rode through the gate.” She wrung the napkin in her hands.
“A glint no different than every other gloom-dweller’s.” Griselda strode to the chair and peeled off her gloves and hennin, still unnerved by the memory of the procession, an unease compounded by the tingling of her antlers upon the arrival of the stags. “Show me one Nerezethite, other than the prince, that doesn’t have those spectral, wolfish eyes.”
“Did you hear her speak? If she has a voice, we’ll be all right. Won’t we?”
“She wasn’t at the convocation; she’s been locked in a tower, just as you have.”
Lustacia flung her napkin down and twisted her pale hair into a side braid. “Ava and Wrath visited me earlier. The guests are saying she uses sign language with the prince and his sister. There’s a mystery surrounding her origins, for she has no memories. She has white eyelashes that curl up to here.” Lustacia indicated her forehead. “Add that to the fact that she goes by the name Stain.”
Griselda groaned, too perplexed to even attempt hiding her reaction.
Lustacia’s eyes narrowed. “You used to call her that. It must be—”
“Impossible.” Griselda snapped. “The poison had no antidote. I chose it for that reason. She died because no one could have stopped it. And death is irreversible. No, this is that witch’s doing. She heard me call your cousin a stain when she was first imprisoned in our dungeon. The old hag must’ve escaped Erwan somehow, and is here pulling the strings.” There had been mention of a red fox loitering around the gates earlier, though it hadn’t been seen since the prince returned. It had to be Elusion, another indication of Crony’s presence. At least it appeared he was locked in his vulpine form, which meant Erwan got one thing right: he’d burned down the sylph elm before Elusion got his wings. “The witch has thrown her own imposter into the mix to spite me. Some native Nerezethite who has charmed the prince, perhaps with a love-spell. But the hag made a mistake leaving this in the shrine.”
Griselda picked up the bag Sir Bartley had brought in just after Lustacia returned from spying beneath the prince’s stairwell—having overheard his and his sister’s plans to ride out in search of someone else . . . someone by the name of Stain.
Fortunately, Bartley had found the bag in the shrine, just as Griselda had expected. Her premonition had been correct, as it had contained all she needed to prove that foul play against the real princess—her daughter . . . niece—was afoot.
Lustacia knelt on the floor beside Griselda’s knees. “So, you gave them the box. What did they say?”
Griselda regaled the pertinent details orally, all the while mentally reliving the exchange. Attending that wretched assembly, being under everyone’s scrutiny, had left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Prince Vesper had sat at one side of the long table with Queen Nova, Madame Dyadia, Selena, and four Nerezethite council members. He’d positioned himself directly across from Griselda instead of choosing her prime minister, her first knight, or any of the five councilmen from her court. It was an intentional move, meant to intimidate. Like most Nerezethites, he was tall but lithe—corded muscles wrapped around elegant bones. Yet he had a presence about him, a feral confidence that made him more imposing than a beefier man of weight and stock.
The quandary was presented before the assembly. The prince laid out an empty opal handle that was once a brush, and a hairpin that had lost its jewels, claiming the girl he brought back from the Rigamort had freed the spell upon them both. Then he deferred to his mother to mediate the proceedings.
When the question fell to Griselda as to her thoughts on the dilemma they faced, she offered her well-rehearsed words:
“We are victims,” Griselda said, “to the malice and mischief of Crony, the harrower witch. Everything is her doing. From His Highness’s rejection of my dear niece, Lyra, who’s kept herself pure for him and exchanged heartfelt letters for five years, to this imposter who’s appeared at the last hour with artifacts that were meant to be wedding gifts—admitted to have been stolen. You must see, without the purported silver bristles and amethyst stones, we can’t even be sure these are the same articles. I conjecture the witch is casting aspersions upon this marriage—predestined to cure both our kingdoms of their half lives of perpetual day and night—for some sort of petty revenge.”
“Do you have proof of your claim?” asked Queen Nova.
Forcing herself not to cringe at the white crickets clinging to the queen’s neckline like a string of pearls meant to complement her silvery hair, Griselda unveiled the box she’d wrapped in cloth. The words “princess - revolution” were scripted across the scaly surface.
Several of the council members gasped upon seeing the drasilisk lining.
“Some days ago, Queen Nova sent a missive to our castle via jackdaw,” Griselda continued, “warning me of a box that belonged to the witch and held within it plans for a rebellion against my niece. It was found within your shrine today after my niece cured his curse. None else could fabricate such a piece, as drasilisk hides ceased to exist centuries ago. This is proof we’ve fallen prey to the witch’s manipulations, for she’s an immortal and was here when the monsters ran rampant in our shared sky. It also explains this imposter’s use of the ancient sign language . . . for Crony knows it herself.”
“I can attest to that,” Madame Dyadia spoke up, an accusatory glint in her catlike gaze. “And I spied that very box through my bird’s eye in the hands of Cronatia.” She gestured for Griselda to pass it closer.
Griselda slid it across the table with gloved hands.
Dyadia lifted it, turning it over. “There’s a spell in place. A temporal lock. It can’t be opened until the proper time, whenever that might be. It appears there’s some credence to Regent Griselda’s claim.”
The queen lifted a graceful hand to silence the council’s murmurings. “I understand my son had the witch sent to your dungeons. Are you saying she has an accomplice here, in my castle?”
Griselda folded the empty cloth and laid it on her lap. “Yes . . . no. Perhaps. It’s possible she escaped. She has done so before. She’s wily and dangerous. She killed my brother and his first knight.”
“And your youngest daughter, Lustacia,” the prince offered, though it sounded suspiciously like a barb.
“Yes. I’m sure you can understand the omission.” Griselda feigned a tremor in her voice. “It’s painful to speak of her death. Even after so many years.”
She sensed the prince watching her, his predatory glare so intense she felt her skin growing hot, as if it might catch flame. When she dared look his way, she could’ve sworn she saw a piercing orange flicker in those black depths—like a candle’s wavering beam reflected off onyx stones. He raised an eyebrow and offered a smile. Not one of sympathy. An assured, almost smug, turn of the lips.
“Here are my thoughts on the matter,” he’d said in that moment, his gaze never leaving Griselda’s. “Considering it’s both our kingdoms’ welfare at stake, and it’s my life being bound to another, there’s only one means to know beyond a doubt which girl is my true equal. Everyone’s been seeking a raven-eyed prince and a silver-haired princess. But we can agree that appearances can be altered. What cannot, however, is a person’s very essence. The prophecy clearly states that on their own, the prince and princess are to conquer one another’s worlds. I did this already, finding my way through the ravine’s thorn labyrinth, surviving the moon-bog. Since no one can prove if the flower trail that led from Neverdark to the Rigamort was enkindled by a song or a kiss, I propose giving both girls one last test to see who truly conquered this realm today.”
Griselda paused relaying her unsettling recollection of events, her throat growing tight.
“So, it worked.” Lustacia pressed her to continue, bringing Griselda’s thoughts back to the tower chamber. “He has doubt enough in this witch’s girl to need proof from her as much as me?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you seem so rattled?”
Griselda clenched the empty bag in her hands and her mouth closed against the answer: because it didn’t feel as if it worked.
The prince hadn’t been surprised by her surprise tactic. It was if he’d expected her to pull out the box and slide it across the table to the sorceress. As if that very action played into his desires. Perhaps he’d truly gone mad after being locked within that death sleep.
Griselda thumped her fingers on the bag. “I’m not rattled. I’m simply . . . deliberating.”
“Deliberating what?”
“How best to tell you the outcome of the meeting.”
Lustacia waited, chewing on the end of her messy braid.
“The prince made the observation that the prophecy had some problematic details concerning appearances. That the only true measure of his princess was for her fortitude to be a match for his own. She must have the courage and grit to conquer his world.”
Lustacia spat the hair from her mouth. “That’s ridiculous! How can anyone possibly prove something like that?”
“It is tradition here, that all the royal children, and those of the military, grow up learning how to face the hardships of this realm. They’re taught at a young age to withstand the sting of thorns, brambles, and scorpions by laying upon beds of nails in the dungeon.”
“What?” Lustacia yelped. “You mean I’m to face a torture device? I bruise if I sleep upon a feather mattress!”
Griselda held up a hand to calm her. “There’s one thing more . . . to be his ‘equal,’ his princess must prove she can relate to and befriend the creatures inherent to this world, those that occupy every corner of this castle. So, the cell will also be filled with vermin.” Her own skin crawled at the thought.
“Oh no. No, no, no. Mother! All these years we’ve lived among pet birds who protected us from such atrocities! I’ve never had dealings with . . . infestation.” She shuddered visibly.
“Take your half-lights as your shadow guards; once you’re alone within the cell, have them protect you as the birds would. Perhaps they can even provide some cushion for you upon the nails.”
Lustacia glanced across her shoulder at the smoky smears still fighting over the remnants of her meal. “How much more will I have to endure to prove myself? I’m so tired. I’m not even sure I want to be queen any longer.”
Griselda lunged forward—fingers gouging into her daughter’s tender shoulders. “Never say that again,” she seethed through gritted teeth over Lustacia’s whimpers. “You think you’ve endured adversity? I’ve given up everything for this! All so you could sit upon a throne that should’ve been mine from the beginning!”
The goblin apparitions swooped down, shoving Griselda against the back of her chair to protect their mistress. They ripped through her hair, pulling it out of its pins and exposing bits of antler.
Lustacia rubbed her shoulder. “Shall I call them off, Mother? Or should I tell them you’re to be dessert?”
Griselda smoothed her tangled strands, patting them back into place against the gusts. “Perhaps you should remember that without my ingenuity, you wouldn’t even have your guards. I’ve done nothing but empower you and your romantic aspirations since the moment you fell for your cousin’s betrothed.”
Lustacia bit her lip at that. She sent her goblins to straighten the mess they’d made on the table. One dipped across the surface to absorb wet smears like a sponge might do, while the others scooped piles of crumbs onto the plate.
Griselda nodded her approval. “We can’t turn against one another now. We’re so very close. The prince amended the blood oath with his own blood. The new contract reads that whoever passes this test will be his bride, and the other will be imprisoned—her fate to be decided by the new queen after the coronation. All you have to do is abide through the cessation course, or outlast your opponent without begging to be let out, whichever comes first. A few hours, and you’ll win him and the crown, at last.”
Lustacia worked her shoulder seam down, revealing where bruises had already marked her moonlit skin in the shape of her mother’s fingers. “What happens if we both endure? It’s said this girl has scars and scrapes to spare. She’s of the wilderness, and obviously more inured to physical hardship than me.”
“It’s been decreed by Queen Nova and Prince Vesper that should you both withstand the night, the girl possessing the most physical attributes specified by the prophecy will be proclaimed King Kiran’s heir and will marry the prince immediately. Your rival has only the skin and hair. You, however, have something the imposter can never emulate. The true princess’s birdsong voice. Which means it is impossible for you to lose.”
“Still . . .” Lustacia stood and began to pace. “Shouldn’t we discuss our alternate plan? You always have one.”
Griselda patted a pocket in her gown, her fingers tracing the small, round outline hidden within the fabric’s folds. Yes, there was a plan; one she’d already put in motion. A last resort she hoped wouldn’t be necessary. “We throw ourselves upon the dais, at the feet of the thrones and at the mercy of the courts.”
“Have you gone mad? What sort of a plan is that? Neither kingdom will have mercy! Everyone wants the skies united and we’ve disrupted it.”
Griselda shrugged. “Yes. We will be blamed not only for Lyra’s death, but for killing the prophecy.”
Tears gathered in Lustacia’s eyes again. “So, you’re fresh out of ideas and tricks. Then . . . we’ll run away.”
“In case you failed to notice, the prince has us under constant guard. He’s even having your sisters watched now.”
“But we could use my shadows; they could at least get us through the gate.”
“It’s a blizzard outside. The thorns have already risen up and the night beasts are on the prowl. You saw the cadaver brambles and rime scorpions for yourself, how they attacked Lyra’s body in that coffin. Do you honestly think your sisters . . . or you and I . . . have what it takes to survive this wasteland for more than an hour? Where would we go, even then? We have antlers sprouting from our heads! We’ll never be safe unless you’re protected by the prince himself.”
Lustacia sank to the floor, her face drained of color. Her shadowy defenders left off cleaning and returned to hover around her, lifting and dropping her braid, as if to comfort.
Griselda walked toward the adjoining chamber to splash cold water upon her face and contemplate the turning of events. She paused at the threshold. “Either find the courage to win the test, or find the courage to face the wrath of two kingdoms spurned. I leave the choice to you.” She shut the door between them.
Every castle has its obscure passages. Within Nerezeth’s obsidian fortress, most were accessible and used by everyone at court—servants, military personnel, and council members included.
However, there was one passage that was known only to Madame Dyadia and the royal family. It was a steep, secret stairway that led directly from a hidden alchemy lab beneath the dungeon to the throne room five flights above. As Lachrymosa’s own addition centuries earlier, it had enabled his mother to bring him reports and commissions expediently from the king. Otherwise, she had to take four winding flights of stairs to the dungeon, a long trek past an abundance of cells, then gain access to a magical entrance through an impermeable wall to take another flight of stairs that eventually opened to her son’s lab.
Lachrymosa’s passageway cut the transit by at least ten minutes, and also had the added benefit of providing a back way into the dungeons from the lab without being seen by anyone milling through the common areas. This proved particularly helpful now, as the success of the princess test relied solely upon getting Lyra into a cell without being seen. And since so many spectators already lined the corridors, halls, and antechambers—to await that blink of dawn signaling the beginning of the cessation course and said test—any other route would’ve been unsuitable.
Lyra—dressed in tunic and trousers, hair tucked beneath a scarf—took the hidden passageway with Vesper a half hour before the test was to begin. Cyprian followed a few steps behind, having been appointed as Lyra’s temporary chaperone by a grumbling Luce—the sylph being engaged in a clandestine meeting with Madame Dyadia elsewhere in the castle, and Selena being equally unavailable. With her own role to play in the grand deception, the prince’s sister had remained within Lyra’s tower chamber to await the guards who would be coming to escort the potential princess alongside her rival in a procession down the twelve flights from the towers to the dungeon.
In the meantime, Lyra, Vesper, and Cyprian passed through the secret alchemy lab and were on their way up the stairs leading to the magical entrance that would land them directly within the dungeon’s corridors. As they walked by wall sconces lighting the darkness for Vesper’s eyes, Lyra tried to get the image of the lab out of her head. The dusty and mildewed space, filled with rubble and debris, presented a sad tribute to the splendor that it once must have held, hundreds of years earlier beneath the hands of a masterful mage. Though Nerezeth’s historical scrolls didn’t offer specific details, Vesper had shared that the damage was done when the earth opened to swallow Nerezeth, killing Lachrymosa and indenturing Vesper’s people to a life of eternal night and ice.
The ruins had reminded Lyra of her walk along the Crystal Lake, the first and only time she’d viewed her kingdom up close: strangled by monstrous vines and vicious flowers. How she hoped the moonlight would grace Eldoria’s skies again, wither the honeysuckle plague, and return the castle to the glittering ivory beacon it once was. She wanted nothing more than to see the people outside—playing, working, living. Just as she hoped the sun would cure the sickness in Nerezeth so Vesper’s people could live again.
She and Vesper had spoken at length after the convocation—over a late dinner shared with Selena, Luce, and Cyprian, who took a hidden passage to her tower chamber—about their concerns for their kingdoms and their people. They both worried as to how any union—no matter its sacred basis—could realign their skies. But as everyone had so much to lose if the magic failed, Vesper and Lyra agreed to simply love one another, trust one another, and have faith enough to aid the prophecy where they could.
Which brought them to where they were now.
Reaching the impassable wall, Vesper manipulated a row of stones, using a code Madame Dyadia had given him. The barrier opened to the dungeon and the three stepped within.
Lyra’s nerves evolved to nausea, and she regretted eating that helping of plums in rosewater. The roasted boar should’ve been enough. It had just been so nice to have warm food served at a table in the company of people she could converse and tease with, she’d forgotten to consult her stomach until it was filled to the brim.
After passing fifteen cells, Vesper stopped.
Cyprian took a step back. “Not to pull rank, Majesty, but do keep it short, and not too sweet,” he requested. “I don’t wish to get on the bad side of a sylph who can sense my every desire and turn it into an irresistible force.”
“For the sake of my sister’s honor, I’ll concede this once.” Vesper smirked.
Cyprian grinned back. “You know, such a skill could be formidable in military strategies. Perhaps one day in the future, our queen might use her persuasion with her guardian . . . convince him to stay on as a magical resource?”
Lyra quirked an eyebrow. I’ll consider it, she signed, if you’ll turn your back and give us the illusion of privacy. You can’t be blamed for what you don’t see, after all.
Cyprian laughed then faced the opposing wall.
“Well played,” Vesper teased Lyra. “Never thought I’d reap the benefits of civic diplomacy honed in the dark market.”
She shrugged. As I recall, you thought my bargaining lessons a waste of time.
“Hmmm. It would appear I owe Luce a thank-you for that, too.” He cocked his head in thought. “Let’s not tell him.”
She smiled as he searched under his royal robes to fish a set of tarnished keys from the fur-trimmed tunic beneath. They jingled on their loop as he unlocked the large wooden door.
“This is the one,” he said. The hinges creaked open at his touch. The sconces from the corridor intruded on the space with flickering orange strokes, revealing everything he had prepared her to see.
Lyra’s smile faded as she stood at the threshold, taking it in: the stench of must and stale body odor, the flutter of moths sweeping back and forth, black mice scampering about among hundreds of glowing spiders scuttling across the floor. Others dangled from the ceiling on silken webs. They looked like stars, juxtaposed against the dingy gray stones, and the beauty of those luminescent constellations almost coaxed her to step inside, until her attention caught on the torture device against the wall. It was opened, displaying the metal spikes lining both the lid and the bed. Just as Vesper described, it resembled a coffin.
She hardened her chin to keep it from trembling.
“I’m sorry . . . I know it reminds you of your arrival to the ravine.”
She shook her head. There’s no memory. Only a foreboding dread. A knowing that I shouldn’t know. If I could grasp it, I could put it to rest.
His eyebrows knitted and he took her hand, bringing her close enough to press her knuckles to his soft lips. “Those memories will be yours soon,” he said, his warm breath scented with winterberry wine from dinner. “Dyadia has Crony’s ensorcelled box now. And once you win your crown—”
It will open. Lyra finished his sentence and caressed his face with her free hand, grateful for the reminder. Luce was still being obscure about Crony’s whereabouts, but at least he’d shared some of the details of the note she’d left him.
Vesper kissed Lyra’s wrist. His lips lingered there, at the edge of her sleeve’s cuff, leaving no question that he wanted to continue—past her forearm to the bend of her elbow, along her shoulder and to her neck.
He lifted his face, eyes ablaze with a new light. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask, he said in their mind-speak. All along, it’s been assumed, but that’s not fair to you. So here, with no one listening—his gaze flicked to Cyprian’s back—or watching, I want to do this right, just between us. He swallowed hard. Lady Lyra, will you marry me and be my queen for life? Rule by my side in both day and night?
Lyra studied his beautiful, somber features, awed by the sweetness of the gesture. In the eyes of the world, they were betrothed already, but for him to ask . . . to give her the choice . . . and not as a prince and princess, but as a boy and girl whose friendship had blossomed into something lovelier still, it restored some of the control she’d lost, which is exactly what she needed in this moment. To feel strong. Confident. Whole, and hopeful.
I will, she answered without hesitation, stroking his cheek.
Thank the stars and moon! He turned his mouth to her palm and kissed her there. Then he pulled her close. Once you’re mine, I’ll pay homage to each scar on your body ever made on my behalf. Including any you may acquire tonight.
Cyprian cleared his throat. “I can’t see you, but I know what that silence means. To borrow Luce’s insight earlier at dinner: Pillow talk, be it aloud or in the head, is inappropriate for anywhere but the couple’s wedding bed.”
Lyra and Vesper shared a grin.
Releasing a breath, she faced the doorway again, muscles tensed and coiled.
“You can do this, Lyra,” Vesper urged. “You’re the most courageous girl I’ve ever known. And a Pegasus has the highest of standards.”
Lyra leveled an amused glance at him, welcoming any distraction.
The sudden roar of shouts and cheers burst through the upper levels, indicating the procession had begun.
“It’s now, or not at all,” Vesper said.
Right. She allowed him to hold her balanced by an elbow as she worked off her slippers, one by one. So I won’t break the spiders’ fragile legs, she explained.
Vesper nodded. As Scorch, he had been there when Mistress Umbra predicted Lyra’s final trial to find herself—to walk through stars and wrap herself in spikes. This wasn’t a surprise to either of them. But only in this moment did it finally make sense.
She handed her slippers to Vesper for him to hide, then took one last look at him. That flame still glowed behind his dark eyes, and had warmed to pride.
Lifting to her toes, she hugged him. He held her close, nuzzling the place where the scarf met her neck, before breaking free and nudging her across the threshold. The door shut with a muffled thud behind her—a sound that echoed like a lonely sigh.
Yet she wasn’t alone. The mice squeaked all around her, gray as the stones. Her eyes lit to amplify the soft light emanating from the spidery constellations. Shadows rose from the corners. She’d seen them following on the way here, but they’d kept to themselves, as if they’d known to wait for this moment when she’d need them most.
Empowered by their presence, she shuffled forward so as not to crush any night creatures, her bare feet cold upon the gritty stone. The moths drifted gracefully toward the nail bed, as if to lead the way.
The cheers grew louder down the corridor. They were almost outside the cell. A sense of urgency rushed Lyra the last few steps—close enough to lay her palm across the nails. Her heart quailed, anticipating punctures all over her body. Vesper had advised her about pressure points and positioning for the least damage. She rolled herself onto the spikes and tried to remain still. The points jutted against her, but nothing pierced through . . . yet.
She shut her eyes, but couldn’t pull the lid down, couldn’t seal herself within. Dread held her immobile, so she asked her shadows to do it instead. They obeyed, sandwiching her between the nails.
There was no time to panic, for the doors were already opening in the cells.
Vesper had chosen this room specifically. There were holes drilled in the walls to allow sound to filter through. It was a tactic for interrogation: locking up two or more criminals together, then guards hiding in the opposing cells on either side, waiting for the criminals to think they were alone and talk.
She heard the doors thud closed, then waited, keeping her breath shallow so she could listen for her cue.
Disgusted whimpers broke the silence. “Make yourself useful. Clean house for me,” came the birdsong voice.
Lyra clenched her teeth against the urge to free herself from the confines of the coffin. She forced her muscles to relax and wait.
There was a shuffling, and the almost indiscernible scritchity-scratch of mice claws. A flutter of moths followed, then settled on the walls all around.
A pair of slippers pattered across the floor, stopping at the edge of the bed. “One of you get over here . . . I need a cushion.”
Lyra tensed instinctively, enough to cause one nail to pierce her calf. Warmth oozed from the wound; still, she didn’t move, even when the lid lifted.
Lying in place like a corpse, she waited for Lustacia’s gasp then opened her eyes so their glint could be seen in the dimness.
Lustacia yelped. Backing up awkwardly, she fell to her rump.
Lyra rolled off the nails to the floor. She stood, looming in front of her cousin. She removed the scarf, freeing her hair, and raised her arms to call her moths and shadows into play. They formed a whirlwind, manipulating the waist-length waves to dance around her head like tendrils of silver flame.
My voice . . . my life . . . my kingdom.
The moths carried the mantra to Lustacia’s ears, their wings fluttering the words around her. “Lyra!” She shrieked and sobbed, dropping to her belly in front of Lyra’s bare feet. “Oh, please, shield me!” Several dark forms dove across her cousin as if to protect her.
Lyra’s shadows peeled them away and flung them to the corners.
Lustacia cried out again as spiders dropped their webs from overhead, glistening, gauzy nets that circled around her. Taunting, yet not touching. “I never wanted to kill you!” She strangled on her sobs, batting at the spider silk then screeching when the substance caked between her fingers. “I never wanted to see you hurt . . . I didn’t enjoy it like Wrath and Ava did.” She gulped several breaths, rubbing her hands along her clothes. “This was mother’s doing! She and Erwan and Bartley, they’re responsible for all the dirty deeds. Just look what they did to the goblin smugglers.” Lustacia pointed a shaky finger to the five black, sooty forms being pinned down by Lyra’s shadow guards. “Mother went mad with power and magic. Look under her gloves, you’ll find proof of her crimes. She did something abominable to me, too . . . worse than you can imagine!” Arms and hands trembling now, Lustacia parted the braids twisted around her head, giving Lyra a glimpse of pea-sized prongs beginning to sprout from two knots bulging from her scalp. “I’m growing antlers! All because I had to bathe in antler powder. All to look like you! I’m becoming a beast. The prince will hate me forever. Please, isn’t that enough . . . isn’t it?” A sob cut through her lyrical pleas.
Lyra’s blood boiled at the confession. Griselda had slain Vesper’s sickly stags and ripped them of their antlers, all to give Lustacia her moonlit coloring.
Lyra snarled. At her command, a mischief of mice crept into Lustacia’s sleeves, neckline, and hem. Their forms tunneled beneath her dark gown like rain-swollen clouds rolling across a night sky. Lustacia screeched, leaping to her feet and slapping herself to shake out the infestation. Lyra’s shadows jerked her cousin off the ground and levitated her, arms and legs held immobile to protect the rodents from being crushed. Her slippers fell from her feet. She begged to be set free, then howled for mercy again.
Yes. Scream . . . scream forever. The moths’ wings repeated Lyra’s demand: Scream . . . scream . . . scream.
And Lustacia did; she wailed and shrieked—a tormented and beautiful chorus of crystal-clear notes that echoed around the room. Lyra shut her eyes, gusts flapping her hair and clothes. The harrowing song encompassed her, and she welcomed it, craved it. Even without remembering, a hollowness gaped within her throat upon missing it.
When the final note rang out and Lustacia lay empty and panting on the floor, sticky with web and rodent scourge, Lyra knelt beside the nail bed. From underneath, she withdrew the enchanted seashell Madame Dyadia had planted there hours before. Lyra sealed it with its special willow cork and stood.
Using her sleeve, Lustacia wiped snot and tears from her face. “What have you done?” she mumbled, though her voice no longer rang with music. It was hoarse, unremarkable, and entirely her own.
The cell door flung open, revealing Nerezeth’s and Eldoria’s council members—Prime Minister Albous at the head—who had been gathered in the cell at the left of Lyra’s, listening as everything unfolded.
Vesper and Queen Nova stepped forward with Selena—who had dressed as Lyra in a flowing gown and veil. She’d walked in the procession alongside Lustacia and took the cell on Lyra’s right, so Lustacia would never suspect someone waited within her own.
All of them had witnessed Lustacia’s confession. All had heard who was responsible for Lyra’s long-winding, torturous journey back to her throne. Stray spectators wandered down the stairs into the corridor, filling the expanse. Word of what had taken place quickly spread to all floors of the castle in a ripple effect.
Lyra’s cousin sat up, trembling as people peered in. “Vesper, please.”
“Not a word from your deceitful lips,” he growled. “Best make yourself at home. This is your room for the night. But take heart, your family will be joining you shortly. Though I’m not sure how receptive they’ll be, considering you betrayed them all.”
He offered a hand to Lyra. She cradled the seashell’s silver stand to her chest, keeping its precious contents safe, and stepped over Lustacia’s slippers. Vesper’s strong grasp enveloped her own, providing support against the exhausted tremors running through her limbs. The spiders vanished into cracks and crevices in the stones, and the mice and moths drifted through the open door, leaving Lustacia with her cursed goblins and Lyra’s shadow guards to keep them in line.
The door slammed shut, and the sound of Lustacia’s discordant, monotone wails trailed Lyra and her prince as they strode down the corridor hand in hand. The crowd parted and then followed them up the stairs, in silent shock and reverent wonder.