Cold seeped into Keira's bones, her breath ghosting in front of her as she walked the endless stone halls. Her feet dragged. Her fingers trembled. But her jaw stayed set.
She replayed his words over and over in her mind.
Wash yourself. You reek of the dead.
They had been said without cruelty, no, cruelty required intention. This had been worse. An afterthought. As if she were beneath even his disdain.
She reached her room and shoved the door open with her shoulder. The space inside was dim, lit only by a single oil lamp sputtering on the sill. Her boots left muddy prints across the flagstone floor, but she didn't care.
The cracked mirror still hung above the basin.
She pulled off her coat, her fingers clumsy with cold. Her skin felt tight over her bones, her stomach knotted with something she couldn't name. Fear, maybe. Grief. Fury.
She lit another lamp, and the light flickered across the room.
Suddenly, everything came back at once.
Her mother's hand gripping hers, blood on the threshold, Tomas' arms shoving her into the crawlspace, a scream that didn't sound human. Her family. Her entire world. Taken by the Fae.
And now here she was. Serving them. Washing for them. Bowing.
Her eyes burned.
She crossed to the basin and poured cold water from the jug. It splashed and steamed against the metal. She dipped the cloth in, scrubbed at her arms, her neck. Her legs. Every inch of herself felt touched by them, and she wanted it gone.
Gone, gone, gone.
A knock came. Hard. Unapologetic.
She didn't jump.
"Girl," came Tarin's gruff voice. "Food for the prince. You're taking it."
Keira opened the door, her hair damp, her cloak wrapped tight. Tarin thrust a tray into her arms. On it, roasted venison, slick with blackcurrant glaze. Potatoes spiced with cloves and orange. A fluted glass of dark wine that smelled of cherries and smoke.
"Moon Room," he said. "Don't talk, and most importantly don't stare."
Keira nodded, silent.
The Moon Room was near the east wing. She had passed it before but never entered. A crescent-shaped table dominated the room, polished so smooth it reflected the candlelight. Pale curtains billowed like ghosts across the arched windows.
This time, the prince himself sat at the far end.
His head bowed, his long dark hair unbound. The thorns of his crown curled like living things around his brow, glistening faintly with sap and blood. One vine wrapped beneath his jaw, its tip pulsing as though with a heartbeat.
Her eyes flicked once to the knife beside the plate, slim, sharp, easy to grasp. She wondered how deeply she'd have to strike. Maybe just under the jaw. Where the vines curled close.
She would find out.
As she neared the prince, Keira's hands tightened around the tray.
Now.
She moved toward him slowly, eyes going back to the knife beside the plate. The room was silent. Even the wind held its breath.
She set the tray down gently, the knife near the edge.
Her fingers found it.
She turned.
She struck.
But the knife never reached him.
Her body slammed back against the wall with a force that stole her breath. Invisible pressure crushed her chest. Magic.
He was already standing.
Riven's eyes burned, red rimmed with silver, deep as winter.
"You dare," he said, voice low and sharp as broken glass. "You dare raise a hand against me?"
The knife dropped with a clatter.
Keira gasped. "Please I'm sorry."
"You're not."
He came closer, slow and measured. His magic still held her there, her feet just above the floor.
"Foolish girl. I have seen centuries of hatred. I've watched kings fall and empires drown. But you," he hissed, "you think your grief is special?"
"I didn't mean to," she whispered.
Something cracked in his expression.
He flinched.
And then, his hand twitched. His face contorted. The crown on his head pulsed.
One thorn twisted into his temple.
Blood, silver and slow, slid down his cheek.
His magic loosened.
Keira collapsed, coughing. Her knees hit the stone hard and she curled in on herself, gasping.
"You will not serve me again. For now," he said.
Keira didn't wait for him to speak more, she immediately bolted out the door and didn't look back.
She kept walking, one foot in front of the other, until the corridor turned and the weight of his magic was no longer clinging to her skin. Only then did her steps quicken. She broke into a run.
She ran until her lungs burned. Until her legs shook. Until she was far enough away to pretend she hadn't just tried to kill the most powerful Fae in the Midnight Court.
~
Back in the Moon Room, silence settled like dust.
Riven stood alone, unmoving, his hands clenched at his sides. The silver blood at his temple glimmered, sliding past his cheekbone where a thorn had pierced him again.
The crown pulsed, slow, steady, like it disapproved.
He exhaled through his teeth and wiped the blood with the back of his hand.
Too much. He'd let himself go too far.
He never should have let her near him. He never should have let anyone near him.
He turned toward the darkened window, his reflection blurred by mist and candlelight. There, on his brow, the crown flexed, a breathing thing, alive with ancient power, forged not to glorify him, but to cage the worst parts of himself.
He let his eyes close.
"You're bleeding again," came a voice from behind.
Cael.
Riven didn't turn. "Get out."
"You know," Cael mused, stepping casually into the room, "that's exactly how it began with Elya."
Riven's jaw tensed.
"She stabbed you. You bled. You threatened her. She ran away, just like this one." Cael grinned. "History is a lazy thing. Loves to repeat itself."
"She's not Elya."
"No," Cael agreed lightly. "But she made you bleed too, didn't she?"
Riven turned then, slow, deliberate.
The candlelight caught his violet eyes and turned them cold. The vines of his crown twitched, sensing his fury.
"Leave," he said again, quieter this time. A warning wrapped in silk.
Cael gave a mock bow. "As you wish, dear brother."