I hide behind the thick emerald curtain in my brother's chambers, the velvet riddled with dust that threatens to make me sneeze. I press a trembling hand over my nose and mouth, the other crushing the array of herbs I'd brought with me.

  I'm not allowed to be in here when the apothecaries provide treatment--though I often find myself lingering behind this curtain when they do.

  I can't stay away.

  The fire crackles in the hearth, and I have to concentrate to pick up the whispering voices beyond my veil.

  "A soldier wandered to far into demon territory again," a feminine voice sighs as another sucks in a sharp breath.

  "Did he--"

  "Claw marks down his back... I barely had time to process it all before he started seizing."

  "Soul rot," the other voice murmurs, "poor thing."

  "Indeed." I hear the faint pop of a cork pulling free. "I was surprised he'd held on for so long--it took a while for him to be found and he was too far along when I arrived, nothing left in his eyes but ash."

  Fabric rustles as the floor creaks beneath an apothecary as she stands, "do you think one of our remedies will help him--the prince?"

  Silence hangs in the air and I try my hardest to keep my breathing even though my heart hammers in my ears.

  "We've been trying for years, haven't we." The one who spoke of the soldier states. The conversation ends there, as though that is enough of an answer for how my brother's life will unfold.

  He may rouse from bed on rare occurrences, but he will never fully heal from such a troubling illness.

  My heart drops into my stomach the same moment the crushed herbs fall from my grip.

  It is no use--none of it. And that little kernel of doubt sparks to life within my mind, telling me that none of my attempts would ever prove worthwhile.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Sunlight filters through a set of gauzy violet curtains across the way, and for a moment, I wonder where I am. The bed beneath me is vast and soft, draped in silks the color of twilight--a stark difference from Elyndria's gold. And the walls, carved with cruel jagged clefts, have been stained so deeply black they swallow the firelight that dances lazily across the surface from the hearth on the far end.

  I sit upright, hissing at the jolt of pain that zings up my arms. I find them bare, save for the gauze wrapping around my wounds. I blind down at myself, a snowy white nightdress replacing my tattered gown.

  The door creaks open, revealing a woman standing in the doorway. Her presence is sharp and graceful as she enters, her silver robes skimming the glossy floor as she nears my bed. "You're awake," she says, her smile too polite to be warm. "You gave us quite the scare. His Highness has been asking about your condition frequently."

  His Highness is the last person on my mind.

  My lips part. "The King's Blade, where--"

  "You're under strict bed rest for the next three days." She dismisses my question and my eyes drop from her ochre ones in defeat. "Any exertion, and the healers said you'd tear those stitches wide open." I stare at the tiny black feathers stitched into the silver fabric, then scan my way up to her hair, neatly pinned back in coiled braids. For a moment, I ponder my current appearance.

  I must look dreadful.

  I give a strained smile. "Of course."

  The woman--who I assumed is my lady-in-waiting--crosses the room to check a tray of tea and dried fruits before casting a quick glace at me. "I'll fetch your tonic." She turns toward the door. "Stay in bed."

  The moment the door clicks shut, I'm on my feet, ignoring the exhaustion tugging on my limbs as I steady myself against the bedpost. I focus on the feel of the cool stone floor beneath my toes before pushing off the post and starting toward the door. My feet make no sound as I prod across the way, and pull open the door, peeking into the corridor.

  Empty.

  The palace stretches on like a shadowed cathedral--obsidian hallways with veins of silver threading through the stone flicker with torchlight. High windows let in narrow beams of pale sunlight that illuminate strange murals depicting foreign maps, bloody battles, and a crowned silhouette with eyes like fire.

  I let myself wander, my brain still in a dreamlike haze as one singular though propels me forward, louder than my pulse:

  Find Rael.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  I'm unsure of what I plan to do when I find him--curse him for hiding the severity of my injuries or cling to him in gratitude for saving me--either way, I need to see him.

  I continue down the corridor, passing room after room, dark wooden doors left ajar, some tightly shut. But as I travel further, not another soul moves. No servants bustling, no nobles chattering. The only signs of life being the guards stationed every few halls I pass, stiff-backed and watching, their eyes never meeting mine.

  I turn a corner, finding a set of dark oak doors standing before me, one half open as if in invitation.

  Would he be here?

  I push through, blinking in the sight that greets me.

  A library.

  A grand, vaulted sanctuary of knowledge--columns of pale stone reaching toward the domed ceiling painted in golds and muted blues, stars etched into its curves. Shelves stretch so high they vanish into shadow, each row lined with leather-bound books and scrolls wound tightly in golden clasps. A spiral staircase winds around a central pillar and chandeliers of floating crystal orbs drift lazily above.

  The scent of old parchment and lavender hangs in the air and for a second I feel as thought I'm home, standing at the center of the study as the scent of the garden flows in through the open windows.

  I brush away the memory with a sigh, stepping further into the room to trail my finger across the spines of books as I pass. My eyes skitter from title to title, some in languages I don't recognize, others bearing strange glyphs I've never seen before. But one catches my eye and I pause my strides. A red volume with worn edges, the title written in flaking calligraphy: The Weight of Wishes. I observe it closer, tugging it halfway free from it's spot, but a flicker of movement draws my attention.

  A white pedestal etched with celestial silver designs sits at the center of the room, an open book resting atop it.

  Unlike the others lining the shelves, this one is massive, its pages so worn it crackles beneath the invisible draft swirling through the chamber.

  Curiously, I approach it.

  A list of names are inked in two columns. One side labeled Wish Granted. The other, Debt Paid.

  A ledger.

  Some names are crossed out--debts paid in full.

  Others are left untouched--no debt paid, no fate sealed.

  I run a finger lightly down the list, lips parting as my eyes spot a familiar name.

  Elira Thorneval.

  My heart sputters.

  Why is my mother's name listed--

  My eyes skip to the other column.

  --and why is her debt unpaid?

  Whispers echoing in the hallway cause me to jerk away from the book and I find myself searching the room for a place to hide as the familiar voice of my lady-in-waiting filters through the doorway.

  "Wandering already," my lady-in-waiting grumbles.

  "She's awake, then?" comes an unfamiliar voice.

  I freeze, slipping behind a thick curtain draping a blacked-out window.

  "The King's Blade says she's clever, but I'd call it reckless."

  Another voice—female, older. "She's a risk. If she uncovers the truth—"

  "Then we'll deal with it."

  Their footsteps echo down the hallway and I hold my breath until the sound fades away.

  Only then do I slip from behind the curtain, heart pounding.

  I don't linger. Whatever that ledger is... I don't have any more time to spare it.

  Back in the corridor, I travel on—deeper into the palace, through quiet halls that twist and turn, and each time I round a corner I cast a glance over my shoulder. Cautious. I find a room tucked between twin statues of wolves—a study, its walls lined with maps and half-drunk glasses of dark liquid. Another door leads me through a music room, then into a cavernous ballroom with a giant chandelier dripping jewels, and a dais that stands empty, like it hasn't hosted a soul in decades.

  So much beauty... so much silence--

  "There you are!" my lady-in-waiting calls from the doorway. A guard flanks her, hand already on the hilt of his blade. "You're not supposed to be out of bed!"

  Rael.

  I need to find him. To see for myself that he is real and whole and here.

  I don't wait a moment longer. I face another doorway and run.

  Breathlessly, I sprint down unfamiliar corridors, past sweeping staircases and alcoves filled with pale statuary. I turn another corner, finding two great doors, tall as the ceiling and etched with shimmering symbols, at its end.

  Perhaps he's in there...

  Four guards stand at attention and at my rushing approach, two step forward and--shk--cross their swords in an X to bar my path.

  "By order of the king," one states firmly, "you are not to enter—"

  But I don't stop.

  I drop low, ducking beneath their blades, and shove with both hands against the doors. They groan open with a thundering creak, my shoulder slamming into the wood to push them wider.

  The guards shout, one reaching for my arm as the throne room unfolds like a vision in a fever dream.

  "Bring her back to her chambers!" I hear my maid order, just before the doors slam shut behind me with a thunderous boom. Gauntleted fingers grip at my arms and I bite back a whimper as the metal presses into my wounds.

  The room expands before me--vast, cold, and too quiet. A haunting hush of space that has seen too many secrets.

  A cluster of figures stand ahead, half-shrouded in shadow and dressed in silks and dark leathers. Their postures portray regality, yet their slow, deliberate movements reveal the quiet menace of predators. As their heads shift in eerie unison, their eyes gleam, catching the light from the chandelier.

  Violet. Every single one.

  The murmurs die and I swallow hard, the sound too loud.

  But then, from the crowd, a voice cuts through the silence—rich, deep, and authoritative. The words carry an undeniable weight, halting the guards in their tracks just as they start to drag me toward the exit.

  "Leave her."

  It isn't a suggestion, but an order. Calm. Resolute. There is a certain command in the voice, one that makes the air still.

  The guards hesitate, then release me, stepping back with clear reluctance.

  Silence stretches, the tension nearly strangling as the eyes of the nobles fixate on me.

  I want to run, to flee from this strange, suffocating room, but something roots me in place—that voice, that presence.

  "Let her see." He speaks again, quieter, but no less commanding.

  The words hang in the air, as the murmur of the violet-eyed strangers resumes—a low, whispering buzz of unsettling energy.

  The knot of figures slowly breaks apart.

  My gaze follows the movement—first to the polished floor, then to the dark throne they reveal.

  Wrought of black stone and silver, twisting into sharp, elegant shapes. Serpents curl along the arms, their jeweled eyes glittering like stars.

  My eyes lift further, skipping past the lounging figure to fixate on a jagged crown that gleams like forged dusk.

  And beneath it--midnight hair, tousled just so, the ends kissing the high collar of a crimson tunic.

  I draw in a sharp breath, tracing the brutal angles of a statuesque face, bronze skin catching in the light, before meeting his gaze.

  Red as rubies. Narrowed in a way I know too well.

  My knees buckle before my thoughts can catch up, and the floor rushes to meet me as the world fades to black.