Page 10

Guilt tries to rise, but I quash it. Time is a joke in the places I travel. Still, his reaction says I’ve missed more than a few council meetings. “Time slips happen in the demon plane, too. Does it only go forward here? Or does it also go backward?”

“Both.” He looks down at me. “It happens when realms lose their anchor point.”

I file the tidbit away for later. Back home, there are witches who study time slips that might be interested in buying the information.

Provided they’re still around when I escape this hellhole again.

I never wanted to come back to this realm, but now, with Elionn gone missing, I can’t bring myself to leave again until he’s safe.

4

THE WEIGHT OF STONE

THERON

“Your Majesty.” My personal guard, Thalindor Myr’Song, bows from the doorway. “Prince Caelan approaches with the…guest.”

My fingers brush across the windowsill, collecting a hint of moonstone dust that the servants missed. The fine powder sparkles between my fingertips, a reminder of what we’ve lost. The walls know what I will not say aloud, and my desperation grows with each passing hour.

“How does she appear?”

As Thalindor straightens, the braids that hang behind each pointed ear swing, and the crystals woven into his dark-gray hair catch the light. “Angry, Your Majesty.”

My lips twitch before I school myself and turn back to the window. “Leave us when they arrive.”

His armor clinks as he bows again and retreats.

I study the Silver Sithe spread out beneath my window, streets winding between buildings of marble and moonstone.

My realm.

My responsibility.

For centuries, I have maintained the balance of power through calculated decisions, not rash actions. Through alliances forged in council chambers, not on battlefields.

Now, I wait for a human woman to save what diplomacy cannot.

The fire in the hearth pops and hisses, casting dancing shadows across the floor. The first of the Silver Kings had built this chamber with acoustics that amplify every sound from the corridor while muffling voices within, so I hear it when the approaching footsteps grow louder, then pause.

I hear, too, the whispered argument, her resistance continuing to my very threshold.

My jaw tightens, and the temperature in the room drops several degrees, frost patterns blossoming on the glass beside me.

With a breath, I withdraw the ice back into my veins. Control. This meeting requires control.

I move to the center of the room, where a single table of polished silver wood stands between two chairs. One throne-like, carved with constellations.

Mine.

The other is simpler but elegant, with a high-back and a cushion for comfort.

Hers.

I had spent days settling on the arrangement, needing it to speak of equality without surrendering authority.

My brother’s patience exceeds mine. I hear his soothing murmur, countered by a cutting retort that carries through the wood. Amalia Wolf. The human bounty hunter who survived our dungeons, uncovered a traitor in our council, and stopped the Gold King from enacting a coup before she fled with a piece of royal blood, which she then had the cleverness to embed in her skin.

I had cautioned my brothers to accept her decision to leave, stopped Elionn from going after her, and now she’s the only one who can locate our missing brother.