I slept little that first night, though sleep was not the right word for the fugue that swallowed me after the Demon Emperor left. The silk pillows felt too soft, the hush too absolute, as if the walls themselves held their breath to monitor mine. Each time I drifted toward dreams, I jolted awake, half‑expecting the inquisitor's blade to finish its swing.
Eventually, dawn—or something like it—tinted the lattice windows a bruised violet. No sun ascended, only a subtle lightening of the endless gloom, as though the realm agreed to imitate morning for my benefit. I pushed aside the blankets and swung my legs over the edge of the bed.
The floor greeted my bare feet with a gentle warmth, pulsing like a living heart. I recoiled, then steadied. You will not cower because stones breathe, I scolded myself. You have bargained with restless spirits and outwitted plague. A sentient palace would not undo me.
A wardrobe of ebony wood stood opposite the bed, carved with thorny vines and winged beasts. Its doors parted at my touch, revealing gowns in every shade between moonlight and fresh blood. Fine as they were, I wanted familiar wool, something practical, but nothing here remotely resembled modest attire. I selected a midnight‑blue dress: high‑necked, long‑sleeved, cinched at the waist by an intricate corset threaded with silver filigree. The skirt, thankfully, brushed my ankles, though a teasing slit hinted at reckless design.
As I fastened the final clasp, a soft knock rapped the door. Instinct clenched my stomach. Before I could answer, the door swung inward, admitting a girl who looked scarcely sixteen. She wore a simple charcoal shift and carried a lacquered tray.
"Good morning, Your Majesty," she said, bowing so deeply her forehead nearly touched her knees.
Majesty. The word slid across my ears like oil on water—impossible to grasp. "Please, rise," I told her. "And call me Leora."
She straightened, dark eyes wide. "His Imperial Darkness does not approve of servants addressing—"
"Your mistress," I finished, retrieving a sliver of confidence. "I approve." I gestured to the tray. "What is that?"
"Breakfast, my—Leora," she corrected, cheeks coloring. On the tray rested a silver teapot, a plate of iridescent fruit that resembled translucent plums, and a delicate pastry dusted in violet sugar.
My stomach twisted—hunger and suspicion wrestling. "Is it—safe?"
She blinked. "Everything in Nightspire is safe. Unless it isn't." Her expression turned apologetic. "Forgive me. That's what the kitchen witch says."
I laughed before I could stop myself. The sound felt startlingly human in the cavernous chamber. "What's your name?"
"Calia." She hesitated. "I was assigned to you as handmaiden."
Assigned. The word clinked like a chain. Still, her presence was welcome; I knew nothing of demon court etiquette or which corridors would eat me alive. "Thank you, Calia," I said, lifting the teapot. The liquid poured crystal‑clear but released fragrant steam redolent of jasmine and something spicy—cinnamon, perhaps. I tasted. Sweetness blossomed on my tongue, followed by a soothing warmth traveling down my throat. Comfort. I hadn't realized how much I needed it.
"May I ask a favor?" I said.
She nodded so vigorously her silver earrings chimed.
"I'd like to see the library, if such a thing exists."
Her eyes glittered. "Oh, yes. The Grand Atheneum. But, um, it's in the east wing."
Do not wander the east wing after twilight, Ravan had warned. "It isn't twilight now," I reasoned aloud. "Will you guide me?"
She bit her lip. "I can lead you to the safe halls, but from the Marrow Gallery onward I must wait outside. The shelves… remember."
Remember? I tamped down curiosity. "That will suffice."
The corridors of Nightspire twisted like veins through a colossal heart. Obsidian arches soared overhead, inlaid with quartz veins that glimmered as we passed. Portraits lined the walls, each subject more unsettling than the last: horned monarchs, winged queens, faceless courtiers—paintings done in pigments that shimmered as though alive. Several frames were empty, scorched around the edges.
"Where are those portraits?" I asked, indicating an abandoned frame.
Calia paled. "Those are the emperors who fell to treachery. Their likenesses cannot remain." She hurried on, voice small. "But our current sovereign endures. He always endures."
There was a story there, but another sight tugged my attention: a window revealing the exterior realm. Instead of sunlit courtyards, jagged spires pierced a purplish sky swirling with embers. River‑veins of molten gold cut across black plains, distant but unmistakable. No birds, no clouds—only drifting motes of fire.
"Is it always night?" I asked.
"This is day," Calia replied.
We reached a vaulted hall where pillars twisted into gargoyles clutching candles that burned with violet flames. At the far end, two iron doors stood ajar. Beyond them stretched the Grand Atheneum.
I entered and froze.
Books—endless ranks of them—floated in arrhythmic patterns, drifting between ceiling and floor like lazy fish in a dark sea. Shelves of carved bone spiraled upward; ladders moved on their own, sliding toward readers, then away. Lantern‑orbs hovered, casting gold halos that chased the gloom.
A hush suffused the air—not silence, but reverence, as if every page exhaled secrets simultaneously. I inhaled the scent: dust, ink, a faint trace of lightning. Home, I thought, absurdly. Even in a demon palace, knowledge felt like sanctuary.
Calia stopped a pace inside. "I will wait by the pillars. Call if you need me."
"Thank you."
I stepped forward. The floor was polished obsidian, mirrored so perfectly it seemed I walked on water inked with stars. My reflection followed: pale face, midnight dress, eyes too tired for their years. A stranger.
And yet, here she was, about to steal back her fate.
I approached the nearest shelf. Books fluttered aside like startled birds. One settled before me—an enormous tome bound in deep red leather, its title etched in silver glyphs. They rearranged themselves into my language as I watched: The True History of Imperial Contracts.
My breath caught. Was the library sentient? Or did the palace itself heed my thoughts?
I opened to a random page. Inked illustrations depicted emperors sealing pacts with mortals, fey, or worse. Some contracts ended in glory; others, in realms set ablaze by betrayal. I flipped until a paragraph arrested me:
A Covenant of Final Breath binds not merely flesh but fate. Should the mortal spouse perish, the imperial consort will fracture into shadow; yet should the imperial consort die, the mortal inherits dominion over Tenebris for seven cycles, whereupon the realm decides its next ruler…
My pulse thundered. If Ravan feared a prophecy of ruin, perhaps this was its root: my death could undo him, but his death could crown me—at least temporarily. Knowledge, dangerous and shining, nestled in my mind like a stolen jewel.
A soft cough spilled from the aisle behind me. I spun, closing the book.
A man emerged, tall but stooped, wrapped in gray robes covered with ink stains. A thin band of silk covered his eyes.
"Forgive the intrusion," he said, voice gentle, "but the shelves grew restless. They rarely court newcomers."
"You're… the librarian?"
"A mere scribe," he replied, bowing. "I keep company with words too shy for daylight." Sightless eyes—yet he navigated unerringly, cane tapping once on stone. "You are the new empress."
"I am." I hesitated. "You know my name?"
"Leora Aelinora. The palace whispered it when you breathed your first daylight here." His head tilted. "You seek escape routes."
My guard rose. "I seek truth."
"Two sides of the same blade." He extended a gloved hand. "I am called The Blind Archivist. Ask, and if the library permits, I shall answer."
Questions tangled on my tongue: How to sever a covenant? Where are the weak seams in the emperor's power? But blunt inquiry might brand me traitor. Instead, I asked, "Can knowledge itself breach chains?"
His smile was small and sad. "Knowledge is the hammer, will the hand that swings it. But every strike draws notice." He turned, beckoning. "Come. There is a scroll the shelves have dusted for you alone."
Curiosity overruled caution. I followed down a narrow aisle until we reached a pedestal of black glass. Atop it lay a scroll sealed in crimson wax embossed with the same sun‑sigil I once wore as royal soul‑witch. My throat tightened.
Without touching, I read the label: Testimony of High Inquisitor Caldor, Transcribed Under Oath. The date was the day after my execution.
Hands trembling, I broke the seal. The script leapt, blood‑red on cream.
The witch is dead, and yet I dream her eyes. The king demanded a verdict swift and public; I delivered. But rumor coils: another stands behind the charge. A merchant prince, a council of nobles—no, a shadow of the north… I cannot sleep. Sometimes I think I saw guilt in the king's face. May the gods forgive me if we slew the realm's last protector.
I stared until words blurred. Betrayed by king and court, executed on false charges—yet doubt already gnawed those who condemned me. Proof lay here, in the Emperor's library. Why?
I turned to the archivist. "Why would Ravan keep evidence that could vindicate me?"
"Because he collects truths the mortal world wishes buried," the scribe murmured. "They amuse him. And sometimes, they tempt his brides to reach for daggers."
Brides. Plural. I inhaled sharply. "How many before me?"
"Enough to populate legends," he said. "Some sought his heart; others sought his crown. None remain to counsel you."
Chill threaded my spine. "What became of them?"
"The east wing mirrors remember," he whispered, echoing Ravan's warning. "Yet memory need not become destiny, Lady Leora—unless you walk unguarded."
A sliver of resolve crystallized. "Then I will not walk unguarded."
He nodded, as though he had witnessed a verdict. "Take the scroll. But hide it well. The palace listens."
I slipped the parchment into my corset, beneath embroidered whorls. The paper lay over my heart like an ember.
"Thank you," I said.
He bent in a scholar's bow. "May your story earn kinder margins than those penned before."
Calia was pacing when I emerged. Relief flooded her face. "You were gone an hour. The palace clocks shifted twice."
"I'm sorry," I said, meaning it. "Let's return."
We retraced our path, but the corridor ahead rippled, stone warping like hot tar. Candles guttered. From the gloom, a mirror materialized: tall, gilded, its glass roiling with shadows. A thin shape—female—pressed against the inside surface, hands splayed, mouth opening in a silent scream.
Calia gasped. "East‑wing mirror—it's too early!"
The silhouette's eyes snapped open—solid black. It lunged. Glass did not shatter; it melted, allowing her passage. She emerged barefoot, draped in tattered bridal silk, her skin salt‑white, hair floating as though underwater.
"Run," Calia whispered.
But I stood frozen. The specter's gaze fixed on me, recognition sparking. "Bride," she crooned, voice like cracking ice. "Another bride to bleed…"
She rushed, arms extended.
Instinct roared. I thrust both palms forward, channeling every scrap of remaining soul‑fire. Green‑white light erupted, striking her chest. She shrieked—not in pain, but in triumph—absorbing the flare. My knees buckled.
The corridor thundered with incoming footsteps—two, then four, then many. In an instant, black‑armored guards surrounded us, blades glowing with runes. At their center strode Ravan El‑Saether.
His wings—vast, membranous—unfurled, blotting torchlight. Crimson eyes ignited.
"Enough," he commanded, a single syllable that fractured the air.
The specter halted mid‑lunge, spasms convulsing her frame. She turned her head toward him, hate etched in every bone.
"My love," she hissed. "Why replace what you could never kill?"
Recognition flashed: the former bride. The prophecy's embodiment. She launched at him with a speed that blurred.
Ravan moved faster. His gauntleted hand closed around her throat. Shadows coiled from his fingers, weaving a lattice of midnight that bound her limbs. She writhed, glassy tears dripping from her cheeks.
"I warned you," he murmured, voice softer than nightfall, crueler than winter. With a flick, he hurled her back through the mirror. The surface rippled, regained solidity, and the corridor stilled.
Guards melted into darkness, leaving only Calia's ragged breathing and my hammering heart.
Ravan approached me. "You encountered the ghosts of promises broken," he said. "Now you know why mirrors here are veiled."
I swallowed. "She was your wife."
"A failed covenant," he corrected, tone flat. "She chose vengeance over survival." His gaze dropped to the scorch marks on the floor where my soul‑fire had burst. "And you, little witch, chose to stand your ground."
Anger flared. "If you expect gratitude—"
"I expect vigilance." His eyes burned like twin comets. "Tonight, you dined on tea and curiosity. Tomorrow, court will taste your mettle. Be ready."
He turned, then paused, sensing the crackling defiance coiled in my spine. "The mirrors cannot harm you while I live," he said. "Remember that… and remember how swiftly I caged her fury."
A warning and a promise. He vanished into shadow.
Calia clutched my sleeve, eyes huge. "We should return before the corridors shift again."
"Yes," I agreed, though my thoughts churned. Ravan feared the prophecy but held enough power to shackle its ghost. What, then, could unseat him? Perhaps not brute force, but truth sharpened to a razor.
I rested a hand over the hidden scroll. Proof of my innocence—and a king's guilt—beat against my ribs. Knowledge was the hammer; will, the hand. Tonight, I had both.
As we walked, the palace walls shimmered—listening, judging, awaiting the next move in a game older than kingdoms. I straightened my shoulders.
Let it listen.
For the first time since collapsing on icy cobblestones, I felt alive with purpose, aflame with questions, and ready to carve escape—or dominion—from the depths of Nightspire.