The gates groaned open on their own.
Massive, blackened iron and twisted thornsteel covered in violet flame parted to reveal the great hall of the Midnight Court.
The humans moved slowly, some clinging to each other, others stiff with fear. Keira kept her steps steady. Her heart pounded, but her face gave nothing away. Whatever waited inside, she would face it standing upright.
The entrance hall swallowed them whole.
Dark stone walls rose impossibly high, lined with windows made not of glass, but polished crystal, smoky and shimmering, catching the light of floating orbs that hovered midair. Carvings were across every surface: vines with barbs, mouths mid-scream, eyes carved to follow you.
And at the far end of the hall stood the throne.
Empty.
But not forgotten.
It rested on a raised platform of black obsidian, slick as glass and veined with deep crimson cracks. At its base, real thorns crept out like roots, their tips glinting sharp and wet with silver sap that oozed slow as sorrow.
The throne itself was a fusion of twisted metal and living vine, neither fully grown nor forged, and somewhere deep inside it, something pulsed. Soft. Slow. Like a heart that had never stopped beating.
And crowning it all, tangled high above the throne's back, was no mere circlet.
Not a royal diadem polished for ceremony.
But a Crown of Thorns.
Alive. Blooming with a terrible grace. Thorns curling inward, aching for flesh.
Keira stared at it, transfixed.
She could feel it, even from across the room, a strange, humming pull beneath her skin. Power. Magic. Rage. Like something caged and ancient still sat there, even if the prince himself did not.
A voice broke her trance.
"Well, well," someone drawled, "they brought such delicate little toys this year."
Keira turned around immediately. Dozens of Fae courtiers lined the hall, lounging like bored cats. They were too beautiful, too still. Some had eyes like glass, others like ink.
One smiled at her.
It was a cruel smile. The kind that knew how to slice.
A tall female with braided silver hair brushed past, sniffing the air. "This one smells like grief. Delicious."
Another leaned in close to a trembling boy and murmured, "He'll snap in a week. I'd wager blood on it."
Sera stood rigid beside Keira, her hand clamped tight around her satchel strap.
One of the Fae didn't leer.
He stood near the leftmost column, dressed in deep green velvet with sharp golden eyes. He looked furious.
Not mocking. Not amused.
Just… furious.
His gaze kept flicking toward Keira, then away, as though he recognized something in her that offended him. She held his stare until he turned away sharply, muttering something to the masked Fae beside him.
A horn sounded, deep and resonant.
The humans were ushered forward in a line.
A tall Fae woman with violet skin and eyes like shattered ice stepped forward. She held a scroll. Her voice was musical and cold.
"You have been Chosen. Ten names drawn in accordance with the Treaty of the Veil, to serve one year in the Midnight Court."
She unfurled the scroll. "You will be assigned to your roles. You will serve. And you will not speak unless spoken to. Do you understand?"
No one answered.
"Do you understand?" she repeated, louder.
A muttered chorus of "Yes" followed.
Keira didn't speak. She simply nodded once.
The woman's eyes flicked to her and lingered, and then moved on.
"Raden Weller," she called, and a gangly boy stepped forward, shaking. "Assigned to the Kitchens of Shadowflame."
"Renna Myles. The Stables."
"Sera of Farwater. Music Hall."
Sera blinked. "Oh. Well. That sounds—" But she was cut off by a firm gesture from a silent Fae escort, who led her away.
The list continued. Each human assigned.
Until only Keira remained.
The scrollbearer frowned slightly. "Keira Rowen."
She looked at the scroll again.
Then again.
No words came.
The room shifted subtly.
Keira stepped forward anyway. "What am I assigned to?"
The Fae woman stared at her, unreadable.
"You are… unassigned."
Murmurs broke out among the courtiers.
Unassigned?
No task?
Unheard of.
"Then where do I go?" Keira asked slowly.
The woman's voice turned brittle. "You wait."
"For what?"
No answer.
A heavy silence descended. Keira's shoulders tensed, but she refused to bow. If they wanted to unnerve her, they'd need more than dramatic pauses and twisted thrones.
The scroll was rolled shut. One by one, the other humans were led away.
Keira was left alone in the center of the hall.
She didn't speak.
She couldn't.
Not without invitation. Not without consequence.
The scroll-bearer stood stiffly at the base of the dais, her expression unreadable.
She then raised two fingers and whispered something in a language older than stone.
After some time, from the arch high above the chamber, the air shimmered. Something shifted behind the veil of mist.
Then, he arrived.
He moved like a shadow stepping into its body, tall, soundless, terrible. His cloak billowed behind him like storm clouds, and his long dark hair rippled as if touched by a wind no one else could feel. He was not crowned in gold.
He was crowned in thorns.
The vines curled around his brow, alive and gleaming with silver sap. One thorn traced down his temple, where a single drop of blood clung.
He descended the stairs slowly, and then his eyes found her.
They burned into her with such intensity that for a moment she could not breathe. His whole body tensed, and with it, the room.
When he spoke, his voice was low and sharp. "What is she doing here?"
The scroll-bearer bowed deeply. "Her name was drawn by the Treaty, my prince. We summoned you to confirm her placement."
He did not take his eyes off Keira. "You expect me to believe that?"
No one answered.
He moved closer, slow and controlled, until only a breath separated them. Keira did not speak.
She had no right to.
But her chin lifted, just slightly.
That was enough to enrage him further.
"She does not go into the kitchens. Or the stables. Or the archives," he said coldly. "She comes to the East Wing."
The scroll-bearer hesitated. "Your Highness, the East Wing—"
"She will serve me directly," he snapped.
A ripple ran through the balconies above. Even the shadows seemed to recoil.
The prince turned away, the crown of thorns shifting as he vanished back into the mist.