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As I turn to leave, a flash of movement catches my eye. One mirrored panel in the wall no longer shows my reflection. Instead, a jagged fracture spiders across its surface, branching outward like frost on a window.
I approach, steps silent. The crack wasn’t there when we entered, and no blow struck the glass while we tarried here. Yet it splits now, the fissure widening, revealing darkness beyond instead of a backing.
“Your Majesty,” Thalindor murmurs in warning.
I lift my hand, fingers hovering near the break. Magic pulses from the fracture, faint but clear. Here, space folds inward, reality straining to keep hold.
This is not King Nyctarian’s whim.
I straighten in confusion. This should not be happening with a king in power and so many princes and princesses marked for bloom. Unless none of them are capable of acting as a conduit for the sithe’s power, and displaying them was another layer of deception meant to portray the Dark Sithe as stronger than it is.
“Your Majesty?” Thalindor prods.
“This sithe is unraveling, and they’re trying to hide it,” I murmur to my companions. “We must search for Elionn quickly and get out of here before it implodes.”
The ceiling ripples, a drop of black falling and vanishing on the floor.
Amalia’s head lifts, her body coiled tight, while the moonstone around her neck sputters with life. Whatever thoughts she has, though, she keeps to herself.
“We should return to our quarters,” I say, breaking the tension.
Thalindor bows his head. “As you command, Your Majesty.”
Amalia backs away, her hand moving to grip her knife, and the sigils carved into the blade flare with magic.
She falls into position behind me, with Thalindor leading, and me in the center. As we leave the chamber, the walls multiply our reflections, giving the illusion of an army where only three walk.
On the threshold, I turn back. The fracture in the mirror has widened, darkness spilling out. Whatever breaks through the boundaries of the Dark Sithe grows stronger by the hour.
Time is a luxury none of us can afford.
11
THE RIFT IN THE DARK
AMALIA
The silk slides over my skin, black as night with threads that shimmer purple when I move. I turn before the mirror, barely recognizing myself in garments I pulled from the wardrobe.
The bodice pinches my waist, its neckline plunging in a deep V to my belt, with only thin, opaque panels keeping my nipples covered. It leaves more skin bare than I like, but every distracting detail draws attention away from the woman beneath it.
After seeing me so often in white, no one will pay any attention to another dark-clad wildling slipping through the shadows while Theron once again attends to Nyctarian in the garden.
I unwind my usual braid and rake my fingers through my long black hair until it falls in wild waves, mimicking the style I’ve seen on several wildling courtiers. A little fussing ensures my hair covers the glamour cuffs on my ears. Then I tuck several of the provided daggers into my tight belt, alongside my magic-inscribed one.
The sithean stone is too distinctive, so I take it from my neck and wrap the chain around my wrist. When I tuck the moonstone into my glove, an uneven pulse beats against my palm like a faltering heartbeat.
When I return to the mirror, shock ripples through me at the Dark fae reflected there. I blink, and my dry contacts sting in response. I rub at the irritation until tears form and the discomfort fades.
Stupid Caelan, kidnapping me without an overnight bag with convenient drops for my contacts.
Through the doors of our suite, music drifts in strange harmonies, pipes and strings playing notes never meant for human ears. The celebration has begun, which means the courtiers will be occupied for hours with the pageantry of court politics.
I crack the door open, peering into the corridor where servants rush past carrying trays laden with neon green and glowing foods. As I slip out, my steps silent on the polished stone floor, my disguise draws no attention.
The hallways twist and fold back on themselves, but without Theron beside me, the confusion of corridors parts before me, as if the labyrinth was built to disorient Theron and not a random courtier.
Behind me, the music fades with each turn I take, replaced by the rustling of dark-leafed plants that spill from planters and curl around pillars. Damp earth and copper saturate the air, reminding me of blood mixed with rain.
