The streets empty as we approach the palace. Not gradually—one moment citizens pack the thoroughfare, the next only echoes remain. Even the air feels evacuated, leaving us to walk through something that tastes like held breath.

  "Twenty-seven," Sylene says, continuing our earlier count. "If they come at us in waves."

  "You're not accounting for exhaustion."

  "My form doesn't get sloppy."

  "The assassination attempt in the Year of Burning Glass. You let that archer—"

  She stops walking. "You remember that?"

  The memory surfaces without effort—Sylene dancing through attackers, blood painting snow, an arrow sprouting from her shoulder as she laughed and kept killing. "Fragments. It's coming back in pieces."

  The Palace of Contempt looms larger with each step. Black stone drinks moonlight, returns nothing. The architecture suggests violence made vertical—spires like claws, bridges like exposed ribs.

  "Movement," Morwyn warns, fur bristling against my neck.

  Shadows peel away from the palace walls. Not metaphorically—actual shadows gaining dimension, rising into humanoid shapes. They wear armor of crystallized darkness, carry weapons that blur at the edges.

  "Shadow Guard," Sylene identifies. "Elite protection."

  I count fifty. They don't attack. Instead, they form two lines, creating a corridor to the palace gates. An honor guard. Or a funnel.

  We walk between living darkness. Up close, I see through their forms to what they once were—human shapes twisted into service, souls bound to shadow and purpose.

  The palace gates stand open.

  The courtyard beyond should not exist. Space bends to accommodate impossibility. Fountains of liquid starlight splash into basins carved from single bones. Trees of silver and gold bear fruit that looks like preserved hearts.

  And everywhere, the sculptures.

  They're still alive. Hundreds of bodies twisted into artistic poses, frozen mid-scream. A woman bent backward into a perfect circle, spine visible through translucent skin. A man whose limbs have been elongated and woven into latticework. Children stacked like building blocks into a pyramid that breathes in unison.

  One sculpture near the path stops me cold—a young man with the dark-haired boy's features from Ward Nine. His body has been transformed into a flowering plant, eyes still aware above petals made of flesh. But it's the rose carved into his chest that makes my breath catch. The same symbol I remember from... somewhere. Someone who mattered.

  "Sixty-five," I whisper. "If we freed them first. Turned them against their sculptor."

  A figure materializes at the courtyard's center, rising from shadows like smoke given flesh. She's tall—seven feet—with skin that can't decide between flesh and shadow. Her face flows like water, features rearranging constantly. Only her eyes remain fixed: vertical slits of red fire.

  The Princess of Flesh and Hate. Memory surfaces—this creature overseeing our training, delighting in children breaking each other.

  Now, she reeks of terror.

  "Your Majesty," she says, dropping to one knee with panic-speed. "You've returned. We weren't expecting..."

  "Stand up. You look ridiculous."

  She rises but won't meet my eyes.

  "Fifty-three total," Sylene muses. "If the Princess joins them."

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  "Sixty with the sculptures," I add.

  The Princess laughs—a sound like breaking children. "You could destroy the realm." She studies us with those burning eyes. "In your prime, at full power, with memories intact? This entire realm would burn at your whim." Her form solidifies slightly. "But look at you now. The Knight with ruined hands. The Queen who forgot her own name. You probably are limited to sixty."

  "Can I kill her?" I ask.

  The Princess scoffs. "I should be killing you. Do you have any idea what you did? The chaos you left behind?" She gestures at the sculptures. "At least the Regent brings order. Horrible order, but order."

  "I don't remember—"

  "Of course you don't. They carved out everything useful." She starts walking toward the palace. "Do you know how many died in the succession wars? How many realms fell without the Hollow Wind to maintain balance?"

  The words hit like physical blows. Balance? Me?

  "You were the keystone," she continues, leading us through doors that open at her approach. "Without you, it all became... pointless violence. At least when you ruled, the horror had purpose."

  The palace interior assaults the senses. Carpets woven from what might be human hair. Chandeliers of crystallized screams. Paintings that shift based on who's looking.

  We pass more sculptures. These ones move—eyes tracking, fingers twitching. One reaches toward us, mouth open in silent plea.

  "Don't," the Princess warns. "The Regent doesn't like people touching their art."

  She stops before ornate doors marked with symbols that burn to perceive. "The Sunset Chamber. A word of advice? Don't let the Regent touch you. Their power works through contact."

  "Why warn us?"

  Her form flickers, showing old pain. "Because I remember what this realm was with you. Horrible, yes. Cruel beyond measure. But it had rules. The strong consumed the weak, but there were limits." She gestures around us. "This is just vanity given power."

  The doors open onto opulence that makes my eyes water. Everything is gold—not painted, but transmuted. Living gold that pulses with its own heartbeat. Air sparkles with diamond dust.

  "Wait here," the Princess says. "The Regent comes when they choose."

  She leaves us in this monument to excess. The wrongness of it all makes the Hollow Wind writhe inside me like a caged animal. My heartbeat pounds against my ribs as doubt creeps in.

  "What if I was worse?" The words escape before I can stop them. "What if whatever I did was so terrible that even this is preferable?"

  "Does it matter?" Sylene's response cuts through my spiral. "They hollowed us out. Took our memories. Made us into weapons. Whatever you were, they had no right."

  "Even if I was a monster?"

  "Especially then. Monsters deserve the chance to choose their shape."

  Morwyn leaps onto my lap, a warm weight that grounds me. "You had reasons," she says quietly. "You always had reasons."

  A door appears in solid wall. Through it steps perfection given form.

  The Regent Vore is human-shaped but too ideal, like someone sculpted beauty and forgot to add flaws. Skin like polished marble. Hair flowing silver. Eyes holding too many colors at once. Their robes seem cut from beauty itself.

  "Your Majesty," they say, voice like honey over broken glass. "Welcome home."

  They glide closer, each movement calculated grace. "I've kept your throne warm. Your city rebuilt. Your people... managed." Their smile shows pearl teeth. "Though I confess, my methods differ from yours."

  "The sculptures," I say.

  "Art requires sacrifice." They extend a hand toward me, stopping just short of contact. "And in this realm, pain is currency. You taught us that."

  The Hollow Wind recoils from their presence. Something about them feels fundamentally wrong—not just cruel, but empty in a way that makes my own hollowness seem full by comparison.

  "Your blood-tithe is three months overdue," they continue conversationally. "The reservoir runs low. Without it, the bindings fail. The prisoners wake. The dead remember they can walk." Their fingers hover near my cheek. "The Palace of Contempt awaits your return—I've prepared your chambers for as long as you need to... recover. Until the tithe can be properly renewed." A knowing smirk plays at the corners of their mouth. "Or would you prefer I continue in your stead?"

  "What blood-tithe?" But even as I ask, my body remembers—the weight of a blade, the warmth of opened veins, the way power flowed with spilled life.

  "Oh my," the Regent's smile widens. "They really did take everything, didn't they? How delicious. A Queen who doesn't remember her own contracts." They pull back their hand, denying me even that terrible contact. "The Council will be so interested to hear of your... condition."

  Behind them, through windows of living crystal, I see the six moons beginning to align. My skin prickles with recognition I can't name.

  "The Convergence approaches," Vore notes. "Three days until the barriers thin. Three days to remember who you are, or I'll show everyone what you've become." They turn to leave, pausing at their impossible door. "Your old chambers remain untouched. Perhaps sleeping in your own bed will stir something useful."

  The door seals behind them, leaving us in gaudy silence.

  "Blood-tithe," Sylene says slowly. "That's..."

  "Something else they took from me." I stand, Morwyn flowing from my lap to my shoulders. "Something else I need to remember."

  But the dark-haired boy's rose burns in my memory, and Vore's words echo: pain is currency.

  What debts did I accrue? What prices did I pay?

  And why does part of me think I haven't paid enough?