When Lady Nythera set her eyes on it, her blood chilled and her heart rate quickened.
Maelor.
Once, long ago, before the thorns crowned Riven and before the treaties were carved into stone, Maelor had been one of them.
A High Lord.
Feared.
Cruel.
Destructive.
He had ruled the Stormspire Courts with iron glamour and a heart blackened by grief and fury.
After his beloved sister's death, something in him had splintered, and what remained had turned monstrous.
It was said that he slew three hundred Fae in a single night, carving through their strongholds like wind through wheat.
Not for conquest. Not for justice.
For blood.
He took no prisoners, and he left no mercy.
Not even the old magic dared touch him after that. And when at last they subdued him, it had taken the two princes, Lord Aeren, seven war-witches, and the sacrifice of the Oracle of Ashal, to stop him.
But they did not kill him.
They could not.
They bound him instead. To the stone. To silence. To shadow.
And now, his mark, the dragon with two heads, crowned in ruin, had surfaced once more.
Nythera swallowed.
Voices clashed like swords overhead.
"You're sure?" Syreine demanded. "You're certain this isn't some curse or mimicry? It could well be an illusion."
Riven rose from his throne.
The Crown of Thorns pulsed on his brow, glowing faintly and his voice rang out, clear as a bell of silver: "That is why I summoned you all."
The room stilled.
Nythera turned her eyes to Riven. "We all know that is no idle mark," she said. "Do you understand what it would mean? If Maelor's power has returned—"
"He is gone," Thandor finally said, his voice dry as parchment. "He has to be gone. We sealed him in stone, in ash, in shadow."
"And yet," Riven said, "his sign appears on a mortal girl, beneath my roof. In our palace. On our lands!"
A low murmur ran through the lords. Some shifted in their seats. Others reached for weapons they no longer trusted to be ceremonial.
Syreine moved forward again. "Then, what do you intend we do, then, my prince? You cannot summon us here without a plan."
"Indeed," Riven said, his gaze narrowing like a blade drawn.
He turned his eyes upon them all. "The Thirteen shall be convened and we shall discuss what steps to take next. A council with the elder Fae is now upon us. You are all dismissed."
His gaze lingered, fleeting, sharp, upon Nythera. Then, without warning, he strode to where Sera stood. With a mere flick of his fingers, a silent command, her neck broke with a sickening snap.
Nythera's breath caught. Her eyes widened in mute horror as Sera crumpled at his feet.
~
The chamber had emptied, and the lords and ladies had withdrawn, arguing still. The throne sat still, cold and vacant beneath its weight of thorned iron. And upon the stone floor, the girl's body remained, cold, unmoving.
Dead.
Only Aeren and Nythera remained, standing across from one another in the heavy quiet that follows judgment.
Nythera's gaze wandered to the bloodless girl, then slowly to the place where Riven had vanished beyond the high arches. Her voice, when it came, was calm as a mirror pool.
"She did not deserve that."
Aeren turned to her. "Do you think I disagree?"
"You said nothing."
"And neither did you. There was no way we could have known what Riven was about to do."
Nythera folded her arms, hair sweeping like silk over her shoulder. "She will ask about Sera. She will come to you, eventually. Are you prepared to lie to her?" She didn't need to say her name, Aeren already knew who she was referring to.
"No."
"Then what will you tell her?"
He paused, eyes shadowed. "I would tell her that Faes do not always kill out of malice. Sometimes, we kill because we are afraid."
A pause, and then Nythera stepped closer, her expression unreadable.
"You care for her."
Aeren's jaw tightened. "Do not ask questions you already know the answer to."
"I am not sure I know what you mean." Nythera turned around, preparing to leave.
"You remember her."
Nythera's steps paused. Her back stiffened. And then, slowly, deliberately, she faced him again. "I don't know what you mean."
But her eyes had widened. Just for a heartbeat. Just enough.
Aeren took a step forward, the quiet in his voice was more damning than rage.
"Do not lie to me."
She lifted a shoulder in mock confusion, her lips curving. "You're speaking in riddles, Lord Aeren."
His gaze held hers. "You remember Elya. You never forgot."
Nythera's eyes widened.
Aeren's voice deepened, shadows curling around each word. "They cast the spell in the Elder Tongue. We were all there. You, me, Thandor, Syreine, the rest. The Circle of Lords."
"What ritual do you speak of?" she said carefully. "I—"
"The magic took hold in them. I saw it, watched their memories fade into nothing." He paused.
"But you. You pretended. You bowed your head, closed your eyes, murmured your compliance."
Nythera's smile did not falter, but the edges of it had grown brittle. "If I had remembered anything, wouldn't I have spoken up by now?"
Aeren's eyes narrowed. "You were always the best at keeping secrets."
"I have known for decades," he said quietly. "I saw it in your eyes the day they tore down her garden. The way you looked at the lilies. You never forgot she planted them."
Nythera's mouth parted, but no words emerged.
Aeren's voice darkened. "You didn't even flinch when they destroyed the stone etching of her name in the Moon Wing. Not outwardly. But I saw you. The tremor in your hand. The way you couldn't look at the rubble."
Nythera dropped her gaze, just for a breath.
"I know, but Riven does not, and If you know what is good for you, you will refrain from speaking to Keira about Elya."
Nythera swallowed. It was already too late for that.