Special Interlude V: The Crow and the Earl

 

“Tristan is dead,” Constance announced as she entered the study.

Percy continued to stare at the painting before him, a portrait of his father, Earl Ethan Hawthorne, staring heroically into the distance with a crow upon his shoulder and the earl’s signet ring upon his right hand.

“Percy, did you hear me,” Constance continued impatiently.

“I heard you, Mother,” he replied neutrally, eyes focused upon his father’s missing signet ring. “I simply don’t understand why you feel you needed to inform me.” He turned slowly to face her with a cynical smile. “It’s not as if you allowed me any friends.”

“Percy,” Constance sighed as she approached him and took his hand. “You will be free to do as you wish in two years when you are twenty. I understand you are feeling frustrated, but you don’t have to remain in the Manor all day. You have the garden to walk in and the grounds to ride your horse.”

She smiled brightly, but it did not hide the concern behind her eyes.

“How did the Crown Prince die?” Percy asked casually.

Constance’s face tensed as she withdrew her hand from his cheek. “I thought you didn’t care about that?”

“Now that you have told me, I’ve grown curious,” Percy replied as he turned his gaze back to the portrait. “After all, the poor Crown Prince was surrounded by death growing up. First his mother, Queen Catalina, then my father, and then Queen Rosalinda—”

“The prince had an unfortunate fate, that is all,” Constance interrupted briskly.

“That isn’t right, Mother,” Percy replied as he turned his winter-grey eyes—eyes that he had inherited from his father—towards her once more.

“Sorry?” Constance blinked and frowned.

“A Crown Prince is still a Crown Prince, even in death,” Percy reminded her patiently. “Nicholas will inherit the title, of course, but that does not remove it from his dead brother.”

“Oh—of course.” Constance cleared her throat as her gaze drifted to the portrait and away. “In either case, there will be a brief mourning period, but that need not concern you.”

“There won’t be a funeral?” Percy asked with sharp curiosity.

“No,” Constance answered with a hint of frustration. “They were unable to recover his body, so King Henry decided against a funeral. Just a public mourning period of two days—”

“Only two?” Percy laughed. “One would think the King had grown to despise his favorite son.”

“Perhaps he had cause to do so,” Constance replied with a hint of impatience as she turned towards the office door. “I have other matters to attend to.” She paused in the doorway to look back at him. “Do go outside Percy, you are looking paler than usual. Some sunlight will do you good.”

“As you wish, Mother,” Percy bowed politely and raised his head when she had gone.

He stared for a moment at nothing in particular, then opened his hand to reveal the crumpled note he had read just before his mother entered the room.

A pureblood fire witch decimated Wolfthorn Forest, most likely the Emperor. No sign of Prince Tristan. All of the Red Wolf Army have fallen.

‘Have you finally left me too, old friend?’

Percy sighed and lifted his gaze to the crow perched upon the lantern which hung from the ceiling. He held up his hand and whistled softly. The blackbird hopped down to land upon his finger and fluttered its wings as Percy moved towards the partially cracked window.

He raised the window frame and released the bird to return to the Coven of Crows, who would continue to watch the border to see if the Emperor made any further movement.

“King Henri is a fool,” Percy hissed and shut the window. “The Dowager no doubt pushed him to this decision—but how blind does a man have to be to overlook the danger he may have placed us all in.”

He grabbed his jacket from the desk chair, descended the stairs two at a time, and swept past Russell, who waited below with a raincoat and hat. “No need,” Percy replied tersely. “I’ll just be in the garden.”

The crunch of pebbles below and the scent of approaching autumn filled Percy’s senses as he crossed his hands behind his back and walked in a composed manner towards the garden. He knew without looking back that his mother’s servants were watching him from the windows above.

‘She didn’t bring up my investigation into Father’s murder. No doubt she thinks Tristan’s death will discourage me from looking further.’ He let out an abrupt laugh as he turned the corner and entered the garden. ‘Without Tristan, I have no one inside the royal palace who can dig into the past. The Dowager already killed every spy I slipped in, including that historian, Lord Koresh. Even Mercy is limited by her position as Abbess.’

His feet led him towards the water fountain of their own accord, and Percy glared down at his dark reflection among the lily petals.

‘I will find another way. Once I have proof—’ he spun and sank onto the edge of the fountain. ‘Even if I find proof—who will I condemn? The Dowager? The King?’ He raised his gaze to the Manor’s windows just in time to see a maid duck out of sight. ‘My Mother?’

Percy dipped his left hand into the fountain and then pressed his cold, damp fingers against the back of his neck. ‘I still don’t want to believe she had a hand in Father’s death, no matter what Mercy says.’

He bowed his head between his knees and let his left hand drop to his lap. “Veles, help me untangle this web of deceit and lies. Give me a sign? How am I to reclaim what is mine? How can I unify the covens behind me when I cannot even condemn my father’s killers?”

A black crow landed upon the garden path before him with a flurry of wings. Percy flinched and scowled at the bird. It was not the same crow he had released from his room earlier, nor did it have a clasp on its leg for carrying messages. Instead, the crow’s legs appeared to be painted red, and even its dark black eyes seemed to hold a crimson gleam.

A strange sensation overcame him as Percy leaned against his hand and examined the bird. “Are you a servant of Veles?” he asked with a hint of mockery. “Does your Master even listen to prayers anymore?”

The wind picked up with sudden ferocity as leaves, stems, and berries from the hedge bushes flung about the garden and tore through the flower beds. The crow remained unmoving through the storm, but its eyes seemed to pool with crimson red as they stared without blinking at Percy.

‘It cannot be.’

“So even the Hawthorne’s hatchling and future earl dares to defy my existence? What am I to do when such a weak and arrogant witch wishes to rule over my covens?”

An invisible grip bound itself around Percy’s throat. He clasped his neck and stumbled down to his knees, unable to breathe.

“I have blessed the Hawthorne family for generations, but you would let such a treacherous woman cut down your father’s house and lineage just because she is your mother?”

The choking grip faded away, and air returned to Percy’s lungs as he hastily bowed his head to the crow.

“Forgive me—Veles—God of Air.”

“You have ambition, young Earl. The same ambition your father once had, but without my blessing, you lack the power to fulfill his hopes for you.”

“That is all I desire, to claim what is mine,” Percy replied passionately. “And to uncover those who dared to plot and murder my father.”

A dark chuckle filled the garden.

“I have interfered too much already, yet she will not survive without someone capable by her side.”

Percy blinked and hesitantly raised his head. “Veles, to whom do you refer?”

“Even though I have led her to you—you have yet to realize.” The crow cawed mockingly and flapped its wings as it rose into the air. “Come. She is close by.”

Percy hastily climbed to his feet and sucked in a quick breath before he was forced to jog after the bird, who flew silently against the breeze over the garden towards the back pastures.

Beyond his mother’s prized garden lay the servant’s houses surrounded by ancient oaks. Once through the trees, the fenced pastures filled his view. Percy had learned horseback riding here, after the farmers harvested their wheat.

He raised a hand to his brow as he stared across the familiar sight of golden crops ready for harvest once more. The crow hovered across the bountiful plane, then turned and glided towards the willows which surrounded the Hawthorne Pond.

Percy sighed but trudged through the field until he found a dirt path that indirectly led him towards the willows around which the crow circled like a vulture.

He had worked up a sweat by the time he reached the willows. The skies above darkened with the promise of rain. Percy scowled as he thought of the raincoat Russell had offered him, but he wasn’t about to anger a god over a little bit of rain.

‘What is it Veles brought me all the way here to see?’

Percy stepped through the swaying branches of the willows, that teased and kissed his cheek as if welcoming his return. He swallowed a lump in his throat and stared at the notches in the willow’s bark where his father had measure Percy’s growth each summer the Earl brought his son to the pond to fish. Three notches lined the tree’s trunk, the first when Percy was three-years-old, the last when he turned five—the same year the Earl was found dead in his carriage after being ambushed by thugs.

Percy turned his gaze to the embankment that rested within the canopy of the willow. His father’s chair was gone, but he could still remember the slope of the Earl’s back as he knelt over the two sailboats placed in the water.

“Now remember, Percy, you don’t have to force the wind, merely guide the direction you wish it to move.” The Earl placed his hands gently upon the five-year-old Percy’s shoulders. “Remember the words. Fustibus Saxisque.”

“Fustibus Saxisque,” Percy repeated.

“Now concentrate. Remember, the words only help you focus the magic. Your emotions give it strength, while your mind controls the intent.”

Percy smiled with sad fondness. Through the branches of the willow, he could see the marker they had once raced their boat towards. Percy had lost seven races in a row before winning the eight and cheering his little heart out as the Earl bowed humbly in defeat.

‘Of course, Father let me win—I know that now—but he was not the sort of man to give others what they did not deserve.’

“When you’re bigger, we will race real sailboats on the Serpentine River,” the Earl joked as he hoisted Percy upon his shoulders to return to the Manor.

Percy clenched his fists and turned to leave—but stopped as he caught a movement of colors through the willow’s branches. He raised his hand and carefully parted the curtain of leaves. Beyond them, beneath another willow tree, he could make out a young girl dancing in a light blue dress with a rainbow-colored shawl draped around her shoulders and arms.

The crow above him cawed softly and nodded its head in silent confirmation before it too silently stared at the dancing girl. As she turned towards them, with her flushed cheeks and ash-brown hair waving about her shoulders, Percy recognized Lady Maura, his mother’s pet and protégée.

‘What is she doing here? Isn’t she supposed to be taking lessons with Mother? What sort of dance is that?’

He couldn’t deny the gracefulness with which she moved, how light and weightless she appeared as she spun and leaped from the ground, her hand gliding elegantly through the willows leaves as if she were dancing with them to some strange music.

Inadvertently Percy took a step closer but caught himself as he carefully closed the willow’s branches, leaving just enough space to watch Maura’s dance. She was barefoot, not that the embankment offered much in the way of thorny stones, but it was most unbecoming of a lady.

‘I suppose that’s the half-blood in her,’ Percy mused with a sigh. ‘Honestly, I don’t know why she tries so hard to please the Countess.’

“She’ll never rise above the status of her birth,” he muttered aloud.

The crow cawed loudly in the branches above him, and Percy stiffened as Maura, alerted by the sudden noise, stopped her dance. He almost tripped over the willow’s roots as he scrambled to hide behind the tree. Percy pressed his shoulder against the bark as he held his breath and listened to his foolish heart hammer away in his chest.

‘Really, what am I doing in this ridiculous situation?’

The answer, of course, lay with the mischievous deity above, whose red eyes peered down at Percy with tangible amusement.

Percy knocked his head against the tree in silent defeat then stilled as he listened. He could hear every leaf in the willow tree around him, the ripple of the wind against the pond’s surface, the splash of a toad dropping into the muddy water below before it swam deeper into the pond. Beyond the willow, he heard the sound of Maura’s footsteps, no longer dancing but walking along the warm grass of the embankment down towards the pond.

Intrigued, Percy peered around the tree and parted the willow branches.

Maura waded in the shallows of the pond with her dress pulled up around her calves. Her back was towards him as she leisurely wandered along the embankment.

Percy scowled silently. He had never walked in this pond, but he assumed it must be filthy given all the mud and slippery creatures that lived in it. And yet, someone groomed to be a lady was happily splashing her toes among the toads and muck. He shuddered and glanced quizzically at the crow above.

“Why have you brought me here?”

“To unveil your eyes.”

“My eyes?” Percy sighed. ‘Of course, a god’s answer would be cryptic.’

“I have kept her masked from the world for as long as I could, but the longer I linger near her, the more the other gods will suspect.”

Percy’s ears pricked up at the mention of the other immortals. “I don’t understand,” Percy lamented. “What’s so special about a half-blood?”

“Watch and witness.”

Beneath the crow’s unnerving blood-red eyes, Percy could only nod obediently and return to observing Maura as the rain began to fall. It sprinkled against the surface of the pond as Maura paused and stared, not at the sudden shower that darkened the fabric of her blue dress, but at something below the water’s surface. She dropped her skirts and knelt to search the mud intently with both hands.

“What is she—”

Maura cried triumphantly as she straightened and held one muddy hand aloft. Percy could not make out the object before Maura rinsed it and her hands in the pond, then returned to the embankment. She retrieved her shawl from under the willow and wrapped it around herself before she slid what must have been a ring onto each of her fingers before finally settling it upon her thumb.

Percy might have laughed at her childish behavior—if he had not recognized the man’s signet ring with its large black diamond. He had last seen that signet ring on the Earl’s hand before he left to report to the palace—a trip from which he never returned after being ambushed by a gang of thugs.

“The assassins must have stolen his ring along with all his other valuables,” Constance had told him when Percy thought to ask about the ring after his father’s funeral.

‘I believed her—yet—why would assassins throw father’s ring into the pond?’ Percy sucked in a breath.

“Do you think it a coincidence that your Mother became the leader of the Aristocratic Party with the King’s blessing and the Dowager’s support so soon after your father died?” Mercy’s cynical voice echoed through his ears.

Percy leaned against the tree as his lungs tightened and an uncomfortable feeling of confirmation curled in his gut. ‘So, it is true.’

After the funeral, many of the Earl’s loyal servants mysteriously vanished from the Estate.

“Because they displeased the Countess,” was Russell’s only explanation when pressed.

The Countess kept Percy locked inside the Manor after the funeral while insisting she would get to the bottom of the Earl’s murder. “This is for your own good, Percy. I would do anything to keep you safe.”

Percy raised his burning gaze to where Maura still studied the signet ring curiously as the rain eased into a drizzle. The breeze picked up, and raindrops from the branches above fell upon Percy’s head and neck. He shivered as he pressed a hand against the tree and stepped around the willow. “I should reclaim what is mine.”

“Wait!”

The command rooted Percy in place as the wind circled past him and twisted the willow branches around Maura. The girl watched them with a secretive smile as she extended her arms and twirled once more in a dance.

Percy shivered again and blinked as a cold breath of air evaporated before his eyes. His gaze snapped to Maura, who swayed with and bowed, caught up once more in her strange dance, blissfully unaware of the trail of frost that followed her footsteps upon the grass.

As Maura’s fingers glided among the branches of the willow, the leaves glistened like diamonds as raindrops froze beneath her touch. The rain upon her dress and the hem of her skirt glistened and turned white, and for the briefest moment, Percy glimpsed a crown of frost upon her ash-brown curls.

He exhaled in disbelief as the magic binding his limbs released. “Maura is—an ice witch?”

“Her fate lies on the edge of a blade. She will either perish a half-blood, be burned as a witch, or rise to become Lafeara’s rightful Queen.”

“Queen?” Percy echoed in disbelief. “Then her father—”

“She is the last descendant of the Isbrand bloodline.”

Percy muffled a laugh behind his closed fist. “No wonder you kept her hidden.”

“I have entrusted this knowledge to you, Earl of Hawthorne, so that you might protect her.”

“From the Church?”

“There are many who would wish her dead and many more who would claim her heart—not all of them mortal.”

“Kritanta?” Percy whispered anxiously. “I am not strong enough to defy the goddess of destruction herself.”

“Reclaim your father’s ring. It will unlock the magic that is yours to inherit.”

“Father’s ring?” Percy straightened.

Maura appeared to have realized her mistake. She hurriedly plucked her shoes from beneath the tree and dashed through the frost-covered branches. Maura paused as the leaves closed behind her and attempted to shake the frost from her dress, then stopped as she focused on the ring still upon her thumb. Her expression shifted from panic to mystified as she took off the signet ring and tied it to a willow branch with the dark-blue ribbon from her hair.

“Why is she?” Percy mumbled, confused.

“A suggestion on my part,” the crow answered. “She will forget about the ring by the time she returns to the Manor.”

“You can do that?”

“You dare to underestimate me, witch?”

Percy grimaced and bowed his head. “No, Veles, forgive my insolence.”

The crow chuckled as it evaporated like a dark mist upon the breeze.

“A King does not ask for forgiveness.”

Percy’s heart almost stopped as the god’s meaning became all too clear. ‘If Maura is destined to become Lafeara’s Queen—than the man who claims her heart will naturally become its King.’

He strode towards the frost-covered willow and untangled his father’s signet ring from the royal-blue ribbon. He stared into the black diamond and caressed the runes along its silver band. The magic that hummed within the precious metal brought back the feeling of his father’s presence. That same power tingled and spread like a rush of air throughout his body as Percy slid the ring onto his right hand.

Finally, the artifact that had been passed down through each generation, from Earl to Earl, had returned to him. It was one of two precious heirlooms safeguarded by the Hawthorne name since the day the second Saint executed the Isbrand royal family of Ice Witches—and left no survivors.

‘Or so they thought.’

Percy smiled as he wound the blue ribbon around his fingers and pressed it to his lips.

Interlude Part IV: Goddess of Destruction

 

Tristan coughed towards his chest as the cloud of dust and dirt from the swarm of calvary men and horses around him filled his burning lungs. The scarf meant to protect his airways had fallen free during their breakneck pace through the narrow pass. Tristan could do nothing about the scarf. His only useful hand was wrapped tightly around the reins as he fought to keep himself in the saddle with one good leg.

And to think King Henri had once praised him for his warrior’s prowess on horseback. ‘Can’t hold a sword. Can barely stay in the saddle. I might not even walk again if I lose my leg.’

A growl of fear and anger tightened against the back of Tristan’s throat, then choked as the horse vaulted a fallen boulder, and Tristan nearly went over the stallion’s head. His chest landed against the warhorse’s neck, while his left hand and the reins awkwardly remained twisted and trapped beneath his gut. The stallion’s muscles tensed as its footing faltered, and Tristan’s gaze came closer to the pounding hooves beneath him.

A hand grabbed a fist full of the prince’s armor then hoisted him back into the saddle. Garrett eased his horse a safe distance away, the tether still tied between them as Tristan scrambled to secure his position.

The stallion tossed its head as it tried to follow the confusing signals of its rider. Tristan managed to get his right foot back into the stirrup while Garrett paced beside them and soothed the confused animal. A moment later, with his sore left wrist readjusted around the reigns, Tristan leaned closer to the stallion’s neck—and recovered from his latest brush with death.

Bright flashes of light danced before Tristan’s eyes as he tried to focus through the blur of knights, horses, hooves, and dirt; and the never-ending ravine path. When he wasn’t choking from the constant inhalation of dust, he struggled to breathe at all. His armor seemed to have tightened around his chest, and even his helmet felt like a death trap intent on crushing his throbbing skull.

Tristan gritted his teeth and glanced towards his left leg, which dangled uselessly beside the stirrup, the saddle beneath it coated in dust and blood.

Liam’s betrayal clouded his head along with the image of the blue ghoul’s mask. No matter how Tristan arranged the facts and events of the last two days, they all led to the same conclusion. King Henri and the Dowager had sent him on this expedition to die.

“Rockslide!” The knights shouted ahead of them.

“Don’t stop, or they’ll pin us in!” Garrett roared back.

The heart-sinking rumble of death descended towards them with a billowing cloud that obscured the path ahead moments before the boulders crashed and flooded the pathway behind them. The black stallion flicked its ears back and forth but maintained its gallop with the steel nerves of a beast that had faced the destruction of war many times before and become numb to it.

Tristan pressed himself closer to the stallion’s neck as he glanced back and willed his men to move faster. The calvary’s desperate movement was muffled by the monstrous pounding of massive rocks that collided at their heels—and then the back row of knights vanished as a giant boulder devoured them.

Garrett took one look back and cut the lead to Tristan’s stallion before smacking the beast’s flank with the flat of his blade. With an indignant cry, the warhorse surged past Garrett then jostled its way through the knights ahead with the speed and ferocity its bloodline had been bred to produce. Tristan held onto the beast desperately as the adrenaline of terror exploded in his chest, roared against his ears, and twisted his stomach in helpless panic.

Clouds of darkness rained cold dust upon Tristan’s neck and pelted against his armor as death closed in. He thought he glimpsed Garrett somewhere in the roaring storm of earth to his left just as the path before them narrowed—and ended in a solid mountain wall.

Tristan barely turned the stallion’s head before Garrett’s warhorse collided with them. The mountains tipped sideways as their horses toppled and fell. Then Tristan’s face and shoulder impacted with the ground below.

The muted screams of man and beast mingled with the desperate thrashing of hooves. Boulders crushed and shattered the trapped calvary as a cloud of earth and dust billowed over the ravine.

Tristan spit up blood and choked on earth as he rolled to his left and tried to rise. A shield loomed overhead as Garrett grabbed him and hoisted the prince to his feet. The thrashing black stallion screamed in agony before another boulder obscured it from view and silenced its pain. Tristan tore his eyes away as he focused on Garrett, struggled to keep his right leg useful, and tried to shake the disorienting ringing from his ears.

Then a boulder bounced towards them, crashed against Garrett’s shield, and they were flung apart like grass dolls.

This time Tristan’s helmet and ribs took the blow. His lungs protested the abuse as he rolled onto his side beneath yet another cloud of dust. The ringing in his ears overwhelmed all other senses as Tristan’s gaze seemed to float above the rock and soil beneath hands he knew were his—yet could not feel.

‘Shelter. I have to find shelter.’

He crawled towards a large boulder only a few feet away. Dirt and dust filled his mouth, nose, and ears as he dragged in one painful breath after another and felt his ribs shift unnaturally.

Like an injured animal, he curled beneath the crevice of the boulder, helpless and afraid as the giant rocks continued to descend, their massive size and brutality unnervingly muted as Tristan waited for the double vision and ringing in his head to stop.

Garrett was gone. The few knights and horses he could see disappeared within the span of two blinks. Boulders filled in the gaps—and then the sun vanished as soil and pebbles poured in around him. Tristan pressed a hand against his mouth and nose and smothered a scream as the mountain buried him alive.

A heartbeat, his own, flickered and faded beneath the river of earth pressed in around him. Tristan held his breath and carefully turned until the grating of dirt against his hand and closed eyelids faded. With slow, shallow breaths that tasted of clay, Tristan stretched out his hand until his fingers found the brittle surface of the boulder. He wiggled closer then rested his helmet against it before he cautiously opened his eyes.

A tomb of earth and stone awaited him. The loosened soil assured that the slightest careless disturbance would extinguish his small reprieve of limited air.

Tristan’s lungs tightened with panic as fear raced through his body in small tremors. “If they can kill a prince, they can kill a Queen.” He choked down another scream as helpless fury filled his gut and chased away the cold sweat of fear.

They would tell Nicholas the Tharynians had killed him. They would feed Eleanora the same lie. And if Durante and the rest of the Red Wolf Army perished, then there would be no one left to thwart their claims.

“Trust no one.”

Angry tears burned through the soil caked against his cheeks, slid across his lips, and pooled against his clenched teeth. The salty-earth taste chased away any momentary thought of revenge.

He was going to die here, alone and powerless—another forgotten victim of Lafeara’s corruption and power struggle.

“Do not yield to death so easily, Tristan. How could the son of the Phoenix and Scorpion perish to a bit of earth?”

His helmet scraped against the boulder as Tristan turned and blinked into the darkness.

“So this is what it feels like to be mortal?” the disturbing yet feminine voice whispered. “A bug trapped under a rock, waiting to die slowly—or is it praying to die quickly?”

Rage burned through him, yet fear held his tongue in check. ‘Where is this voice coming from? They sound close by. Did one of the Tharyn witches get buried with me?’

“Who are you?” Tristan rasped.

Deep laughter echoed through the darkness around him, and the boulders trembled in its wake. No, not just the boulders, the mountain, and earth below him shook, yet not a grain of soil moved.

“I am Death. I am Destruction. I am the Slayer of Gods and the Ravager of Kingdoms. I am the Goddess of Ice and Fire.”

The rock against his ribs and the soil around his chest grew warm as sweat slid from beneath the helmet down Tristan’s brow. He struggled for a moment or two to form the name—that of the most feared immortal among all the forgotten gods. “Kritanta?”

The name ignited the magic within his chest as Tristan’s courage shattered, and painful tears spilled down his cheeks unchecked as he fought to breathe. The soil around him shimmered into brittle shale, then turned to dust as the boulder beside him rippled with heat.

“Do you want to live, Tristan, son of Arius, Emperor of Witches?”

Sparks filled the darkness and only burned brighter when Tristan shut his eyes. “Yes.” Another stab of pain, this time in his gut, made him curl up in agony. “But—more than that—I want—I need—”

“Revenge?”

His left leg spasmed so painfully that a scream slid past his lips. “Yes!”

“Swear your body, soul, and heart to me, Tristan, and I shall give you more power than even Arius can lay claim too. With it, you shall enslave your enemies and kill all who dare to offend you. I shall give you such power that the world will kneel at your feet and beg to name you their king—but I have one request you must fulfill in return.”

The fingers of Tristan’s right arm twitched as feeling returned to his injured limb and his shoulder burned. Tristan focused on her words as his lungs filled with thermal air mixed with pure magic. “What—Request?”

“Find what was stolen from me. Return my frozen heart.”

Tristan blinked in confusion but nodded readily. The weakened magic within him snapped beneath the weight of her invading fire. He could feel his consciousness fading as his body burned with magic so potent, his left-hand glowed against the boulder in the darkness beside him.

“You must swear it, Prince Tristan.”

Tristan clenched his fist and opened his lips to answer, but his voice remained locked inside his dry throat. He was drowning in her magic. He could feel neither the ground below nor the boulder that stood before him a moment ago. There was only darkness and the burning magic that consumed him from within.

Cold hands touched his face and turned his gaze. Kritanta knelt above him. Her face a withered, dry corpse with peeled, cracked skin. Her soulless black eyes blazed and flickered with a pure white flame. Frost tinged her ashen hair and faded brows, while her cracked purple lips spread into a smile before they descended towards his own.

She breathed into him and Tristan’s mouth filled with the bitter, rancid taste of rotten flesh and brimstone.

“Swear your loyalty to me, Prince Tristan, and I will make you a dragon.” Bile filled the back of Tristan’s throat as the Goddess stroked his cheek. There is nothing of tenderness in her gaze as she assessed his burning body. “Speak my name, and the pact is sealed.”

“To speak the name of the Goddess of Death is to invite calamity and destruction.”

Tristan could not recall where he had heard those words. Eleanora had told him stories of Kritanta, the Goddess of Fire that the Emperor and all of Ventrayna served. But even those stories paled in the presence of the Goddess herself, who knelt before Tristan with an offer he dare not refuse.

“Kritanta.”

Her dry lips drew back into a death-like smile of sharp black fangs. Ebony nails and boney, dry fingers slid across his chest plate. His armor and the garments beneath burned and evaporated into smoke that left his mortal heart exposed. “Mors est in porta,” she whispered, and then her nails ripped through his flesh and bone.

When Tristan watched Iker, the Master Blacksmith, work the forge, he had witnessed the power of magic to mold and shape metal into elite weapons of destruction.

Now his body and soul were at the mercy of Kritanta’s hands, and she burned away his impurities with the callous gaze of a Master who would accept nothing less than perfection.

The power that rippled through him, merged with him, and stretched the very fabric of his soul could only be described as magic—and yet it was so much more.

Life and death pulsed with each breath, heartbeat, and flicker of his eyes. Tristan had never been more afraid of magic—or himself—than in that moment.

When the darkness receded and sensation returned to his body once more, Tristan found himself in the Goddess’s arms on the highest peak of Fogtooth Mountain. Nightfall had claimed the horizon around them, though the stars remained hidden behind the ominous clouds above.

“I have purged poison, both new and old, from your body,” Kritanta said as she studied his naked figure critically. “Your mortal shell has been refined into a vessel strong enough to wield the powers I have granted you, but you are still far from indestructible.” She set him down, and Tristan stumbled on his feet for a moment like a newborn infant. “You must make use of this new power now. Bend this magic to your will, Tristan, or it will break you.”

Her bony finger pointed towards the eastern section of Wolfthorn Forest as her dry lips tugged into a malicious smile. “Behold, the three princes that buried and left you for dead now march on your beloved Lafeara.”

Tristan followed her gesture and spotted the three formations of pagan armies trudging at a steady pace towards Wolf-shield Fortress that guarded Lafeara’s western border.

“And there slithers the general that betrayed you, on his way back to Lafeara with his tail between his legs,” she added and shifted her finger south.

General Liam’s army scurried north while keeping a wide berth of the Tharyn princes. Even from a distance, Tristan could see their numbers had dwindled significantly, yet the Tharyn army made no move to pursue them, though it would have been a simple matter to change course and crush the remnants of the Red Wolf Army.

‘Then, Durante—is he?’

Heat ignited in Tristan’s hands. Twin flame dragons curled up his wrists and hissed against his skin, eager yet patient, as they waited for the massacre to come.

Kritanta moved behind Tristan and whispered against his ear, “Which shall you spare?”

Tristan’s jaw clenched as his burning gaze moved between the Tharyn forces of three thousand men to the north and the barely four hundred Lafearian soldiers before him. “Neither.”

The Goddess of Destruction chuckled. Her breath ruffled the curls of his midnight-blue hair while her left arm slid around his waist. “You will make a worthy consort.” She slid her ebony nails along his right arm and raised it towards the horizon. Tristan followed her movements towards the dark clouds above Wolfthorn Forest, which flickered ominously with an orange-red hue. “Now, let me give you a taste of dragon magic.”

The crown of the forest swayed beneath the glow of a hellish dawn. The Tharyn and Lafeara armies paused, their unease as tangible as the sulfuric taste of destruction that coated the breeze just before clouds erupted and shattered the earth below in a deluge of hellfire.

The mountain trembled at Tristan’s feet as forest and armies vanished in an instant. The projectiles of heavenly brimstone descended and exploded in an endless volley of fury until all that remained of the western territories of Lafeara was a lake of burning souls, a reborn pure-blood fire witch, and the Goddess of Death and Destruction, Kritanta.

Eleanora followed the palace steward with her parents, Lord Alastair and Lady Isabella, close behind her. They moved in absolute silence through the sand and marble sculpted halls of the Scorpion Palace. Eleanora shivered as the open windows permitted just enough of the cold morning breeze outside to send goosebumps up and down her arms.

The steward led them to a side chamber, which he unlocked and opened. “If the Lord and Ladies would please wait here until you are summoned.”

Eleanora fidgeted with the hem of her transparent veil as she entered. She examined the familiar, private space that connected to the throne room through another door in the back corner. She headed towards the door promptly and tested the handle. “It’s locked,” she muttered tensely.

“You must be patient, Eleanora,” Lady Isabella hushed as she took her daughter’s arm, adjusted Eleanora’s veil, and then pulled her towards a long comfortable sofa set before a glass bowl of exotic fish.

“I would feel less impatient if I knew why the Emperor had summoned us so suddenly,” Eleanora grumbled as she grabbed the nearest pillow and hugged it against her lap. She picked the golden flecks from its woven cover absently as she focused on Lord Alastair. “You heard it too, Father. The palace servants were gossiping about an attack at our border near Deadwood forest. What if Ventrayna goes to war with Lafeara?”

Isabella glanced towards her husband, who waited silently by the door. His fingers fidgeted with his empty sword belt as he sighed.

“If there was an attack, it more than likely had something to do with the Tharyn,” Isabella said reasonably. “Or some manner of trickery from the Pope.”

“Father.” Eleanora turned her pleading gaze towards the silent Lord, who had once been a prominent member of Lafeara nobility and government before he married Lady Isabella. “Can you hear nothing?”

Lord Alastair turned towards his wife and daughter and shifted his brows uncertainly.

“No!” Isabella interjected. “Until we know what has happened, we mustn’t do anything to anger the Emperor!”

“Father, please!”

Alastair drew his lips into a thin line as his topaz-blue eyes examined the door at the end of the room. He silently mouthed an incantation, and the women fell silent as his invisible magic slipped past them through the cracks into the throne room.

“Alastair!” Isabella hissed urgently.

Alastair’s steady gaze remained focused on the door. Shock and anger flashed across his face before he blinked and turned to Eleanora. “Tristan is dead.”

Eleanora’s fingers dug into the pillow on her lap as Isabella gasped.

“The Tharyn princes ambushed him at Deadwood Pass,” Alastair explained solemnly.

Isabella turned towards her frozen daughter and grasped Eleanora’s hands with tender concern. “Elly.”

Eleanora’s amber eyes filtered around the room as her shoulder and jaw slackened, and her trembling lips trailed out a single response. “Dead?”

Alastair quickly moved beside his shocked daughter and wrapped an arm around her gently. “I’m sorry, Elly.”

“You shouldn’t have told her—they will know you listened in just by looking at her,” Isabella hissed angrily.

“No—it’s—better that I compose myself—before meeting the Emperor,” Eleanora whispered numbly. Her veil trembled as she fought to control her anguished breathing.

A knock proceeded the turning of a lock, and Ambassador Haemish entered through the side courtroom door. His sharp gaze swept over their huddled position around Eleanora, and he sighed. “Really, Lord Alastair.”

Haemish turned, shut the door, and then moved towards the sofa, his gaze focused on his niece. “I can see you already know. I am sorry for the upsetting news, Eleanora. The border troops managed to dig out one survivor who had a final message for you from—Prince Tristan.” He knelt, took her hand, and placed the gold scorpion medallion against her palm.

“A—message?” Eleanora rasped.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my promise,” Haemish relayed and then patted her knee awkwardly before he straightened.

“Who—was the messenger?”

“A knight captain of the Red Wolf Army, one of its sole survivors by the looks of it.”

“Who?” Eleanora repeated sharply.

“Elly,” Isabella hushed.

“It’s alright,” Haemish murmured as he hooked a thumb through the silk belt of his official robes. “Captain Garrett Durante, son of the Wolfhound Colonel, who also perished while protecting the prince’s escape.”

“Where is he?” Eleanora asked as she rose from her seat, the pillow falling unnoticed at her feet.

“Elly, you should take a moment,” Alastair urged as he moved between her and the Ambassador.

“Your father is right,” Haemish agreed quickly. “At present, Captain Garrett is barely conscious and being seen to by the royal physicians. He has suffered extensive injuries—there is no guarantee he will survive to see tomorrow. The Emperor has given him a room in the palace as a sign of respect to his father.”

“Very well.” Eleanora looked down at the necklace and scraped her nail against the blood and dirt that lined the scorpion’s body. Disbelief and grief battled within her chest as she struggled to maintain her composure and clenched her fist tightly around the engagement gift she had presented Tristan. “I will visit the captain later. If you’ll excuse me—”

“Actually.” Haemish held up an arm quickly to block her path. “There is one other matter I’ve been instructed to inform you of, Princess Eleanora.”

Eleanora tensed at the mention of her title and turned wary amber eyes towards him. “What does the Emperor require of me now, uncle?”

“Nothing really,” Haemish replied as his usually bored expression twisted with the hint of a smile. “Except to inform you that your marriage to Lafeara’s future king still stands.”

Eleanora heard her mother’s gasp as her father brushed past her and slammed Haemish up against the wall.

“What game are you playing at?” Alastair snarled. “Her fiancé just died. Eleanora was engaged to Tristan, not Nicholas!”

“On paper, she is engaged to the next king of Lafeara, which is now Prince Nicholas,” Haemish replied with a grimace. “Now, let me go, or I will alert the shadow guards.”

“Alastair,” Isabella pleaded.

“I won’t do it,” Eleanora breathed out. The scorpion’s tail bit into her palm as her trembling grip tightened. “I won’t—I can’t marry Tristan’s brother.”

Alastair grunted and slowly lowered the Ambassador to his feet. “And there you have it. Eleanora will not marry Nicholas.”

Haemish shook off the noble’s grasp and smoothed out his garment. Then he turned his steady cold gaze towards Eleanora, shook his head, and gave her a pitiless smile.

“You don’t have a choice, Princess. This is the Emperor’s command.”

 

Interlude III: The Betrayed Prince

 

A dark circus of shadows loomed over Tristan as the mountains tilted, and the ground swayed below. The familiar cadence of an army in movement hummed past the muted rattle of wagon wheels and the pulsing drums of pain that spread along his skull. When he was finally able to pry his dry eyes open, Tristan found himself, not in a tent, but the back of a Red Wolf supply wagon. The hilt of his Commander’s sword glistened against his chest, and he was in full battle armor—as if they had dressed him for a funeral.

The dark thought twisted Tristan’s dry, numb lips into a bitter smile. ‘Still alive—for now.’

Garret sat nearby. The knight’s back jostled against the wagon’s high panel walls, while his arms remained braced against the sword that lay across his lap. Streaks of blood shadowed the knight captain’s face. His unfocused gaze stared across the wagon into the distance, fighting sleep and exhaustion.

Tristan swallowed the cobwebs in his throat as he attempted to move his right arm, his sword arm, but it remained as lifeless and numb as his useless, bandaged left leg. ‘Damn it!’

The wagon bumped over a hole, and Garrett snapped fully awake, his blade half-yanked from its sheath before he spotted Tristan’s open eyes.

“Your Highness!” Relief flooded the knight captain’s face as he sheathed his sword and leaned over to grasped Tristan’s left arm. “How are you feeling?”

“W-water,” Tristan croaked.

“Just a moment!” Garrett fumbled with his sword as he uncorked the canteen beside him. “Slow the wagon a moment. His Highness needs to drink!”

Whispers that sounded like prayers echoed around the supply wagon as Garrett slid his arm behind Tristan’s neck and brought the open canteen closer.

“Don’t drink the water or wine.”

Tristan pushed the canteen away and vomited over the side of the cot.

“Captain Garrett, how is he?” Durante’s voice echoed above them as the Colonel’s red warhorse puffed warm air over the wagon in their direction.

“Puking his royal guts out—as you can see,” Garrett replied with restrained calm.

“Hang in there, your Highness. We’re nearly out of the mountains.”

“H-ow long—” Tristan spat out the lingering putrid taste “—was I out?”

“Not long, your Highness,” Durante answered as he gestured towards the cliffs above them. “It’s about mid-morning now. We’ve been traveling since you were attacked last night.”

Colonel Durante’s countenance was ragged and pale. Even Durante’s armor lacked its usual imposing shine beneath the drying splatter of mud and dust. But one look into his mentor’s dark-hazel eyes told Tristan that the danger was far from over.

The Colonel turned and shouted to a nearby soldier, “Tell General Liam to pick up the pace. I want to be out of these foul mountains before I see the bloody sun come over those mountains.”

“Yes, Colonel,” the soldier snapped a salute and hastened from view.

“This path—” Tristan observed the strange purple moss that crept up the side of the ravine and black shrubs around them “—is this the path we took last night?”

“General Liam’s guide could have us going in circles for all I know,” Garrett growled as he lifted the cloak from Tristan’s injured shoulder. “The bandage is soaked again. It won’t stop bleeding.”

“Physician!” Durante snapped. The army medic quickly hopped off the back of a knight’s horse and then clambered onto the back of the wagon to squeeze in beside Garrett.

“The powder should have worked by now,” the physician explained fretfully. “But his blood isn’t congealing properly at all.”

“We’ve kept him as still as possible, so what’s the problem then?” Garrett snapped.

“Poison?” Tristan muttered as the image of the blue ghoul holding a dagger wet with Tristan’s blood, flashed behind his eyes.

“A blood-thinning agent would explain this,” the physician admitted unhappily. “In which case, my experience is limited. Keep pressure on the wound and a tourniquet on the limb. We need to return to the capital as quickly as possible for a stronger counteragent. The longer we delay, the more likely his Highness could bleed out—or lose a limb.”

“Right, I’ll go see what’s going on with this guide that General Liam is following,” Durante growled and whistled for his hounds. “Your Highness, as uncomfortable as it may be, please try to keep still and rest.”

Tristan grunted and waved his good hand weakly. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

Durante and his baying hounds galloped on ahead while Garrett resumed his uneasy scowl as the medic double-checked the tourniquets and tightened the pressure on Tristan’s shoulder. Then both men sat back upon the barrels of barley grain, which served as the army’s gruel.

The view of the mountain above Tristan remained the same as the shadows stretched, lightened, and changed course as the wagon wheels jostled and bumped along the pathway that grew narrower before them. The sun threatened to defy Durante’s wrath as it climbed steadily overhead, and Tristan knew without asking that they were lost.

As if to confirm his darkening thoughts, the wagon rolled to a halt as hooves of horses rapidly approached.

“Your Highness!” General Liam’s voice called out.

Tristan gestured to Garrett, who reluctantly helped the prince sit up upon the cot. Liam quickly bowed his head as Durante pulled up beside him.

“Forgive the delay, your Highness. My guide got turned around in the early hours, but we are back on the correct path now,” Liam explained hastily.

“Or so your guide claims,” Durante growled.

Liam shot the Colonel an exasperated look but quickly masked his annoyance. “Unfortunately, the path we were on to return to our original route has been blocked off—”

“Of course, it is!”

“—which leads us to a choice I wished to run past your Highness.”

“Right, now he wants to run decisions past his Commander,” Durante growled.

“Which would be?” Tristan asked impatiently. As much as he shared the Colonel’s anger, his pounding head could not deal with the clamor of their bickering.

Liam shifted in his saddle. “We can turn around and go through the mountains to our original path—”

“Veles breath! And spend another day in Tharyn territory?” Durante roared.

“—or we can take an alternate path up ahead that will bring us to Deadwood Forest,” Liam finished tensely as his face flickered between resignation and anger.

“Deadwood Forest will take us into Ventrayna territory,” Tristan replied with restrained anger. The very thought of entering Ventrayna before his mission to defeat the Tharyn invaders had been completed— “Is that the only path ahead that will take us out of Fogtooth Mountain?”

“Exactly so.” Liam pulled a map from his saddle, dismounted, and spread it over a box of dried meat beside Tristan. “The path we will need to take is here. We enter Deadwood at this junction then take a detour south-east to this ridge, at which point we would be safely inside Lafearian mountains and close to one of our border fortresses.”

“And you expect the Emperor’s border guards to let us waltz through?” Durante snapped.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Liam countered bluntly. “Since Tristan is the Emperor’s son and still engaged to Princess Eleanora.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes as suspicion coiled in his gut. On the surface, it might look like Liam was just trying to lead the army through the safest route back to Lafeara, but to travel half the night and morning just to coincidentally end up lost with only one safe path that would deliver Tristan to Ventrayna?

‘Am I overthinking it? Liam has been with the Red Wolf Army almost as long as I have been its Commander.’

“It is the safest route,” Garrett interjected. “And should we encounter the Emperor’s men, we can request medical aid as well, your Highness.”

“As loath as I am to admit it,” the physician added. “Witches are very proficient in poisons and antidotes. I’ve no doubt they are the prince’s best chance at saving his limbs.”

‘Well, with that enlightening vote of approval.’ Tristan glanced down at his limp sword arm. “How long would it take us to backtrack, find the original path, and returned to Wolfthorn Forest?”

“A day, possibly longer,” Liam answered grimly.

“At which point your Highnesses arm and leg will be lost and require amputation—and your life very well in danger,” the physician commented.

Tristan refrained from glaring at the unhelpful medic. He had expected as much. “And the path to Deadwood Forest?”

“We should reach it within a couple hours, your Highness.”

‘Guess that’s the better option, no matter how little I like it.’ Tristan sighed. “Colonel Durante, thoughts?”

“Given your Highness’s condition—Deadwood Pass is likely the safest path forward,” Durante relented unhappily. “But if that guide gets us lost one more time, I’ll put his head on a pike and watch the eagles pluck his eyes out.”

“I’m sure that will provide him with ample motivation,” Liam replied tersely as he rolled up the map, bowed to Tristan, and returned to his horse. “I’ll get us moving again. The pace might be a bit rough, so let me know if we need to slow down for his Highness.”

Tristan watched the General ride off and glared at the mountains as Garrett helped him settle back down against the bloody blanket of the cot. ‘If I die in these mountains, King Henri and the Dowager will be pleased.’ The helpless rage that welled within his chest barely sparked his magic before it withered out in cold acceptance.

Just as General Liam predicted, the increased pace brought with it heightened discomfort and pain as the prince swayed and bounced in his cot. Tristan bore it all with clenched teeth. His crippled limbs might be useless, but the wounds inflicted by the assassin’s dagger roared to life with each abrupt jostle.

Beside him, Garrett winced and scowled at every bump, intermittently checking Tristan’s injuries and muttering to himself. As if the agonizing pain alone wasn’t enough, the swaying motion of the wagon soon had Tristan heaving into a bucket Garrett had ready for him this time.

“Oh, nearly forgot, saved this for you,” the knight commented as Tristan rinsed his mouth with water and spit. Garrett fumbled with a leather satchel and pulled out the ominous blue ghoul mask. “Something to hang on your wall in Ventrayna.”

Tristan laughed dryly as he stared at the mask and then held out his hand. Garrett handed over the grim memento and set about dealing with the puke bucket.

The demonic mask had high arched brows, dark fiendish eyes, a sloped flaring nose, and a fanged mouth. Tristan flicked his finger against the painted blue metal. “Witch Steel,” he muttered.

‘The Dowager must have planned pretty far in advance if she got ahold of an assassin from Ventrayna. Perhaps she even found someone to act as a member of the Emperor’s shadow guards to frame me with that dagger and letter?’

Dark conspiracies filled his head as Tristan passed the mask back to Garrett. “I appreciate the thought, Captain,” Tristan said as he reached beneath his chain mail and bloody tunic. “Now, I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

“Oye.” Garrett narrowed his eyes at the scorpion medallion that Tristan pulled free and unclasped from his neck. “I don’t think—”

“If the worst should happen, I want you to return this to Eleanora,” Tristan interrupted firmly. “Tell her what’s happened, all of it. Tell her to stay away from Lafeara at all costs.” He held the necklace between them and glared at the knight captain until his friend relented and accepted the token. “And tell her—that I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my promise.”

“This goes against every superstition I’ve ever known,” Garrett growled. “Just so you know, if the worst should happen, I’ll be dying before your royal ass.”

Tristan laughed and gripped the side of the cot as he spat blood and bile into the bucket. “Don’t be too sure.”

Garrett clasped the necklace around his neck and held up the golden scorpion with his thumb. “I think it looks good on me.”

“Bastard.”

“Actually—” Garrett’s eyes narrowed as his gaze rose up the side of the mountain “—what in Veles’ breath is this!”

Tristan followed the knight captain’s frantic gaze. Fog rolled down the mountainside towards them with unnatural speed.

“Light torches!” Garrett shouted as the pace of the army noticeably slowed. “On your guard, men!” The frantic movements of soldiers about the wagon soon produced a line of torches that glowed eerily as the ominous fog descended with silent ferocity and swirled ominously around them.

“This is a new trick,” muttered the wagon driver uneasily.

A horse screamed, and one of Durante’s hounds bellowed savagely. Tristan and Garret recognized the sound and what it signified just as the warning horn boomed through the dense clouds of mist.

“We’re under attack! Get ready!” Garrett roared.

The rumble of an army echoed through the shadows before and behind them. The savage whoops and screams of pagans bounced off the mountain walls as Tristan dragged himself upright and pulled his sword from its sheath.

Garrett took his shoulder gently and shook his head. “Knights, defensive shield formation!” Five knights climbed into the wagon to erect a protective barrier of shields around Tristan, and Garrett, who crammed in close beside him. The sounds of two armies engaging reverberated around them.

“Are they in front or behind us?” Tristan hissed.

Garrett shifted and slid his head and shoulders through the knight’s shields. A few moments later, he returned and shook his head. “We’re surrounded, and the Cavlary is no good in these cramped mountain paths.”

“How close are we to Deadwood Pass?”

Garrett shrugged helplessly, then growled as he seized the knight to his right. “Lieutenant Cantu, I’m leaving his Highness with you. Make sure he stays in the wagon, alive and in one piece, or I’ll feed your entrails to the hounds.”

“Yes, Captain!” Cantu replied promptly.

Garrett turned back to Tristan. “Stay put, your Highness. I’ve got a plan. I’ll be back soon.”

“Be careful!” Tristan shouted after him and clenched his sword’s hilt tightly.

‘Damn that assassin. My crippled bastard hide is going to get us all killed.’

The clanging sounds of metal bleed into the shouts and screams of war that rose into a blood-thirsty crescendo as the battle raged on. Tristan waited patiently in his tiny protective bubble, inwardly torn between guilt and frustration as he counted the minutes to Garrett’s return.

“Your Highness!” Durante’s commanding voice preceded the snarl of hounds. Tristan propped himself up unsteadily, using his sword as a cane, and pushed against the shield before him.

“Please, your Highness, stay put,” Cantu pleaded as he held his shield firm. “I’d rather not be eaten by dogs.”

Tristan cursed, but his quivering leg forced him to return to the cot. A few tense moments later and Cantu, who kept watch between the barrier’s tight space, suddenly lowered his shield.

“Highness,” Durante panted as he gripped the side of the wagon. “We need to get you out of here.”

“What’s going on?” Tristan demanded. “How many pagans are there?”

“Three of Tharyn’s princes are here, earth witches all of them and nearly five thousand pagans between them,” the Colonel answered grimly.

Tristan’s breath caught in his throat as he quickly calculated their rapidly depleting odds of survival.

“But we’re close enough to Deadwood Path that a small squadron should be able to push through with our cavalry. If we delay any further, we’ll lose this chance.” Durante turned to the knights around him. “Get his Highness onto his horse!”

“Where is Garrett?” Tristan demanded as Cantu hopped down from the carriage. The other knights lowered their shields and lifted Tristan to where Cantu pulled the prince’s black warhorse beside the wagon. Tristan grit his teeth as they eased him into the back of the horse. The moment his weight settled into the saddle, he felt the wound along his inner thigh reopen again.

“Garrett is waiting with the cavalry. I’ll take you there, your Highness,” Durante explained as he eased Tristan’s left foot into the stirrup and tied a lead to the black stallion’s harness. “Hold onto the reins, and don’t let go. If you can’t stay in the saddle, Garrett can carry you behind him, but don’t stop for any other reason.”

“Why does it sound like you’re not coming with us, Colonel?”

Durante did not answer as he hoisted himself atop the red warhorses and pulled Tristan along beside him.

The chaos Tristan had heard from inside the wagon was even closer than he realized. Only three-hundred paces away, the pagans were battering their way mercilessly through the Red Wolf Army’s front ranks.

The overwhelming number of enemies was not the only danger his men faced. A suspicious rumble from the mountain above proceeded a rockslide of small boulders and stone that struck the sides of the Red Wolf Army with little warning.

‘The work of the pagan princes.’ Tristan squinted his eyes over the clouds of dust and men to see two banners ahead of him. ‘The third prince must be behind us, but how did they find us? How did they know to intercept us here? Was the guide leading us into an ambush this whole time?’

A jumble of thirty men on horses skittered away from another rockslide. Garrett was amongst them, shouting out encouragement as he kept the men together.

Durante eased back his warhorse and grabbed Tristan’s left hand. “We’ll meet again, your Highness, after I’ve smashed enough pagan skulls to block the path behind you,” the Colonel said as he wrapped the reins tightly around Tristan’s wrist. Garrett joined them and took the lead from his father. “You keep him alive now,” Durante ordered as he narrowed his gaze on his son.

“Keep yourself alive, old man,” Garrett grumbled. “I’ll send back help as quickly as I can.”

“His Highness’s wellbeing comes first,” Durante barked as he turned his red warhorse back towards the chaos. “And these pagans will regret underestimating the Red Wolf Army.” The Colonel lifted the ram horn slung about his shoulder and blew out a signal to advance.

A reserve of Red Wolf Soldiers lowered their spears and braced their shields as they rushed steadily through the ranks that opened ahead. The pagans swept through, still screaming in their foreign tongues even as the Red Wolf Spears pierced through them as their shield swept together like a tide of merging bulls and rammed back against the unbalanced stream of pagans.

The battle continued with renewed desperation as the Red Wolf spear unit pushed the pagans back. The retreating Red Wolf soldiers reformed behind the spears with swords raised high while the archers at their back launched a series of volleys into the fray before them. Colonel Durante led the remaining hundred and seventy cavalrymen, still blowing the notes of war as the pagans lost their momentum and fumbled to regroup.

Garrett whistled sharply, and the cavalry unit selected to protect Tristan lunged into the break, towards the suddenly visible narrow pass that led to Deadwood forest.

It was only then that Tristan realized General Liam and his regiment were nowhere in sight. His spine went rigid as his limbs went cold, and blood rushed to his ears. Only Colonel Durante’s regiment of six hundred men remained to face the pagan’s five thousand. Tristan exhaled sharply and clenched his teeth together so hard that his mouth filled with the taste of blood and betrayal.

 

Interlude II: Mask of the Ghoul

 

The ragged, jaunting edges of Fogtooth Mountain loomed over the Red Wolf Army as they trudged their way through the narrow ravine. Tristan reined in the black warhorse as, once again, war horns signaled the scouts had lost the trail of their quarry.

“Damn those bloody pagans!” Captain Garrett swore as Colonel Durante’s forces slowed to a halt behind the second regiment, led by General Liam.

“That’s the trouble with chasing down a smaller, lighter force that’s tactically more familiar with the terrain and mountains,” Colonel Durante replied with a hint of sarcasm. He slipped two fingers between his lips and whistled. Two war hounds, one a soft gray the other doe brown, ran through the lines of Red Wolf Soldiers towards their master. “What did you hungry devils find?”

“Looks like they caught a piece of one,” Garrett observed as he dismounted and pried a bloody rag from the gray hound’s fangs. “It’s smeared with some sort of mud or paint?”

“The Tharyn’s have camouflaged themselves,” Durante muttered and heaved a weary sigh. “We’ll be chasing our own tails at this rate.”

“Give it here.” Tristan held out his hand, and Garrett passed over the cloth, which the prince inspected. “It will certainly be hard to spot them now that night is approaching. It’s been bothering me for a while, but why did the pagans linger at the border? Normally raiding parties are gone by the time an army can even get this far. It’s almost like they were prepared and waiting for us.”

“Now that you mention it,” Garrett grumbled as he turned uneasy eyes to the mountains around them.

A flutter of wings drew the crossbows of nearby soldiers to the sky. Tristan followed the echo of wings and spotted, not the mountain eagles that had been harassing them all day, but a smaller, darker bird.

“Don’t shoot!” Tristan shouted. “It’s a crow, not an eagle.”

The archers lowered their weapons as Tristan pulled a thin whistle from inside his glove, blew on it, and held out his wrist. After the prince played the correct tune, the crow circled and swooped down to alight upon Tristan’s wrist.

“And who would be sending you messages way out here, your Highness?” Durante asked curiously.

“Lord Percy,” Tristan replied as he pried loose the string affixed to a note around the crow’s leg. “No doubt, he’s caught wind of current events.”

“Be wary of that one. Percy’s more tenacious than he lets on, and cunning like his father.”

Tristan shook his head and unscrolled the note.

“The Dowager has sent someone to assassinate you. Don’t drink water or wine. Trust no one.”

“Ha—” Tristan crumpled the note and flung it into the dense, dry shrubs.

“Bad news?” Garrett asked.

“Let’s not linger here,” Tristan replied as he cast the crow back into the sky and watched it climb up the ravine. “I’d rather not run the men ragged on a wild goose chase this deep inside Tharyn territory—or worse, lead them into an ambush.”

“Captain Connor!” Durante barked. The war hounds’ ears pricked up at their master’s tone. A young knight captain eyed the beasts warily as he moved his steed closer to the Colonel. “Send word to General Liam. We’ll withdraw back to Lafeara’s border and set camp.”

“Yes, Colonel!” The knight captain saluted and spun his bay mare towards the front lines.

“Captain Garrett,” Tristan added sharply. “Get our men into formation and make sure the scouts keep their eyes peeled. I don’t want to lose a single cavalry unit to so much as a gopher hole.”

“On it, Colonel.” Garrett turned his gray stallion towards the row of calvary behind them and selected three lieutenants to carry the prince’s order to the backline.

“Turning an army of this size around in the bloody mountain. What a nightmare,” Durante muttered and clucked his tongue as he encouraged his giant red warhorse to change direction.

“And General Liam was so confident that we’d catch the pagan pillagers by now,” Tristan agreed sarcastically as his gaze dropped to the canteen tied to his saddle.

‘I drank some earlier—I don’t feel any different—am I already poisoned, or is this canteen safe?’

“Where’s your head at, your Highness?” Durante barked.

Tristan snapped his attention back to the Colonel and sighed. “My heads a bit of a mess right now, Colonel. You know that.”

“Well, pull it out of the mud, your Highness,” Durante replied impatiently. “We’re not out of danger yet.” He slapped a hand across Tristan’s back and clucked his tongue as the giant red warhorse picked up its hooves and bucked against the Colonel’s restraining grip.

The muffled thunder of rapidly approaching hooves drew Tristan’s attention back to the forward regiment as Captain Connor reappeared.

“Colonel! Your Highness!” the Captain shouted as he waved an arm.

Tristan tightened his grip on the reins and eyed the back of Liam’s regiment that still had not turned around. “What is it?”

“General Liam asks leave to set camp here as it’s already near dusk, and the men are tired.”

“He wants to camp here?” Durante growled with evident exasperation. “In enemy territory.”

“General Liam says he can manage on his own if your Highness wishes to withdraw with the First Regiment.”

“Splitting up is an even worse idea, what has gotten into him today,” Tristan muttered. He glanced towards Durante, who glowered at the mountains around them with the same suspicion Tristan could not shake. “I don’t like it either, but he has a point. We’ve wondered in too far, and if we take a wrong turn in the dark, we might be the worse for it.”

“Understood, Commander,” Durante replied with a heavy sigh.

“Tell the General his request is granted, but I want the number of night guards tripled from each regiment and on rotating shifts. We break camp at first light tomorrow.” Tristan waved his hand, and the Captain turned around once more to relay his orders. “Perhaps General Liam doesn’t feel the need to listen to this bastard anymore,” the prince added sourly under his breath.

Tristan felt the slap aimed at the back of his head but didn’t bother to dodge it.

“Better?” Durante growled.

“Much,” Tristan replied with a wince as he shook his head. “Let’s set up camp.”

Tristan tossed restlessly for most of the night as he listened to the sounds of soldiers settling down while the night wind blew through the ravine around them. At some point, the weariness of the day’s ride pulled him into a restless dream, and he found himself in the mountains alone, surrounded on all sides by fog and angry voices.

“Bastard.”

“Liar.”

“Traitor.”

“Witch!”

The words slithered and echoed inside his skull even as Tristan stumbled through the rocky ravine, looking for Captain Garrett, Colonel Durante, and the Red Wolf Army. ‘How did I miss an entire army departing? And why would they leave me behind?’

Logic told him this was just a dream, but Tristan could not break free from the chill of loss, betrayal, and abandonment.

The obscure path before him turned upwards. Tristan’s gaze drifted towards the rising moon illuminated above the canopy of fog.

“Tristan.”

His chest ached as the memory of his mother’s voice, once long forgotten, returned to him—and Tristan no longer cared if this was a dream or a nightmare. He climbed the path, sword drawn, eyes warily searching the shadowed rocks and boulders as he slipped past them.

“Tristan, come.”

The moon glowed like an ethereal giant at the mountain’s peak, and before it stood the woman in red. Her white hair floated around her shadowed face like rays of moonlight while her scarlet gown whispered above the ground she did not touch. She extended a slender pale hand towards him and beckoned. “Come, Tristan. Your queen is waiting.”

A harsh chill encircled him as he took a step forward. Tristan stared down at small pale arms wrapped around his waist and turned to find a little dark-haired girl pressed against his back. Her face was hidden beneath her dark midnight hair, but the crown of frost she wore chilled him through his armor. Tristan struggled against her hold, but her ice-like skin resisted his grasp and held firm.

“Wake up,” the frost child whispered desperately. “Tristan. Wake up, or they will kill you.”

The strange child’s warning sparked like a cold flame across his skin as Tristan turned towards the woman in red. Beneath the shadows, her welcoming smile cracked open to reveal fanged teeth as she flew down the mountain path towards them.

“Too late—”

Pain shot through his chest as Tristan’s eyes snapped open. The mountain, the moon, the frost child, and the sinister woman were gone—and in their place, a blue ghoul’s mask loomed over the prince as a dagger descended towards his chest.

Tristan flung his arms between them instinctively. The blade sliced through his left forearm and struck bone as Tristan thrust himself from the bed and kicked the intruder away.

The assassin dropped low with inhuman speed and took out Tristan’s supporting leg. The prince crashed onto his side, then rolled under the bed and atop his sword.

“Garrett!” he yelled and drew the blade free. The assassin kicked the cot aside and lunged after him. Tristan swung his sword in a narrow arch as he rolled onto his hip. The killer danced back and hesitated, seemingly perturbed, as the blue ghoul mask tilted to one side to examine him. “Connor!”

‘Where are my bodyguards?’

“Don’t bother,” the assassin cackled. “I took care of your knights before I came in. And yelling won’t help—” he held up a hand and tapped a wide bracelet embedded with moonstone gems “—this enchantment means no one will hear you, no matter how close they come to the tent.”

‘An enchantment? Mercy’s tit. But does that mean the magic will only work while we remain inside the tent?’ Tristan grit his teeth as he shifted into a defensive stance. ‘I just have to get past him and outside.’ His vision seemed cloudy, his focus unsteady, even his limbs were unusually heavy. Tristan shook his head sluggishly—and dodged as the assassin came at him with the speed of a striking viper.

He deflected the dagger again—but not the assassin’s second blade. Pain burned along his inner thigh as the blue mask dipped beneath Tristan’s backswing, and the killer rolled away, once more between Tristan and the tent door.

“She said you’d be drugged and unable to wake up,” the blue ghoul commented casually.

“She? Who? The Dowager?”

The assassin laughed. “Wouldn’t be much of a professional killer if I told you that, now would I?”

“Guess you’re not so confident about killing me,” Tristan taunted. “Otherwise, what harm could come from telling a dead man.”

The blue ghoul cackled as he raised a dagger, fresh with the blood from Tristan’s leg, and shrugged. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the poison to take effect while you and I exchange pointless banter. But I’ll tell you what, Prince, drop the sword, and I’ll give you a name right before I send you off to the underworld.”

Tristan growled. The burning in his left leg had gone numb too quickly. ‘Damn it, of course an assassin would use poison.’ The blurriness returned as the blue mask before him faded from two, to one, to three.

“A lesson for your next life, prince. Any assassin worth his weight in gold will prep his blade with poison. In the worst-case scenario, it will wear down a tough opponent or kill the one who manages to run away.”

“I’m not running anywhere,” Tristan growled as he shifted once more into a protective stance.

The assassin chuckled and beckoned with his blade. “Neither am I.”

‘I’m running out of time, and he knows it.’ Tristan calmed his expression as he surveyed the tent around them. ‘I said I wouldn’t run, but if I don’t get outside—well, I’m already a disgraced prince.’ He smiled and locked eyes with the demonic black gaze of the ghoul’s blue mask.

He lunged forward, but the assassin moved quicker. This time Tristan blocked both blades with his sword and then shoved his fist into the assassin’s face as flames ignited from his palm and spiraled towards the blue mask.

The assassin stumbled as he leapt back with a startled gasp. He recovered with admirable dexterity, but Tristan had already shoved past him through the tent flaps. A drizzle of rain greeted the prince before his injured leg skid across the slick mud and sent Tristan crashing down into the muck. He rolled with the momentum of his fall and came up on his knees. The tent flaps moved as the killer blurred through them.

“Garrett!” Tristan shouted at the top of his lungs as he struggled to rise. His left leg buckled as soon as he regained his footing, and then the assassin was upon him.

“Thought you said you wouldn’t run!” the ghoul hissed as Tristan deflected his attack.

“I lied,” Tristan snarled and swung his blade. His attack was slow—too slow. The poison coursing through him made the assassin’s movement increasingly challenging to follow. The blue mask moved like a blur, and then a sharp pain in Tristan’s wrist sent his Commander’s sword spiraling out into the darkness.

Tristan shielded his neck and chest instinctively and caught the assassin’s wrist by pure luck—but not before the savage impact of the blue ghoul’s attack knocked him back down into the slippery earth. His fingers, coated with mud and blood, slid free from the assassin’s blade, which buried itself into his shoulder.

Searing pain ripped past Tristan’s lips as the fire in his left arm shout outwards and engulfed the assassin’s face and arms. This time the blue ghoul did not retreat, though a strained growl of agonizing pain slipped past his emotionless mask.

Then a blurred volley of punches battered into Tristan’s face. His skull rang, his vision spun, and blood filled his mouth as he fought past the pain to remain conscious.

“Fuck!” Tristan roared. He kicked his right foot against the ground as he tried to shake the assassin free. His right arm, his sword arm, had gone entirely numb along with his left leg.

All too quickly, the magic burning from his left hand flickered out and died.

“Hell’s Teeth,” the assassin whispered hoarsely. “Guess you’re not much of a witch after all.” The blue ghoul yanked the blade free from Tristan’s shoulder and raised it above the prince’s throat. A cross-bolt hissed through the air and jammed into the side of the ghoul’s neck with a quiet yet triumphant thud.

“Your Highness!” Garrett’s voice crashed through Tristan’s pounding heart as the mirage of three—no, four ghouls danced before his eyes. Blood trickled down from beneath the blue mask as the assassin toppled over beside him into the mud. “Tristan!”

Garrett’s face was above him. Two knights raced past with blades drawn.

“Sound the bloody alarm!” Garrett snapped as he yanked the cape from his shoulders and pressed it hurriedly against Tristan’s shoulder. “And drag the physician from his bed!”

The blast of a war horn filled the cold dark sky as Garret tightly wrapped Tristan’s shoulder and then moved down to bandage his leg.

“What is it?” Durante shouted as he rushed towards them, still in battle armor. “Your Highness! How did this happen? Where is Connor?”

“Dead, Colonel,” a knight reported. “So is Sir Bennett.”

“Assassin,” Tristan whispered as he raised his left hand and tried to keep the figures before him from blurring into each other. “Poison—”

“Get my medical kit now!” Durante roared.

“Fuck. Fuck!” Garrett muttered desperately as he fumbled with Tristan’s leg. “I need another pair of hands!”

Faces merged into each other even as the knight’s voices grew distant. The poison clawed across Tristan’s skin and wrapped his body inside its deadly numb cocoon. In the suffocating silence that filled his ears, Tristan watched the frost child kneel beside him as the moon illuminated her dark hair and frozen crown.

Warm hands touched the side of his face. Tristan grasped the wrist blindly and held on desperately as he stared into the child’s frightening ice-blue eyes.

“Don’t you dare quit on me, your Highness.” Durante’s voice boomed through the fading specter. “Here, eat this—” something wet and mushy pressed between Tristan’s lips. “—don’t choke on it like a dog. Chew, then swallow.”

Tristan willed himself to listen and held onto Durante as he swallowed down the bitter taste.

“Here’s a bit of water,” Durante murmured encouragingly. “Slowly, your Highness.”

Tristan drank, and for a moment, the darkness receded. He could see Garrett shouting at the physician for not moving fast enough. The knights of the Red Wolf Army were pressed in around him with pale, shaken faces. Tristan rolled his head to the side and stared at the blue ghoul mask of his would-be assassin. Its demonic black eyes stared at him defiantly across the bloody mud, welcoming him to hell.

“Don’t trust anyone!”

“Wake up, or they will kill you.”

“If they can kill a prince—they can kill a Queen.”

 

Interlude Part I: The Disgraced Prince

 

 

Lafeara. Poesy Palace. Two years before the Selection.

 

The Lafearian knights snapped to attention with startled expressions as Crown Prince Tristan stormed past them, a dripping goblet in one hand, down the marble halls of Peony Palace. Captain Garrett followed at the prince’s heels, his Red Wolf uniform splattered and streaked with remnants of vomit and blood.

The closed double doors of the throne room loomed before them as a knight stepped forward to intercept the angry prince. “Your Highness, his Majesty, and the Dowager are in a private meeting.”

“The Dowager is here too? Good!” Tristan shouldered past the knight lieutenant. Garrett subtly shifted a hand to his knight’s sword as the other knight moved to protest. His gesture did not go unnoticed, and the knights hesitated long enough for the crown prince to shove one of the doors open and enter—without permission.

‘Saint’s Mercy—we are so fucked!’

Tristan stepped through and hesitated for a moment at the threshold. Garrett removed his hand from the blade before he followed. A swift glance past the crown prince’s shoulder took in the matriarch of the royal family and several members of the House of Lords around King Henri’s throne.

To Henri’s right stood Dowager Octavia and Marquess Borghese, who turned towards Tristan with looks of disapproval, and something else that made Garrett’s skin crawl. To the King’s left: Prime Minister Attwood, Lord General Commander Stryker, and Garrett’s father, Colonel Durante, held mixed expressions of doubt, anger, and disbelief.

Garrett shifted his focus to King Henri. Lafeara’s current monarch now approached his fiftieth birthday, though the gray that filled out his light-auburn hair, the sallow complexion of his skin, and the shadows that clung to his eyes made him appear even older. One look at the seething fury in the King’s cobalt-blue eyes as he glared back at his eldest son told Garrett all he needed to know.

‘This isn’t going to end well.’

But before the knight captain could contemplate grabbing Tristan and wrestling him to safety, the crown prince strode forward and flung the goblet at the steps before the Dowager.

“Care to explain yourself, grandmother?” Tristan asked coldly.

“I don’t quite know what you mean, Tristan. Though by your tone and apparent disregard for courtesy to the King, I’m sure that you’ll have no problem filling me in,” Octavia replied, her tone patient but marked with cold cynicism.

Tristan scoffed, then turned and knelt, belatedly, before the King. “Forgive the intrusion, your Majesty, but I thought it best to warn you someone attempted to poison me this morning.” Tristan raised his head and turned his enraged ember eyes back to Octavia. “But for a strange mishap, I might be dead this very moment, instead of my bodyguard, Sir Aaron, who drank the wine meant for me.”

“Is this true!” Colonel Durante demanded as he turned to Garrett, who knelt behind Tristan but dared not raise his head. “Speak up, Captain!”

“It is, my Lord. Captain Aaron died after drinking from the Crown Prince’s cup this morning.”

“Fortunately, we were able to catch the servant who delivered the poison,” Tristan continued, his gaze still glued to Octavia. “Who confessed to being under the Dowager’s orders.”

“Fascinating,” Marquess Borghese interjected with a condescending sneer. “So they confessed—just like that, did they? And where is this treasonous poisoner?”

“In the prison cells under Commander Quentin’s protection,” Tristan replied. “Quentin was also present and can testify to the servant’s confession. I have it written here with the Knight Commander’s seal.” He pulled the document from within his jacket and presented it towards the King.

After a tense, awkward moment of silence, Colonel Durante stepped forward to accept and open the document. He scanned its contents with a hardened expression then presented it to the Prime Minister. “What’s written here matches the Crown Prince’s testimony.”

The Marquess snorted and glanced towards King Henri. “It would appear his Highness is accusing your esteemed mother of trying to murder him.”

Something in the way the Marquess said Tristan’s title set off a warning in Garrett’s gut. He glanced towards his father, but Colonel Durante was discussing something quietly with Lord General Stryker.

King Henri looked agitated as he stared down at an ornamental jewel box that rested on his lap between his clenched fingers.

“Regrettably, my accusations do not stop there,” Tristan continued as he rose to his feet, again without permission. “The manner in which Sir Aaron died was also highly suspicious. He vomited black blood while his lips, fingers, and eyes turned black and blue.”

“What?” Prime Minister Attwood whispered as the courtroom fell silent.

None of them mentioned the fact that these symptoms eerily mimicked those of the strange illness that had killed Queen Rosalinda. Then again, any mention of the late King’s wives was all but forbidden—let alone the topic of their deaths.

“Have you finished?” King Henri growled as he raised his cobalt-blue eyes. “You barge your way into my throne room to accuse the Dowager of attempting to poison you, and then you accuse her of poisoning Queen Rosalinda?”

Tristan focused on the King, mystified by the fierce anger that dripped from his father’s every word. ‘What has happened?’ He glanced towards Octavia and did not miss the tall tale smirk upon her lips or the smug confidence behind her ice-blue eyes. ‘Somehow, it feels like she’s one step ahead—again! But I can’t back down now. Someone has to stop this madness.’

Tristan turned to face the full wrath of King Henri’s gaze and answered firmly. “I stand by my claims and the evidence here presented before you. I would be more than happy to turn the matter over to Knight Commander Quentin for further investigation.”

The King sighed as Borghese snorted and shook his head.

“It’s a shame she did not succeed then,” Henri muttered as he tapped a jeweled finger against the box.

The blood drained from Tristan’s head as his father’s words fell like a gavel upon his chest. The anger and grief that had brought him here flickered out, and something unfamiliar and terrifying took its place. “Father?” King Henri smiled, and Tristan flinched beneath its cold malicious embrace.

“A gift arrived for you,” Henri said, his tone casual but devoid of any warmth. He raised the box in his lap and then flung it across the floor. The polished black wood engraved with two golden scorpions embedded with rubies collided with the crown prince’s boot.

Tristan stared down at the box in confusion.

“Open it, Prince Tristan,” Henri urged.

A sticky feeling of uncertainty coated the back of Tristan’s neck and hands as he knelt and picked up the box. He glanced towards the officials around the King, their expressions suddenly cold and unfamiliar, as if Tristan were some unknown outsider. Except for Durante, Tristan’s mentor and trusted confidant, who glared at the floor with tightened fists.

Tristan took a breath and straightened. Then he unhooked the latch, shaped like a scorpion’s tail, and opened the box.

A jeweled dagger lay inside. Its hilt shaped like a black flame wrapped in black leather, while the steel sheath was embedded with black diamonds and rubies that formed a decorative scorpion. It was a beautiful blade, clearly forged and crafted by one of Ventrayna’s Master Blacksmiths.

“Is this from Eleanora?” Tristan asked as he lifted the dagger. It was lighter than expected, so he wasn’t surprised when he pulled the blade free to find it made of witch-steel.

“Perhaps we should read him the letter that came with the gift?” Octavia suggested as she laid a hand gently on Henri’s shoulder.

Tristan narrowed his eyes, then sheathed and returned the dagger to the box and closed it. “What letter? And what does this have to do with the Dowager’s attempt on my life?”

“Read it, Stryker,” Henri commanded as he turned to the Lord General.

“Yes, your Majesty.” Stryker opened the parchment in his hand and read its contents aloud.

“Crown Prince Tristan,

Please accept this dagger and know that it is your birthright. You are the son of an Emperor, not the son of a King. Would that I had known the truth of your birth sooner. Would that I had treated your mother better and kept her at my side. I cannot undo the past, but I would not see you robbed of that which is rightfully yours.

I have no desire to impose my will upon you at this time. You are still young—but know that there will always be a place for you at my side.

May Kritanta’s flame bless and keep you safe.

Your true Father,

Emperor Arius Constantine.”

The Lord General folded up the letter and passed it to Prime Minister Attwood as all eyes returned to Tristan.

“General Stryker intercepted this gift from one of the Emperor’s shadow assassins,” King Henri hissed coldly. “I wonder—what other purposes those assassins had to enter Lafeara?”

Tristan’s jaw clenched as the box trembled visibly in his hands. ‘The timing is too perfect for this to not be a trap. To think a fancy dagger and forged letter could so easily persuade Father?’

“Have you anything to say, Prince Tristan?” King Henri demanded.

“It’s not true,” Tristan bellowed as he flung the box and dagger aside. “Where is this assassin? Are they still alive? Do they even exist?” He turned his gaze from Henri to Stryker. “Or is a pretty dagger and a letter all you have to accuse me? If I was truly the Emperor’s son, why would he wait until I’m almost a man to claim me? What has changed in the past decade that would suddenly convince him of this?”

Stryker blinked, and for a moment, his troubled gaze turned towards the Dowager.

“The poison you accuse me of administering to you,” Octavia interrupted smoothly. “Is not actually poison.”

“What?” Tristan snapped, both elated by her confession and baffled in the same breath.

“It is an herb called Aconitum, and you have been drinking it since you were five years old,” the Dowager continued. “As I’m sure you’ve read in your studies, Aconitum is a special herb raised by the royal family which has the power to suppress a witch’s power and even neutralize it if taken for a long period of time.”

Tristan gaped at her silently as horror, disbelief, and the invasive chill of fear spread throughout his body.

‘Why is she insisting on this nonsense? Of course, they can call me a witch since they all know my mother was one.’

“That proves nothing, Sir Aaron—”

“It is lethal to those who are not witches,” Octavia explained patiently. “But your mother clearly was one, so we could administer it to you safely. Unfortunately, there have been a few accidents along the way. Incidents like Sir Aaron, where people who did not know drank from a cup meant only for you.”

The weight of her words shattered the fog upon Tristan’s mind as realization sank in with suffocating guilt. “Queen Rosalind—”

“Drank from your glass when you were still a child.”

“But—she was ill for several days before she died—”

“As you grew older, your magic, instead of being suppressed, burned away the effects of the Aconitum, so we had to increase the dose and administer it more frequently.”

Tristan sucked in a breath as he clenched his fists. “Why—why didn’t you tell me—what if Nicholas had—”

“After Rosalind’s death, we realized more precautions needed to be taken. Sir Beaumont is aware of your identity and has always carefully monitored Prince Nicholas whenever he was around you. As I’m sure you know, part of Beaumont’s education as a knight and the prince’s bodyguard is detecting poisons, something he is especially good at.” Octavia moved gracefully down the steps towards Tristan. “As it stands, your built up resistance to Aconitum serves as proof that you are not the King’s son.”

“What?”

“Aconitum will suppress the magic of all but the most powerful of witches,” Octavia explained. “Pure-blood witches. And the only way one can be born a pure-blood witch—” she leaned in with a sympathetic smile as she brushed a drop of wine from his cheek “—is if both parents are strong coven witches.”

Tristan had no recollection of when the Dowager returned to King Henri’s side nor how he came to be kneeling on the floor. He felt only the weight of Garrett’s hand upon his shoulder as the world spun around him, accompanied by the words of the man he had once called father.

“Prince Tristan, you are hereby rightfully stripped of your title and the position of Crown Prince. You shall no longer be recognized as a prince of Lafeara. You and your mother are a disgrace to this royal family, and were Catalina still alive; I would burn her at the stake for keeping this treasonous secret from me.”

Garrett’s grip tightened, but Tristan lacked the will to move.

“I ought to burn you for killing Queen Rosalinda, but I have no wish for war with Ventrayna. So I will spare you for Nicholas’s sake.” There was a moment’s pause, during which the Dowager leaned down and whispered in King Henri’s ear. “Instead, as my last decree to the Commander of the Red Wolf Army, I order you to lead your forces to Wolfthorn Forest. Subjugate the pagans who have invaded our borders. Redeem your crimes against Lafeara with a victory.

“After the battle, you will pass command of the Red Wolf Army to Colonel Durante and continue your way to Ventrayna. Your father will no doubt welcome you with open arms. Do this—and I will not banish you from Lafeara for good—nor stop you from visiting Nicholas should he wish to see you in the future.”

Silence filled the throne room and accented the ringing in Tristan’s ears.

“Refuse, and I will have General Stryker arrest you and send you to Ventrayna as a eunuch,” King Henri spat.

Tristan stared numbly at the black veins in the marble floor before him. His nails scraped across the cold surface as his fingers curled into fists. Footsteps approached, and Garrett’s hand relinquished its hold as Colonel Durante appeared beside him.

“Get up, Prince Tristan,” Durante ordered. The familiar words from Tristan’s early years of sword training shook him from his daze. He looked up into the dark-hazel eyes of his mentor but found little reassurance within them. “Don’t you quit on me now, son,” the Colonel whispered as he took Tristan’s arm and helped the disgraced prince to his feet.

Tristan turned to face King Henri’s wrathful gaze, the unsettled looks of Stryker and Attwood, and the equally satisfied and triumphant smiles of Borghese and Octavia.

‘This isn’t over.’

Tristan bowed to the King of Lafeara one last time, even as the first wave of tears burned against the back of his eyes. “I hear and obey, your Majesty,” he recited through clenched teeth.

‘And I will remember.’

Without waiting for permission, he turned and marched past Durante and Garrett towards the only place that made sense. The battlefield, where his foes were clearly marked, and death and glory were decided by the strength and skill of a blade—not the poison of words.

The cold winter air stung against his burning eyes as he blinked beneath the morning sun. Tristan stumbled down the first step, and Durante, who had shadowed him silently, caught his arm and steadied him quickly.

“Breathe, son,” the Colonel reminded him firmly.

Tristan nodded mutely as he sucked in a strained breath of air. His chest felt as if a giant’s hammer had battered holes through it, his hands were visibly shaking, and the ringing in his ears would not stop.

“We should head to the armory. The other captains and General Liam will be waiting for us there,” Durante said as Garrett caught up to them, holding the box with the Emperor’s gift under his arm.

“Morning, brother, did father call for you as well!”

Tristan slowly turned his gaze from the box to Nicholas, shadowed as always by the imposing giant, Captain Beaumont. The second prince skipped up the steps two at a time, as energetic as ever. Though judging from his garments and the horses that had been left by the palace gate—

“You went outside the palace again, didn’t you,” Tristan observed.

Nicholas blushed like a schoolboy and grinned as he scratched the back of his head. “Don’t you start. It’s already bad enough that Grandmother knows and wants to meet her.” Nicholas stopped just below Tristan on the steps. His bashful smile faded as his gaze focused on his older brother’s face. “You don’t look so good. Are you ill—” his gaze shifted towards the blood and vomit on Garrett’s uniform and then snapped back to Tristan “—what happened?!”

“It’s nothing,” Tristan replied quickly. “Captain Garrett, if you would take that on ahead to the armory.”

Garrett nodded and quickly circled past Nicholas and Beaumont.

“Armory?” Nicholas repeated.

“His Majesty has ordered the Red Wolf Army to Wolfthorn Forest to deal with an invasion of pagan barbarians,” Colonel Durante explained with a polite bow. “And the matter is urgent, so we should be on our way.”

“Oh, I see.” Nicholas laughed as if reassured. “I’m sure you’ll have no trouble with them, brother.” He slapped Tristan’s shoulder affectionately. “Just try not to get a scar on that pretty face. You’re getting married in a few months—”

Tristan pulled Nicholas into a sudden tight hug and all but crushed the air from his brother’s lungs as he held on for dear life.

“Oye—” Nicholas tapped Tristan’s shoulder frantically “—can’t—breathe.”

Captain Beaumont stepped closer but stopped as Tristan relaxed his grip.

“Okay,” Nicholas cringed as he rolled his shoulders. “For someone who doesn’t like hugs, that was a bit intense.” He tapped Tristan’s shoulder again. “Can you let me go now? This is getting awkward, even if you are my brother.”

“Your Highness,” Durante whispered urgently.

Stryker’s knights circled towards them on the palace steps with hands on the hilts of their swords.

‘They’re here to protect Nicholas from me,’ Tristan realized and chuckled darkly as he leaned his head against his confused brother’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Nicholas said grumpily. “Are you sure everything’s alright?”

Tristan nodded as he ruffled Nicholas’s light-auburn hair—so similar to King Henri’s—so unlike his own dark midnight-blue curls. “Yeah,” he whispered tiredly. “Everything’s fine.”

“Good, good,” Nicholas murmured, noticing the knights around them as Tristan stepped back. “Are you and the Dowager fighting again?”

Tristan studied his younger brother silently, then turned to the giant behind him. “Look after him for me, would you?”

Captain Beaumont’s violet eyes narrowed, but he gave a single nod in response.

‘As good an answer as any.’ Tristan nodded back.

“Your Highness!” General Stryker called out from behind them. Tristan and Nicholas both turned towards him, and Stryker snorted. “Prince Nicholas, his Majesty is waiting for you.”

“You’re all being so bloody mysterious,” Nicholas muttered as he turned back to Tristan. “Go kill some pagans and get back home so we can plan your bachelor party. And I don’t care what Eleanora says; there will be plenty of scantily clad tits and lots of ale.”

‘My wedding? Eleanora?’ Tristan swallowed back a cold knot of fear as Nicholas shook his head.

“Where’s my confident older brother gone, eh? You look like you’re running late to your own funeral,” Nicholas joked.

Tristan laughed as he pulled his brother in for one final embrace, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Long Live the King.”

 

Epilogue: The Pope of Zarus

One week later. Zarus, the Holy City.

 

The halls of Holy Saint’s Palace shimmered under the morning sun that bathed the marble pillars and floors beneath its sacred glow. Cardinal Gallagher’s footsteps echoed through these silent halls as he wandered past Zarus’ religious history, captured in stained-glass windows, and headed towards the holy sanctum. The cardinal’s pace was unhurried. He enjoyed the quiet reflection of his morning walk, particularly before the storm that awaited him amongst the conclave of cardinals.

At forty-two, Gallagher was still considered young to be a prince of the church. His position was a gift from Pope Jericho in honor of the sacrifice Gallagher and two other priests had taken to smuggle the last Divine Heir from the prison cells of old Zarus across the desert to the Holy City.

At the age of twenty-three, Gallagher strangled Jericho’s prison guard and stuffed the future Pope, then a sickly lad of ten years, inside a wicker basket wrapped in furs. His two other comrades had not survived their escape from the conquered city, but they had managed to buy Gallagher enough time to slip inside the tunnels of the hidden labyrinth beneath old Zarus. Once through the tunnels’ maze, Gallagher carried Jericho across the treacherous desert, a distance of over 500 miles, to the Holy City.

The journey had taken them nearly two weeks to complete on foot. Gallagher silently fasted without complaint to ensure the frail boy did not go without food and water. Two years later, at twelve years old, that same pale, sickly boy had taken up his holy robes and office with renewed body and spirit as Pope Jericho the III, the Divine Heir and Ruler of the Holy City.

Gallagher had watched that boy become a man. One strong enough to push back against the tyrant Emperor Arius, rebuild New Zarus, restructure the Holy Church, and even restore the fallen Witch Hunter Order.

The cardinal paused before the statue of Saint Harmonia, the third and last of the saints, and knelt before the undisputed patriarch of the bloodline of Popes.

Saint Harmonia held her bow in one arm and her firstborn, Pope Zigor, in the other. Her divine gaze remained hidden behind a marble blindfold, a testament to Harmonia’s early life when she had been swayed by the deceitful words of witches. The artist cleverly captured the tears of sorrow that slid beneath her blindfold and fell down the Saint’s cheeks, even as she smiled in celebration of her victory.

It was a stirring piece of artwork that always evoked a conflict of emotions from Gallagher. Saint Harmonia was the first saint to live long enough to bear children to whom she passed her holy powers, but she died at a relatively young age of thirty-seven. Along with her will, Pope Zigor declared her final words a prophecy.

“When the last of my line returns to the earth, a new Saint shall appear.”

The past eight centuries had seen the long line of popes flourish. The absence of a new Saint served to enforce the sacredness of their bloodline and power, as well as Harmonia’s prophecy.

Even Emperor Arius, the most omnipotent pure-blood born in the past three centuries, dared not extinguish the last holy descendant to test its authenticity.

It was for this reason and this reason alone that Arius had spared Jericho, the sickly, youngest son of the late Pope Ivan, after massacring his entire family.

For eight long years, the remnants of Zarus had lived in the Holy City in quiet isolation beneath the watchful eye of their conqueror. The young Pope had focused upon his new role and many responsibilities, while the cardinals had done their best to guide and support him. But the fragile tolerance between Zarus and Ventrayna was not meant to last. The death of an inbred witch, Queen Catalina, and the Witch Star’s disappearance had turned the Emperor against New Zarus and its Pope once more.

Gallagher rose and regarded the tears on Harmonia’s cheek thoughtfully as the sun shimmered off her pearl white robes and the painted golden curls of her child.

The sharp thud of feet running in his direction turned the cardinal’s attention towards the approaching figures of two witch hunters who escorted a foreigner, covered in sand, between them.

“What’s this?” Gallagher snapped as he stepped into their path.

“Pardon, your eminence,” the foreigner replied with a hasty bow. “I have brought a message for the Pope from the Abbess of Lafeara.”

“The Abbess?” Gallagher glanced down at the box the messenger held. A modest container of oak wood with a simple brass lock coated and sealed with red wax. “What’s in the box?”

“Pardon, your eminence,” the simple man repeated. “I do not know its contents. I was instructed to deliver the box to the Pope with a message that its contents were urgent.”

Gallagher scratched his brow as he eyed the red wax that matched the scarlet armor of the witch hunters that stood before him. “Very well, you may come with me.” The cardinal turned and resumed his journey to the inner sanctum of the Holy Palace with the foreigner and his two escorts close behind.

Built as a palace by Saint Matthew, the Second Saint, the Holy Palace served as a residence for the Pope and his cardinals. The surrounding Holy City was fortified by the Holy Army, who guarded the Pope and the surviving citizens of old Zarus.

The governing of new Zarus was divided amongst the cardinals, who reported to the Pope in the holy sanctum twice a week after prayers and breakfast. Trusting his subordinates to run his city left Pope Jericho otherwise free to focus on his war with the Emperor. To that end, the Pope maintained sole control over the Holy Army and Witch Hunter Order, though he had rarely left the Holy Palace in recent years.

Jericho’s continued absence among the populace of Zarus sprouted a rumor that the Pope’s lifelong illness had become life-threatening. The cardinals and their representatives quickly dispelled such gossip. However, truthfully, Gallagher had no explanation for the Pope’s sudden isolation—though he suspected it related to the pale-haired witch hunter, who had taken up a permanent residence in the Pope’s shadow.

Soon enough, the large sanctum doors loomed before the cardinal and his guests. The impenetrable iron barrier embedded with the skull of a great ice dragon, slain by the First Saint, was an imposing sight to behold. For Gallagher, viewing the legendary creature’s remains was a daily occurrence, but the foreigner beside him quivered in awe as he gawked beneath its monstrous gaze.

Male slaves garbed in black bowed their shaven heads as they strained to open the iron doors. Gallagher turned to the two witch hunters as he waited for entrance. “Remain outside and escort the messenger back after his task is finished.”

“Eminence,” the half-witches replied in unison with a respectful bow.

When the entryway had opened wide enough for three men to walk through side-by-side, the slaves ceased their labor. Gallagher stepped forward then stopped to snap his fingers in front of the messenger’s dazed eyes. “Come on then; we haven’t got all day. Follow.”

“Sorry, your Eminence,” the foreigner mumbled and hastily trailed behind the cardinal.

Ten of the twelve appointed cardinals waited within the holy sanctum. They turned to Gallagher with polite nods and greetings while they eyed the dirty foreigner beside him inquisitively. Gallagher ignored their questions as he took the messenger’s arm—cringing at the grime and sweat upon the man’s sleeve—and led the foreigner towards the Divine Heir.

From his raised golden throne, Pope Jericho observed his cardinals with silent boredom. After twenty years of living in the Holy City, one would think these princes of the church would understand how to govern and keep his people fed and satisfied. Yet once more, he had to suffer through the festering squabble of their complaints, grumbles, and bickering.

‘The Emperor will not need to conquer us a second time if we allow ourselves to crumble from within.’

Jericho shifted restlessly inside the pale golden robes of his office, conscious of the tremor in his left hand that he kept tucked discreetly at his side. He focused on his breathing as he tried to block out the noise of the cardinal’s debate, keenly aware of the headache that clawed behind his scarred eyes.

The inner sanctum door opened, and Jericho recognized the familiar visage of one of the few mortals he trusted inside this room.

“Cardinal Gallagher,” Pope Jericho greeted as his old friend approached the throne with a dirty foreigner in his shadow.

The cardinal bowed humbly in greeting, but even when Jericho motioned for him to rise, Gallagher avoided the Pope’s divine gaze and focused on Jericho’s right hand.

There were few who dared look upon the sacred eyes of the Pope.

Jericho had taken burning coals to his eyes at nine-years-old rather than watch his sisters be raped by witches. His eyesight returned slowly over the years, one of the blessings of the Saint’s bloodline, but the scars on his hands and cheeks remained as a testament and constant reminder of the hatred he bore.

His pupils still retained their cloudy-white color. Jericho was often told his eyes resembled pearls rather than the eyes of a common blind man, but he assumed all such talk was flattery, for while Jericho could see, his vision lacked color of any form by which to judge.

“Greetings, your Holiness,” Gallagher murmured respectfully as he pushed the trembling messenger to his knees.

Jericho’s nostrils flared as a strange odor preceded Cardinal Gallagher and the unwashed man beside him. His gaze shifted from the foreigner’s face to the box held in the man’s trembling hands.

“What news?” Jericho asked. His raised voice trembled with power that silenced the cardinals around the room as they hastily found their seats.

Gallagher glanced down at the quivering foreigner and nudged the man with his knee. “Go on then.”

“I—ah—bring a message—from the Abbess of Lafeara!” The foreigner explained hastily as he set down the box.

Jericho’s white pupils narrowed at the wretched scent that radiated from the box like a dark cloud and slithered in his direction.

‘How long has it been since a witch dared to parade their tainted magic before me?’

“And just what sort of message requires a box?” Jericho raised a hand and snapped his fingers. The box shuddered as the red wax cracked, the lock snapped open, and the lid popped free. “Why don’t you show us.”

The foreigner nodded vigorously and lifted the lid back. He took one look at its contents, and with a choked guttural squeak, fell over in a faint.

Gallagher gagged as he staggered back from the stench of rot that permeated from the human head inside the box. “Wh-what—unholy curse is this?” The cardinal riffled through his robes for a handkerchief to thwart the rancid stench.

Jericho stared into the dead man’s empty eyes as his memory stirred. He turned as the pale-haired witch hunter behind his throne stepped forward and whispered a name into the Pope’s ear. A sly smile slid across Jericho’s lips as he studied the priest’s now withered complexion. “It would appear that Father Alden has returned to us.”

The cardinals murmured in surprise. Many of whom appeared to have forgotten the name of the priest who had requested a witch hunter be sent to Lafeara almost two weeks ago.

“Cardinal Gallagher, there is a small bag tucked beside the priest’s head. Fetch it for me,” Jericho commanded.

Gallagher glared at the unconscious foreigner as he approached the open box.

Jericho shook his head as he watched the cardinal struggle to breathe behind his handkerchief. ‘Those robes have made you soft, old friend.’

With a great deal of discomfort, Gallagher managed to locate the hidden object. The cardinal tugged the soiled brown bag free and held it gingerly between his fingertips as he examined it cautiously.

“Permit me, your Eminence,” murmured the pale-haired witch hunter.

Jericho turned to his shadow and nodded. “Very well.”

The Commander of the Witch Hunter Order bowed and moved swiftly down the steps to Gallagher. The cardinal eyed the white-haired witch hunter with evident fear and distrust but relinquished the blood-stained satchel with visible relief.

“What is it, Ripper?” Jericho asked impatiently as the witch hunter untied the bag and pulled out a stained rolled parchment.

“It would appear to be the Abbess’s message, your Holiness,” Ripper replied as he turned towards the Pope.

“Read it for us,” Jericho commanded as he leaned forward with interest.

Ripper unfurled the bloody scroll with long pale fingers, cleared his throat, and read the message aloud.

“Greetings to the Divine Heir,

I have sent back what little remains of the priest, Father Alden. With heavy regret, I must inform you that his death came at the hands of his witch hunter, Sir Nero, as witnessed by the sisters of my church.

The witch hunter Nero has fled Lafeara. He is pursued by a pure-blood fire witch who wears a blue ghoul’s mask. They were last seen heading west towards the mountains of Tharyn.

I understand such news will require an official investigation from the Holy Church. Our doors remain open, and I extend to your representative what humble accommodations we sisters may provide.

However unfortunate his demise, my sisters and I take heart knowing that Father Alden is now closer to your ancestors, the Saints.

Your devoted servant,

Abbess Mercy.”

Ripper’s gaze had darkened by the time he finished reading. Jericho watched his Commander compose himself silently as Ripper rolled up the scroll and returned to the Pope’s side.

“What sort of ludicrous claim is this?” demanded Cardinal Murdock as he rose from his seat. “A witch hunter turning on their priest? How is such a thing even possible?”

Jericho accepted the blood-stained scroll and motioned for Ripper to withdraw. Although Jericho derived no small amount of comfort and security from his shadow, he was well aware of the effect Ripper had over his cardinals.

“Set aside your doubts, Murdock. It is clear enough to all that Father Alden is dead!” shouted Cardinal Langham. “An investigation will prove or disprove the Abbess’s claims, though what could she possibly gain by such a lie, I wonder.”

“You have long questioned the trust his Holiness places in the Witch Hunter Order,” returned Murdock. “Do not forget that we would be unable to quell those foul witches without them.”

“Do not forget it was a witch hunter who betrayed Pope Ivan and his family and brought about the fall of Zarus,” Langham snapped back bitterly.

“That is hearsay!”

“Let us not leap to conclusions so easily,” interrupted Cardinal Halstone. “Where is the rest of Father Alden’s corpse? Where is his witch hunter? Who is this pure-blood witch the Abbess mentioned? An investigation is necessary, not conjecture, and further discord.”

“I agree with Cardinal Langham,” added Cardinal Lentulus. “The presence of a pure-blood, the death of a priest, and a witch hunter’s sudden betrayal of his oath? I suspect the Abbess is not telling us everything. This is what happens when a woman is left in charge instead of a Bishop.”

The other seven cardinals quickly grumbled their agreement as they turned towards the Pope, who slowly turned the scroll between his fingers as he examined Father Alden’s empty gaze.

‘It’s clear enough that a witch killed or had something to do with Father Alden’s death. Only one foul order of witches would bother eating the eyes of a priest. But why invite the inquisition to their doorstep? And why accuse Nero of such a crime?’ Jericho crumpled the message in his hand and discarded it upon the white marble steps. ‘This drawn-out war and the Emperor’s barricade has left our granary severely depleted. At such a time, I cannot overlook the promised aid of Lafeara from King Henri. I must secure Crown Prince Nicholas as a future ally—but just what sort of deception am I being pulled into?’

“We suspect there is treachery in Lafeara,” Jericho said aloud. His calm voice soothed the nervous agitation of his cardinals, who each resumed their seats. “Crown Prince Nicholas’s coronation approaches with this year’s Holy Celebration. We must use Lafeara’s long-held tradition to our advantage and secure Lafeara’s future king as our ally.”

“And what of his future queen? This adopted niece of that murderous Emperor?” protested Langham.

“We suspect our young ally was forced against his wish to fulfill his father’s treasonous promises to the Emperor. The work of the Dowager and her followers, no doubt. We must solidify his loyalty first and foremost and then aid him in securing his power as King,” Jericho replied patiently. “According to our spies, the union between the prince and this tainted princess has yet to be consummated.” He glanced towards Gallagher and smiled. “Perhaps we may offer Lafeara’s future king a way back from this unfortunate marriage.”

“It is a good plan, but will he be willing to risk offending the Emperor?” questioned Gallagher. “We are little able to repel Ventrayna’s forces ourselves.”

“The sacred ground of the Holy City has not fallen in a thousand years,” snorted Cardinal Murdock. “Nor, I suspect shall it fall in another thousand years.”

“Our efforts to reclaim old Zarus have been thwarted time and time again,” Jericho continued with determined focus. “It is time to consider another path. Perhaps our union with Lafeara may provide us with such an opportunity, but we must deal with this atrocity first.” Jericho leaned back and wrapped his scarred hands around the throne’s golden arms. “The agreement with Lafeara and our Witch Hunter Order still stands. We will locate whatever nest of witches has taken roost within Nicholas’s kingdom and burn them out.”

The Cardinals rumbled their approval.

“And who will lead this inquisition, your Holiness?” Gallagher asked curiously.

“Ripper shall go as our representative,” Jericho replied without hesitation.

Gallagher’s hopeful expression crumpled, and the room fell silent as the witch hunter stepped forward again and bowed to the Pope.

Cardinal Murdock rose to his feet unsteadily. “R-Ripper? Your Holiness?”

“Yes,” Jericho confirmed with a thin smile. “And you shall accompany him, Cardinal Murdock. We suspect our churches in Lafeara need reorganization and a trusted figure to comb through and remove the unfaithful. As our cardinal, you will have all the authority necessary to see Lafeara’s churches are purged of any who would betray their vows to the Saints.”

“Y-yes, your Holiness.” Murdock bowed and then glanced hesitantly towards Ripper.

The white-haired witch hunter’s ice-blue eyes gleamed as he regarded the cardinal. “Don’t worry, your Eminence. I shall ensure you survive the journey in one piece.”

The cardinals shivered and murmured sympathetically as Murdock sank back into his seat a few shades paler.

“You doubt our reasoning?” Jericho observed somberly. “Ripper is the only witch hunter strong enough to take down a pure-blood. And if, as we suspect, a coven skulks within Lafeara, he has the experience necessary to draw them out and exterminate them.”

“But—your Holiness,” interjected Cardinal Langham. “The Abbess’s letter stated that Nero and the pure-blood fled to Tharyn!”

“The Abbess’s letter is a magpie’s nest of lies,” Jericho snarled. “Which is why Cardinal Murdock will take over leadership of the holy church in Lafeara while Ripper begins his inquisition with Abbess Mercy and her sisters. Let them prove their innocence through blood and tears.”

Jericho rose from his throne and folded his arms behind his back as he proceeded towards the sanctuary doors. He paused briefly beside the unconscious foreigner and the pungent rotting head. “Ripper.”

“Yes, your Holiness?” The witch hunter asked as he regarded Father Alden’s remains thoughtfully.

“Bring that to my chambers.” Jericho nodded at the priest’s head. “A witch may have eaten Father Alden’s eyes, but I will carve out whatever secrets lurk within his soul.”

“As you wish, your Holiness.”

Chapter 103: The Beginning of the End { Part 2 }

“Then shall we begin today’s meeting?” Carina smiled as she met the expectant gaze of Cerberus’s members. ‘With everything that is to come in the next few weeks, I have to ensure they’re prepared to finish their assigned tasks while I’m preoccupied with palace matters.’

“Lord Walter,” Carina turned her gaze to the Lord Principal. “Mr. Frost has successfully procured the two hospitals you listed as being the largest in the capital. He also purchased an abandoned factory inside the slums, which he intends to remodel into a working hospital within the month.”

“Ah?” Lord Walter sat forward and cleared his throat. “I must applaud Mr. Frost for having thought ahead so thoroughly. However, finding physicians willing to work within the slums will be difficult.” He glanced at Lord Tobias, who snorted and nodded his head in agreement. “While it’s true, the slums are usually the worst hit during any widespread illness or plague—this is because of the squalid conditions its residents choose to live.”

“Naturally, we would not expect the noble doctors of your order to lower themselves to such unsavory conditions,” Carina replied without missing a beat. She could hardly expect any noble to enter the slums when the Capital Knights no longer patrolled nor policed the area. “Mr. Frost has already located two promising doctors to take over the slum hospital. He trusts you will offer them whatever aid you can to prepare for the crisis we face.”

“Of course,” Lord Walter murmured with a tight smile. “Though—it will be hard to alleviate the expected death rates in the slums if there is no change to the environment and lifestyle of these vagrants.”

‘In other words, you would prefer not to waste precious medicine on those you consider beneath you. Even if that medicine was purchased and acquired by Frost.’

“That matter is already well in hand,” Carina replied with a benign smile. “Lord Seymour, if you would.”

Seymore lifted a stack of small wooden boxes from the crate behind his chair and passed them out as he circled the table. “This is Mr. Frost’s latest investment, which the Royal Merchant’s Guild has already approved for sale.”

“Is this soap?” Lady Charity exclaimed as she lifted the small pink object covered in delicate rainbow flowers. “It looks almost edible.”

“You are holding one of the prototypes that will be sold to the nobles, Lady Charity,” Lord Seymore explained. “The Crown Prince himself has already put in a special purchase for his—” He stumbled, cleared his throat, and gestured across the table. “Lord Walter has the more basic, practical design that commoners can purchase at one-eighth the cost that nobles will pay.”

“One-eighth?” Lord Walter protested. “Surely Frost will suffer a loss at that price.”

“Not at all,” Lady Ursula said with a chuckle. “Rather, the loss will be compensated by the high price tag the nobles will pay for our cake soaps.”

“How can you be sure they will purchase enough to cover the difference?” Lord Tobias interjected in a dubious tone.

“Lord Walter?” Carina replied as she nodded to the Lord Principal.

Walter rose from his chair and coughed. “Ah, yes, I shall be publishing an article to commend her Highness, the Crown Princess, on becoming an Ambassador for Mr. Frost’s soap stores and promoting the importance of cleanliness.”

“Beauty stores, we’re calling them,” interrupted Lord Seymore with smug satisfaction.

“In the article,” Lord Walter continued with a note of irritation, “Physicians such as Lord Tobias will expound upon the health benefits of regular washing and its relevance to the prevention and spread of illness and disease.”

“The spread of the plague is a little more complicated than that—” Lord Tobias cut off under Walter’s sharp glare.

“The article will also cover the skin and hair benefits of more specialized soaps and conditioners that Frost intends to release in celebration of Holy Saint’s Day,” Lord Walter finished, then glanced towards Carina as he retook his seat.

“Correct, the Crown Princess and her ladies-in-waiting will provide the perfect public campaign to sell these products to the nobles and populace when they stand before the great cathedral,” Carina replied.

“And at the first sign of plague, the nobles will panic and buy it all in bulk,” Lady Charity commented with a smirk of approval.

“We will target the nobles immediately after Lord Walter’s article is published,” Carina continued as she laced her fingers together and leaned against the table. “If rumors happened to spread that even the Crown Prince’s mistress uses our soap, you can expect high sales, even from those who don’t support the Crown Princess.”

‘And the more the rumors about Lady Rosamund circulate, the more pressure placed on Nicholas to either discard his Mistress or consummate his marriage with Eleanora.’

Carina unlocked her fingers and gestured to the royal merchant. “Lord Seymore will manage the shipments to all shops that deal with independent merchants and nobles. Lady Charity will oversee the soaps distribution to the commoners. We also have a large reserve of soap set aside for Lady Ursula to distribute as part of our charity effort to reform the slums before the plague hits. We will keep our identity as the organization behind that charity anonymous. And finally, Lord Austin will handle shipments outside of Lafeara as Frost expands his trade and business to Strugna and Ventrayna.”

“That’s me, charismatic ambassador and purveyor of wealth,” Lord Austin announced as he stood and offered the group a dramatic bow. “Ventrayna presents its own difficulties due to the desert heat and controlled trading routes, but Mr. Frost—our mysterious leader and prophet—has already provided a suitable alternative to at least mitigate any losses due to melting.” He reached into the large leather pack, slung over the back of his chair, and produced two glass bottles colored blue and green.

“Is it already time to start drinking?” joked Lord Seymour.

“Not unless your mouth needs extra cleaning,” Lady Charity replied in a satisfied tone. Lady Ursula snorted and hid a smile behind her fan.

“This is a liquid soap,” replied Austin as he extended one bottle to the royal merchant.

“Liquid?” Lord Walter exclaimed as he attempted to snatch the bottle from Seymour.

“It looks like medicine,” observed Lady Charity as Seymour passed the bottle to her. They both ignored Walter’s indignant scowl as the Lord Principal leaned back into his chair.

“Which is why our craftsmen have clearly labeled the bottle as soap,” Austin replied with a rueful grin. “And why we won’t be selling this product here in Lafeara. Wouldn’t want someone drinking it just because they can’t read.”

“It smells nice enough,” Lady Ursula commented as she passed the bottle to her husband. “What about Strugna?”

“Not much difficulty there.” Austin shrugged as he accepted the bottle from Sir Everly and returned both bottles to his bag. “Though they seem rather keen on meeting Mr. Frost in person.”

“Who isn’t,” Seymore snorted and folded his arms across his chest. “Speaking of in person, Crown Prince Nicholas has put out a royal request to meet our mysterious Patron.”

A silence fell over the small gathering as the members turned their attention to Carina.

“Mr. Frost is unreachable at present,” Carina replied slowly as she clasped her hands together. “But I will relay this information to him at the earliest opportunity. Now, Frost has already put forward the necessary funds to see these products reach wide distribution. Should any issues arise before or after its release, please bring them to Sir Everly’s attention, and he will relay that information to Frost through myself or Frost’s attorney.”

“I also helped designed the cake soap, as you called it,” Sir Everly blurted out, with an awkward smile of pride.

“That explains the flowers,” Lord Seymour joked, though he quickly withered under Ursula’s sharp gaze.

“And what about the new fellow?” Ursula turned her disapproving green eyes to the silent physician beside Lord Walter. “Why is he here?”

“We cannot combat the plague with soap alone,” Carina explained. “Lord Tobias will help our cause by working with Mr. Frost to create a medicine to alleviate the symptoms and cure those infected by the plague.”

“As Lady Aconitum said, we hope to obtain the first victims that come down with the plague—most likely from the slums—and use them to produce a radical treatment known as inoculation or vaccination.”

“You intend to infect people?” Lord Walter protested. “Saint’s Mercy, if the Church catches wind of this—”

“Every bit of Frost’s predictions and this organization’s activities is condemnable in the eyes of the church,” Tobias interrupted with a dismissive wave. “The Pope and his cardinals still preach that all plagues and sickness originate from witchcraft. Even doctors must be careful how we go about treating illnesses, or we may end up being labeled witches—like my unfortunate master.”

“Inoculation was the act of heresy that got your master burned at the stake,” Walter replied with a shake of his head. “The church has no interest in scientific experimentations of any form. Not when they can blame everything on the evils of magic and witches.”

“He’s right,” Ursula commented as the mood in the room became despondent. “I hear the church is already looking for Mr. Frost to test his clairvoyant abilities. I, for one, am not at all surprised he’s gone to ground with that sort of attention on him.”

The room fell silent as the gathered members of Cerberus exchanged nervous glances.

“I do not deny there is risk involved here,” Carina said gravely as she rose from her seat. “Which is why we have taken every precaution to remain anonymous. Should the worst happen, you will shift the blame to Mr. Frost and deny any knowledge of the coming plague.”

“If there is a plague,” Tobias muttered with a wistful sigh.

Carina clenched her jaw and took in a slow breath. She needed Tobias more than any other member in this room because only he understood how to perform the vaccination properly. Tobias had learned the treatment under his Master, who used it to treat a minor disease outbreak some years back.

‘If we can prove on such a large scale that science, not faith, can cure this illness and save lives, then we’ll be one step closer to proving witches aren’t to blame for plagues and other natural catastrophes.’

According to Maura’s memories, Tobias had successfully thwarted the plague by using inoculation—but a quarter of the population had already died, and King Nicholas himself had fallen ill before Tobias was officially granted permission. Then, as now, the Church, the Royal Family, and the Royal Medical Office had been reluctant to permit such an unorthodox method to fight the plague until they were faced with the possibility of the king dying without an heir.

‘At least this time we have the support of the Royal Medical Office, however secretive our alliance.’ Carina sighed and brushed back loose ash-brown hair.

“Mr. Frost hasn’t gotten it wrong yet,” Lord Seymore retorted, breaking the silence as he picked up his pipe and glared at Tobias. “He predicted a tropical storm weeks in advance if you remember.”

“Not to mention his insight into my husband’s family embezzlement that even I had missed,” Lady Charity added with a painful smile. “And Frost has practically funded this entire operation out of pocket. If anyone has taken the larger risk, it is our Patron.”

“I can’t deny the power of his predictions—even if I still find them hard to believe,” Lord Walter admitted reluctantly. “You would have to be mad to throw that kind of capital into preparing for a disease that might not come at all.” He shrugged and stroked his beard thoughtfully. “In either case, what harm could come from spreading the practices of frequent washing and opening a few more hospitals. The slums could certainly benefit from a cleaner environment.”

“The plague will come,” Carina interjected forcefully. “And the death toll will be catastrophic if we do not prepare adequately. All of Mr. Frost’s investments and planning have been directed towards this approaching calamity. If saving thousands of innocents from a faceless enemy is not enough to convince you, then remember the profits you have all gained and still stand to gain from your partnership with Mr. Frost.” She swiveled her gaze from one member to the next as she continued. “You are all well aware of the impact such a plague would wreck upon every Lafearian citizen, our economy, and the security of Lafeara’s borders.”

“Let’s not forget what the last witch plague did to Strugna,” added Lord Austin grimly. “The entire royal family died within a week. If Lafeara were to suffer the same fate, forget paying taxes to the Emperor—Tharyn would invade us the moment the plague loosens its grip.”

The gathered members of Cerberus turned their resolved faces towards Lord Tobias, who chuckled and raised his hands submissively. “No need to worry. Any opportunity to study a disease and practice inoculation is a yes from me, regardless of the circumstances.”

“Then that will conclude today’s meeting,” Carina announced firmly. The members each rose from their seats as she left her chair. “As always, thank you for attending and for your cooperation. If another meeting should become necessary, the time, date, and password will be sent to each of you.” She briefly placed her hand on Sir Everly’s shoulder before she curtsied to the Lords and Ladies before her.

The designer rose and followed as Carina returned to the hallway. Everly unlocked and opened the first door, then shut it behind them as Carina turned to face him.

“This is the finalized design for Holy Saints day,” Carina explained as she held out a sealed envelope. “Also, Lord Austin will be bringing an exotic package to the boutique a few days before the festivities. The contents must be kept alive and secret until after the holiday has passed.”

“Ahh—I’m not good with living things, Lady Aconitum,” Sir Everly said uneasily as he fussed with his laced cuff. “And Ursula can’t even keep a plant alive.”

“Not to worry, a special caretaker will arrive with them. Keep the package and caretaker out of sight until the King and Queen’s coronation.”

“Oh, if it’s hiding and disguising people—” Everly winked as he opened the door that led to the stairwell and a pacing Stitcher “—then I’m your man.”

Back in the carriage, Stitcher pulled off his mask and studied her silently.

“You won’t get any answers staring at me like that,” Carina commented as she closed her eyes, folded her arms, and attempted to find a comfortable spot in the corner of her seat. It was already nearing 2 am, and she had to be up in four hours to attend to the crown princess.

“I’m just curious.”

“You’ve mentioned that already,” she muttered dismissively.

“How do you know Mr. Frost?”

Carina opened her eyes, glanced over at him, and sighed. “One of the guards?”

“Yes, the one that smells of tobacco and fish. A sailor, I presume from his horrible accent.”

‘Austin’s man? I’ll have to bring that up with him next time.’

“So?” Stitcher pressed as he nudged her foot with his boot.

“What would you do if someone told you that your future would end with a horrible death; and then offered you a way to change that future?”

“I’d ignore their words as the ravings of a mad person,” Stitcher replied without hesitation. “It’s more likely they’re trying to manipulate you than anything else.”

“So, you would ignore the warning rather than take the chance to prepare for the worst and change that future?”

Stitcher regarded her with an intrigued frown for a moment. “If you’re referring to Mr. Frost—I suppose if they were someone who was able to predict the future with notable success—then I would at least take some precautions.”

His expression darkened as he leaned back and crossed his arms.

“What are you thinking about?” Carina asked with a bemused smile.

“Just how strange—that Mr. Frost should have such an ability when it belongs to the bloodline of Saints.”

Carina snorted and tapped on the window as they drew up beside the bell tower. “Would you let me know when Ghost returns to Lafeara?”

“Sure—though it might be a while,” Stitcher admitted hesitantly. “In the meantime, get a sheath for that dagger. It has torn a hole in your bag.”

Carina glanced down and muttered as she located the Witch Steel that protruded from the corner of her leather satchel. “Remind your Master to provide an appropriate scabbard when handing out daggers next time.”

“I don’t think he’s in the habit of handing out weapons or gifts of any kind,” Stitcher replied with a faint smile. “Safe journey back, Lady Aconitum.”

“Good night, Lord Hell.”

 

Chapter 102: The Beginning of the End { Part 1 }

Carina wandered through the silent plane of white cherry blossoms, conscious of each step that tread upon the grass and fallen petals below. The fragrance helped soothe her beating heart as her gaze darted amongst the shifting shadows of the trees. The distant lights of the capital, which had faded to only a few lit windows and streetlamps, greeted her as she reached the other side of the pale forest.

Carina brushed the ghostly petals from her shoulders and hair, then quickly crossed the road and headed in the direction of the capital’s belltower.

The towering structure loomed over the sleeping shops and residential houses, illuminated by the wavering moon that climbed above the net of clouds woven across its path. Carina exhaled and tied on her black silk mask, obscured her gown and face within her cloak, and headed towards the set rendezvous location.

A single carriage waited beneath the belltower’s shadow. The soft glow of smoke pipes in the darkness drew Carina’s attention to its driver and passenger, who turned at her approach.

“There she is, only a half-hour late,” Stitcher commented dryly as he knocked his pipe against the carriage wheel and smothered out the remaining tobacco.

“Let’s be on our way then before the capital knights give us another warning,” replied the driver as he rammed his pipe beneath his teeth and climbed up to his seat.

“Apologies—for the delay,” Carina panted as Stitcher opened the carriage door and assisted her inside.

“You can apologize by telling me how you managed to slip outside the castle in the middle of the night,” Stitcher muttered with evident interest as Carina quickly sank into her seat.

“You seem to have your own way,” Carina replied evasively. She waited until Stitcher closed the carriage door, then knocked on the glass panel behind her.

Stitcher caught himself against the opposite seat as the carriage lurched forward and sat down with a rueful grin. “This is how I get in and out—” he held out a palace pass, a steel bar stamped with a golden wolf “—being one of the few royally licensed physicians in the knight’s compound has its perks.”

‘It might be helpful to get one of those from Eleanora later,’ Carina mused as she tucked the bag beside her.

“But even these don’t work after curfew,” Stitcher continued as he tucked the pass inside his jacket, “Not to mention court ladies require a knight to escort them whenever they leave the palace—which tells me you must have another method or exit.”

“Were you able to get in contact with Ghost?”

Stitcher’s smile stretched into a grin as he caught the topic change. He shook his head. “Unfortunately, it seems my Master has left the country.”

“Left?” Carina’s hand tightened around the satchel bag. “Lafeara—just like that?”

“Something came up that requires his presence in Ventrayna,” Stitcher replied with a helpless shrug. “But my orders to assist and protect you still stand, so make use of me as you will.”

Carina sucked in her bottom lip as she leaned back against the carriage seat and rubbed her temple. ‘Another piece of the chessboard—my strongest ally so far—has taken himself out of the game.’

Percy’s face rose unbidden in her mind, and Carina shook herself quickly. ‘No, I can’t rush to judgment just because he happens to be a witch. I still don’t understand the extent to which his political powers influence the future.’ She sighed and refocused on the assassin-physician, who sat across from her silently polishing his pipe. “I won’t deny that you have value to me while your Master is—inaccessible.”

“Excellent, then may I inquire as to who we are meeting in the dead of night?” Stitcher responded with a cat-like smile.

“I might be forced to rely on you, but our destination is all you need to know—for now,” Carina replied promptly.

Stitcher nodded. “I suppose that’s fair, given my loyalties lie with my Master and not you. I will do my best not to pry—directly anyway.”

“You have orders to spy on me then?” Carina asked sharply.

“I am just a curious person by nature, Lady Maura,” Stitcher answered with a casual shrug. “And you are a person who inspires many questions.” He wrapped his clean pipe in a handkerchief and tucked it inside his jacket—all while intently observing her.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Carina muttered.

“That’s an interesting expression,” Stitcher replied as he scratched his chin. “But I don’t like cats.”

Carina shook her head and glanced out the window. “We should be arriving at the boutique shortly. Here—” She reached into her bag and pulled out a mask with gold stitching “—wear this and don’t take it off until we’re back in the carriage.”

“Are we going to a masquerade?” Stitcher joked as he held the mask in front of his face.

“Consider this a necessary part of protecting my identity,” Carina answered with strained patience. “Where we are going, I am only known as Lady Aconitum, and that is how you will address me—if you must speak at all.”

“Very well,” Stitcher slid the mask on and tied it in place. “Then call me—Lord Hell.”

Carina refrained from rolling her eyes.

“Is that the Master’s dagger?” Stitcher gestured to the black flame hilt that peeped out of her bag.

“Yes, though it’s bothersome to carry without a sheath,” Carina answered as she pulled out the blade, wrapped in cloth and leather and bound with twine. “Witch steel is incredibly sharp.”

“Ghost did refer you to the Master Blacksmith, Sir Ikes, did he not?”

“I’ve been a bit busy,” Carina muttered as she stowed the dagger away and adjusted her bag.

“So I have observed. How is your ankle?”

“Holding up. Is the prototype brace I asked you to make coming along?”

“It was simple enough to construct with your drawing,” Stitcher admitted. “I left it with a leatherworker at Master Ike’s weapon shop. He’s fairly good at custom jobs. Said he’d try to have it done by tomorrow or the next day.”

“Soon enough, I suppose.” Carina checked her mask as they pulled up in front of the Boutique shop.

“The lights are out,” Stitcher observed. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

“Save your questions for when we return,” Carina muttered as she opened the carriage door and stepped down. As always, her ankle chose the most inappropriate moment to buckle beneath her.

Stitcher chuckled as he caught her arm and steadied her. “Give me a moment before you go running off,” he requested patiently as he dismounted the carriage behind her and turned to speak to the driver.

Carina huffed, and after a few cautious steps, circled the shop and waited by the metal gate that separated the boutique’s back yard from the street’s traffic. When Stitcher caught up, she pulled the necessary key from her bag, opened the gate, then shut and locked it from the other side.

Stitcher followed without comment as Carina headed down the moonlit path that led to a storage shed shadowed by a bowed oak tree in the back of the fenced yard. She knocked on the shed door and waited until the metal window slap slid open. A pair of eyes accompanied by candlelight peered down at her.

“Lady Aconitum wishes to enter the Artist’s Lair,” she greeted neutrally.

The man behind the door grunted in acknowledgment and closed the window. The sound of bolts being drawn back proceeded the door opening towards them.

A tailor from the boutique stepped out and hurriedly bowed. “Welcome back, Lady Aconitum.”

Carina nodded and entered the shed, followed by her silent shadow. She glanced over the boxes of thread, dyes, buttons, lace, and various rolls of silks and cloths. She wove her way between them and headed to yet another door at the back of the shed.

With a quick check over her shoulder to confirm Stitcher had not gotten lost, Carina opened the door, entered the tight space, and lifted the trap door inside to reveal a staircase that led below the surface.

“As I said,” Stitcher muttered as she took the first step. “You inspire a lot of questions.”

Carina smiled, pressed a finger to her lips, then motioned for him to follow her into the darkness.

Three men waited below, armed with pistols, and seated around a table playing dice in the light of a solitary candle.

They turned and rose as Carina reached the last panel of the staircase. “They are waiting for you inside, Lady Aconitum,” said the youngest while his companion’s eyed Stitcher curiously.

“Kritanta’s flame,” Stitcher whispered as he caught Carina’s elbow and gently held her back. “Are you leading some secret rebellion?”

“Lord Hell is here for my protection,” Carina announced to the guards as she shook off Stitcher’s grip. “Please provide him with a seat as he will be waiting outside with you gentlemen.” She turned and added to the assassin in a low whisper, “This is as far as you can accompany me tonight.”

“Or as far as you trust my Master and me?”

Carina smiled. “I trust no one, Lord Hell. Please don’t take it personally.” She left the assassin to fend for himself and headed to the opposite end of the room, where she opened another door that led to a short hallway trapped between two doors.

With the first door sealed behind her, Carina took a few slow breaths, then knocked on the final barrier. The metal slab opened just a fraction as a familiar voice asked, “Who seeks entrance?”

“One who would glimpse paradise,” Carina replied and tilted her masked face up as the slab opened further. “All beauty is pain.”

“All beauty is pain,” the man echoed back. “We have been waiting for you, just a moment.”

The window shut abruptly. The sound of metal grating filled the silence before the door finally creaked open. A middle-aged timid looking man, dressed in bright colors of arctic-blue and chartreuse-green, peered over his spectacles as he greeted her with a relieved smile. “I was beginning to worry. You’ve never been this late, Lady Aconitum.”

“I had to come by a different route,” Carina replied as she stepped through the opening. “How are you, Sir Everly?”

“Excellent, excellent, but let’s not keep your other guests waiting.” Everly closed and bolted the door. Then he led her down a narrow hallway that brought them to an open room where four men and two women waited around a large table in hushed discussions.

The whispers died the moment Everly and Carina appeared.

“My apologies for the lateness of the hour and my unfortunate tardiness,” Carina said as she dipped a curtsy to the members of Frost’s secret organization, Cerberus—otherwise called, Watchdog.

“Not at all. It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Aconitum,” greeted the extravagantly dressed noble as he set down his pipe, which had filled the meeting room with its usual rare and exotic aroma. Lord Seymour, one of the leading members of the Royal Merchants guild.

“Who are we to reproach the trusted partner of Mr. Frost,” replied Lady Charity with a welcoming smile. The second daughter of a fallen noble family, Lady Charity had made a name for herself when she managed to snag Baron Price for a husband and reclaim her noble title. At twenty-six, she now secretly controlled the Commoner’s Merchant Guild through her husband, who many mistakenly believed held the reins of both the business and their marriage.

“Despite the lateness of the hour, I’m sure we are all thrilled to be here,” assured the handsome rogue, Lord Austin. Captain of the Golden Lion, and co-owner of three other merchant ships: Dancing Fairy, Lost Pearl, and Fair Weather, which were also co-owned by Mr. Frost. “So please don’t trouble yourself over a few minutes.”

“We appreciate your apology, Lady Aconitum,” added Lady Ursula, Sir Everly’s wife, backbone, and business partner. “Though some of us seem to regard their time as more valuable than others.” Ursula’s disapproving glare turned in the direction of the two noble lords seated at the furthest end of the table.

Carina smiled as she turned her gaze towards the remaining members of Cerberus, who had not yet spoken. Lord Walter, Viscount and Lord Principal of the Royal Medical Office, which controlled all hospitals within Lafeara. And Lord Tobias, a notable, ambitious physician as well as the newest member of their secret organization. Both gentlemen nodded in her direction with the barest gesture of respect. They were here for the sake of Mr. Frost’s name, not some designer who appeared to have more connection to the elusive investor than anyone else at the table.

 

Chapter 101: A Treacherous Path Forward

Her limbs were still numb as Carina ripped free from the painful memory with a gasp. The dark walls of the servant’s passage greeted her with a heavy silence filled by her own panted breath. “You never—showed me that before,” Carina whispered as Maura removed her arms.

“I’m showing you now.”

“How could she—” Carina sucked in a breath as she rubbed her shoulder tenderly where the arrow had struck Maura “—what right did she have to leave you behind.”

“I did not show you before because I feared you would change your mind. I am showing you now only to remind you to be wary. You may have risen above me, to the rank of Baroness, but you are still a half-blood and disposable to Eleanora.”

Carina exhaled slowly and nodded. She fumbled around in the dark for another matchstick, lit the candle, and placed it in the closest empty lantern fixture. With her light source secure, Carina returned to study the tiled roses. “Six down three over, the instructions are easy enough to follow—but if it takes two, this might be difficult,” she muttered. “It’s not like you can help me.”

“I am stronger now that I have returned to the palace.” Maura materialized beside the right window and placed her pale right hand against a center tile. “At the manor, my power was much weaker.”

“Because you died here?” Carina mused on that for a moment then shook her head. “Well, we’re here, so might as well give it a shot.”

She moved to the left tiled window, counted and located the trigger tile, then placed her palm against the smooth carving.

“Okay, found it,” Carina confirmed. “On three then. One, two, three—”

The ghost beside her flickered in and out of view as they both pushed against the tiles. Carina watched as Maura came more clearly into focus until only her skin’s pale blue hue distinguished her from a living, breathing person. It also made the horrid acid scar on the left side of Maura’s face more painfully visible. Carina moved her gaze to the carved window as she strained against the immovable tile.

“It’s not—working,” Maura panted, as her solid form flickered and quickly faded back to its ghostly transparency.

“Perhaps I have the wrong one?” Carina recounted the titles only to confirm her choice as accurate. ‘Could Eleanora have misled Maura with inaccurate information? But why would she if she wanted Maura to help Hana escape through this passage.’

“I am not strong enough,” Maura lamented as she faded further from view. “I am useless.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t give up just yet,” Carina replied determinedly as she placed her hand back on the tile. ‘Six down and three over might be correct, but perhaps Eleanora counted from the right side instead of the left?’ Carina shook her head. ‘Rather than guess, let me see if I can detect the trigger.’ She closed her eyes, took in a slow breath, then exhaled. A thin cloud of mist appeared beneath her hand and spread across the tiles.

Carina focused as the cold vapor seeped through the wall’s cracks and illuminated the void behind a stone rose tile two spaces to the right of her hand. “I have it! It was on the—” She paused as the tile she located flickered. The rose momentarily illuminated with a faint blue light. ‘Weird, did it react to my magic?’

“Then let’s give it another try!” Maura said eagerly.

“Wait, wait,” Carina removed her hand from the wall and stepped back. “Let me try something first.” She retreated until she stood beneath the lantern’s candle.

“What are you—”

“I just need a moment,” Carina murmured as she closed her eyes again, extended her hands, and focused on the cold magic in her chest. A pale frigid glow illuminated her face as the frozen heart’s magic filled the passageway with a ghostly cloud of mist. Frost spread along the stone-paved floor, walls, and outlined the curvature of each rose. “Just a little bit more.”

Two blue roses glowed in the muted darkness behind Carina’s closed eyes. She focused upon them until the void behind each tile filled with magic, and a faint click echoed in the walls.

Carina ripped her eyes open and felt her heart crumble with defeat as the frost-covered wall remained still. “Damn it. I guess that would have been too easy.”

But the marked tiles still glowed before her as the pale magic Carina had injected behind them spread outwards until each rose-patterned window glowed with the same pale blue light she had seen before.

“Maura?” Carina whispered uncertainly as she took a step back.

“It’s reacting to your magic,” the ghost confirmed with a note of disbelief.

And then, just as in Maura’s memory, a door formed between the two glowing sets of tiles and slowly descended into the floor.

Carina stared into the tunnel as the light of her frozen heart slowly faded. In the darkness, the spectral figure of the ghost beside her glowed eerily. Carina shook her head as she glanced between the two glowing stone windows. “It was built to function with or without magic.”

‘I thought only mortal kings and queens had led Lafeara since the Second Saint’s rebellion?’ She touched the Winter Rose at her neck. ‘What had Percy said? Something about this being a royal heirloom?’ Confused and feeling like she had stumbled upon something important, Carina turned towards Maura.

Her questions withered and scattered the moment Carina caught sight of Maura’s face, now twisted with an expression of seething anger. A chill ran down her spine as Carina averted her gaze from the ghost’s blackened eyes and fumbled inside her bag for another match to relight the candle her magic had extinguished.

“You really are quite lucky.”

The matchstick in Carina’s hands snapped as she whipped around to find herself alone in the darkness. The malice that coated those words lingered long after she lifted the flickering candle from the lantern and approached the secret tunnel.

Carina paused outside the narrow passage to look back at the spot where Maura had fallen with an arrow in her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the empty shadows, then squeezed through the grimy stone walls and pulled the lever to seal the secret entrance.

A narrow flight of stairs led Carina down into the damp, cold underground tunnel. She followed the single path forward silently as she wrestled with Eleanora’s decision to condemn Maura. ‘Had the queen really expected a half-witch maid to rescue Hana from prison and execution?’

Another thought soon occupied her thoughts as Carina reached the second flight of stairs that led back up to the surface. ‘If Eleanora made it inside the secret tunnels—then why didn’t she escape? And how did she die?’

At the top of the steps, a second false wall and lever awaited her. Carina gave the metal bar a hard yank, determined to see this journey through to the end. The secret door opened, but this time she came out beneath one of the small archways that lined the fortress walls outside the royal palace.

“This will most definitely come in handy,” Carina whispered as she stepped out to examine the vine-covered archway. Sure enough, more rose tiles appeared beneath the growth of creeping plants. “I suppose it’s fairly discrete. Unless someone is lucky enough to push the correct tiles at the same time.”

‘Or they use magic.’

She stepped back and felt a stone click beneath her left foot. Carina watched the passage seal itself once more and then examined the paved ground that stopped at the edge of the archway. She smiled as she located a solitary rose tile. Stepping on it did not open the secret tunnel, so its apparent use was simply to close the hidden door.

Satisfied her escape path would not be so easily detected, Carina pulled a stick of charcoal from her bag and sketched a small rose onto the ceiling. With her way back marked well enough for the return trip, Carina pulled out her pocket watch and frowned at the minute hand that flagged her fifteen minutes late.

‘Hopefully, Stitcher is still waiting for me as planned.’ She slid away from the wall and dashed beneath the ghostly limbs of cherry trees that separated the palace from the surrounding capital and sheltered her from the soldiers who patrolled the fortress walls high above.

 

Chapter 100: A Specter of Betrayal

The ghost of Carina’s breath twisted before her eyes as she followed Maura through the hidden door behind her bedroom dresser. A dark, narrow passageway of cobwebs lurked inside the palace’s bedroom wall. Carina lit a candle and held it out to illuminate the hidden staircase that led down to the first floor.

A shoulder bag slung around her chest clinked faintly as Carina cautiously took each step. The wood was old and creaky, but otherwise sturdy. Still, it would not do if a servant were to hear something through the walls.

‘Fortunately, they are all sleeping blissfully right now.’

At the bottom of the staircase, another hidden door with a broken handle met her peering gaze. Carina decided to tie her handkerchief around it rather than risk cutting her hand on the rusty metal. With a few firm tugs, the frame yielded and moved inwards. A tapestry obscured the dining room beyond from view.

Carina waited a moment and listened breathlessly to the silence. She shivered as Maura impatiently passed through her into the room.

‘Well, it’s not like anyone else can see her except me.’

Carina blew out her candle, and cautiously followed.

The dining room was blanketed in darkness and shadows. Carina pushed the heavy woven fabric aside again as she tugged the door closed and left her handkerchief squeezed between the stone frame and the wall. When the tapestry dropped into place once more, she was reasonably satisfied no one would notice the passage entrance or her handkerchief, that served as a marker—at least, not before her return.

“Someone is coming!” Maura warned in a ghostly whisper.

Carina ducked down behind the table and chairs as a torch appeared outside the dining room window accompanied by muffled footsteps. The weight of the diamond necklace that Percy had gifted her hung around the taut muscles of Carina’s neck and shoulders as she waited for the knight patrol to move past.

When the room’s shadows stopped moving, Carina rose and followed Maura from the dining room into the dark foyer.

Although the glass windows were difficult to see through, even in the daylight, getting caught wandering about in the middle of the night as a royal attendant was not something Carina wanted to explain. Especially given the knights on patrol would likely report her misdemeanor to either the crown prince or the Dowager.

The muffled voice of a knight brought yet another torch past the window to her left. ‘Had they doubled back? Why?’ Carina slid behind the stairwell’s curved wall and crouched against the floor as she watched the salmon-colored flame shimmer against the glass panes by the entrance doors. The knight paused for a moment and exchanged a short, muffled conversation.

It was reasonable to assume they had not seen her, but Carina waited until they had moved on before she stood up again. Meanwhile, Maura flickered in and out of view beside her with an expression of impatience.

Carina huffed and shook her head. ‘Ever since we’ve arrived at the castle, she’s become more active and a lot more opinionated.’

Satisfied that there was no one within earshot, Carina straightened and brushed her fingers over the painted white, wooden molding of roses that stretched horizontally half-way up the wall. With silent footsteps, she continued her search for a hidden trigger like the one she had found at Lily Palace during the Selection.

‘The passage entrance should be about here, I think. Or perhaps it’s on the other side?’

Carina focused on the knotted buds closest to the stairwell wall and pressed her fingers against them. When nothing moved, she continued her search, careful to avoid skipping one accidentally.

Maura clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth—an odd distorted sound—then gestured at a rosebud beside her.

Carina hid a smile as she edged closer and pushed against the indicated trigger. A section of the stairwell popped out and then swung open.

‘Alright. So far, so good.’ Carina grasped of the edge of the door and pulled it towards her. Another yawning darkness greeted her gaze. ‘Let’s hope the rest of the night goes as smoothly.’ She retrieved another matchstick from her bag, lit the candle, and then entered the servant’s passageway.

A properly mounted door handle had been affixed to the interior frame. Carina used it to pull the door shut firmly.

The servant’s passage divided the front palace into two sections. The left side faced the receiving room, library, and royal study; while the right encompassed the dining room, kitchen, pantry, cellar, and back servant’s door.

Carina’s candle illuminated the small space and the first two doors, which were marked with metal plates inscribed with a number and letter—L1 for the receiving room, R1 for the dining room, L2 for the library, and so on.

It was a system designed to be simple enough for servants to follow, most of whom could not read, when summoned to attend to their Master or Mistress’s needs, and then disappear from view afterward. Maura was intimately familiar with these passages, having served the remaining years of her life in Rose Palace as a cleaning maid before prison and execution.

“Let’s hope your hunch about a secret exit proves accurate as well,” Carina whispered as she continued down the gloomy hallway. The candle flickered as Carina reached the far back wall of the passage that marked its end. She looked about for Maura, but the ghost was nowhere to be seen.

‘Again?’ Carina sighed and studied the wall before her, which was decorated with two narrow strips of rose-patterned tiles shaped like arched windows. ‘Perhaps she used up too much energy when she pulled that prank on Nicholas during the Selection?’

Icy arms slid around her neck as the candle flickered again. Although Carina could not see Maura, she could feel the dead girl’s urgency. Carina closed her eyes and plunged into the ghost’s cold memory.

The palace hallway lanterns flickered erratically as if protesting the chaos and death that had intruded upon its peaceful domain. Maura watched the shadows dance across the blood-splattered palace walls as the ringing in her head faded. A heavy weight, which trapped her against the floor, brought Maura’s attention to the still warm Lafearian knight’s body draped over her lower back and legs. The sounds of battle echoed in Maura’s ears as the blurred image of a woman in gold ran towards her.

Maura barely registered the licorice black curls that swayed beneath Eleanora’s crown as the queen raced past. Another figure emerged. The blue ghoul mask turned in Maura’s direction for only a moment. The soulless black eyes pinned her in place long after the assassin continued to chase after the fleeing queen.

The memory blurred and faded as it always did.

Maura huddled inside the servant’s passageway, trembling against the wall as she watched Garrett struggle to keep hold of Eleanora. The queen held Ghost’s dagger in her hand. The front of her gown now stained with blood.

“We have to go back!” Eleanora shouted. “Hana is still out there.”

“Your Majesty, if you go back now, you will be killed!” Garrett snapped. “It’s you they’ve come for.”

“No—wait!” Eleanora’s amber gaze turned towards Maura curled up against the wall. “You! Maid! They won’t pay attention to a servant like you.” Eleanora grabbed Maura’s arms and pulled her to her feet. “You must find a way back to Lady Hana’s room. There is a secret passage along the west wall that leads to the pantry. If you can slip her outside unseen—”

The passage door, which led to the receiving room, burst open as the king’s knights stormed inside.

“Queen Eleanora, by the King’s command, you are under arrest!” Captain Leo bellowed as he pushed towards the front of his knights. “Major Garrett, unless you wish to die a traitor’s death, you will put down your sword.”

“Your Majesty,” Garrett whispered as he pushed Eleanora and Maura behind him. “Run!”

Eleanora stood rigid as the Major charged towards the crammed pack of Lafearian knights that moved swiftly to meet him.

Captain Leo dodged Garrett’s first attack and slid along the floor past him towards Eleanora, who spun in an instant and raced towards the end of the passage. Maura’s legs buckled as she stared after the queen, and then, in a moment of blind stupidity, she stuck out her leg as the knight captain drew closer. He stumbled and slammed against the floor while Maura scrambled to her feet and chased after the queen.

“Bitch!” Leo roared.

Maura glanced back just once to see the captain already climbing back to his feet. Three knights slammed Major Garret against the wall, where they ripped away his armor and proceeded to gut him like a fish.

The passage’s candles flickered as the darkness crept in, and the memory blurred again.

Only, instead of waking as she had before, Carina slipped deeper into Maura’s memories.

Maura peered through trembling arms as Eleanora pulled Ghost’s dagger from Leo’s dead body. A wall of ice obscured them from the knights battering away on the other side.

“I knew you were a witch,” Eleanora whispered, her eyes strangely agleam with hope.

Maura only stared in silent horror at her trembling hands before she raised her gaze to the knights trapped within the wall of ice, their skin and eyes a strange discolored blue.

“Come here. I need your help!” Eleanora grabbed Maura’s wrist and dragged her over to the wall of tiled roses. The queen shivered then released Maura to tap the dagger’s hilt against a few rose-patterned stones. “Okay, six down, three over, and then—” Eleanora paused with the knife over one of the center tiles, “Yes—it should be this one. Come here and push this stone when I tell you too.”

Maura moved over obediently. She stared at her hand with confusion as Eleanora placed it against one of the many rose carved stone tiles.

“Don’t move, just a moment,” Eleanora urged as she moved over to the left set of tiles. “They have to be pushed at the same time now, get ready—and—push!”

Maura pushed as instructed. The tile resisted for only a second, and then the stone shifted inwards as a narrow hidden door opened between them and slid down into the ground.

“He was right,” Eleanora whispered in relief. She ripped a long piece of cloth from her gown with the dagger, then wrapped the fabric around her hand. Maura anxiously watched as Eleanora lifted one of the candles from its lantern and held it inside the narrow passage to reveal a flight of stairs that led deeper into the earth. “A secret tunnel for monarchs to use in the event of another rebellion or assassination. Hold this!”

Eleanora passed the candle to Maura, who winced as hot wax spilled onto her worn, rough fingers.

The queen wasted no time squeezing through the narrow opening. “I suppose I should be grateful that bastard never got me pregnant,” she muttered with a dark laugh. “It’s damn tight even for me now. Alright, pass me the candle.”

Maura handed the light over willingly as the sound of heavy footsteps drew closer. “Your Majesty, they’re about to breach the side passage doors.”

“Can’t you seal them off with your magic?” Eleanora muttered impatiently.

“I—have never been able to control it,” Maura whispered and self-consciously twisted her fingers into her skirts.

“A half-witch after all then.” Eleanora sighed as she scanned the wall inside the secret tunnel. “Ahh, there we go, there’s a lever here that should close the door behind us.”

“Then, we should hurry and escape, your Majesty.” Maura moved cautiously between the walls, her heart racing as claustrophobia, a gift from childhood, threatened to freeze her legs in place.

A hand grabbed her shoulder, and Maura turned towards the queen with a weak smile. “Thank you—”

“Forgive me,” Eleanora answered suddenly. “But I can’t leave her alone.”

Maura blinked in confusion as she studied the queen’s unreadable expression. The sound of metal grinding proceeded the odd sensation of the floor rising beneath her feet.

“You’re the only one I can trust to help her escape—even if you’re only a half-witch.”

The tunnel blurred as Eleanora pushed her firmly back into the passageway. Maura landed on her side, stunned for a moment, but quickly scrambled to her feet.

“Lead Hana here!” Eleanora pleaded even as Maura attempted to jump and catch the top of the rising door. Her fingers found the edge, but she lacked the strength to pull herself up, let alone hold on. Maura dropped down and raced towards the stone rose tiles as she tried to prevent the nearly closed exit from disappearing. “Six down, three over. It takes two to open. You must bring her here!”

The heavy thud of metal battered against the passage door to her left as Maura watched the secret stone door seal into place, once more indistinguishable from the rest of the passageway. A cold fury coiled in her gut as she stumbled forward, slammed her fists against the barrier, and screamed.

“Why? Why? Why me? You don’t even know my name!”

The passage door to her right groaned and shattered beneath the weight of a battering ram. Maura scampered away from the wall then turned towards the left passage door, which led to the queen’s study. It burst open before her.

Light poured over the looming armored figures of the king’s knights before an arrow zipped through the air and punctured her shoulder. The force knocked Maura off her feet and slammed her against the floor. Her head spun as she clawed weakly at the arrow and fell back with a gasp of pain.

When Maura opened her eyes again, the blade of Captain Beaumont glimmered through her teary vision.