Three days later, I stood in the palace ballroom wearing a dress that felt like a gilded cage. Layers of ivory silk squeezed my ribs, and pearls sewn into the bodice dug into my skin with every breath. All this to be sacrificed to a butcher.
Queen Mother Lysandra's voice cut through the murmur of nobles. "Prince Theron, allow me to present Lady Elara Thornwood."
The man who turned toward me looked like a shattered mirror—beautiful but deadly sharp. Silver hair fell over eyes the color of frozen lakes. He wore black gloves despite the summer heat. The gloves. That's how he hides the bloodstains.
"A rose among thorns," Theron murmured. His voice was too smooth, like oil on water. When he took my hand, cold seeped through my own glove.
Now. I focused on the terror humming in the room. Nobles held their breath, their fear thick as fog. I drew it in—sour lemon tang of dread, peppery spike of panic—letting the power coil in my gut.
Then Theron leaned close. "Do you know what happens when roses wilt, little thorn?" His breath smelled of mint and something darker… like copper.
Before I could react, he spun me into the waltz. Violins screeched. His hand clamped on my waist like a vise. One wrong step and he'll snap my spine, I realized as he whipped me through a turn.
"Your Highness," I gasped, "I've heard you enjoy… gardening." Digging graves counts as gardening, right?
His frozen eyes flickered. A crack in the perfect mask. "Gardens require fertilizer." His thumb pressed against my ribcage. "Blood makes the best bloom."
That's when I felt it—a vibration beneath his skin. Not magic, but machinery. Tiny gears whirring near his collarbone. Gods above, he's not mad. He's rigged like a clockwork bomb.
Lysandra watched us from her throne, a spider pleased with her trapped flies. I needed proof of her tampering. Now.
As the waltz crescendoed, I "stumbled," driving my elbow hard into Theron's chest. The impact jarred his collar open.
There it was—a silver disc embedded above his heart, pulsing with sickly green light. Wires snaked under his skin toward his neck. An emotion suppressor. Military grade.
Theron froze. The music died. A low growl rumbled in his chest as his pupils dilated into black voids.
"You broke it," he whispered, gloved hands twitching. "Now the bad thoughts come back."
Chaos erupted. Nobles screamed as Theron lunged at a serving boy carrying wine. I drank in their panic, letting power flood my veins. Time to test this magic.
I grabbed a silver fruit knife from the banquet table. Not to stab—but to conduct. Focusing on the terror around me, I pushed the raw energy toward Theron's chest device.
Sizzle! The disc glowed red-hot. Theron howled, clawing at his skin. Green liquid oozed from the wires.
Lysandra was shouting orders, but her voice drowned in the uproar. I saw the truth in her widened eyes—fear. Delicious.
Suddenly a hand yanked me backward. My cousin Viola hissed in my ear, "You meddling witch!" Her dagger pricked my side through the silk.
I grinned, shoving the fruit knife into her palm. "Remember the poisoned wine, Viola? Your turn to drown."
As her fear spiked, I unleashed the magic I'd stored. Purple-black energy arced from my hand to the knife, surging into her body.
Viola collapsed, twitching as white foam bubbled from her lips. Poetic justice, I thought coldly. Her own toxin reflected back.
Across the room, Theron ripped the smoking device from his chest. Blood dripped on marble as he stared at the green goo, then at Lysandra.
"Mother," he said softly, "you turned off my pain." His smile was a knife wound. "Now I remember everything."
Lysandra stumbled back. For the first time, the spider looked cornered.
I slipped out through the servants' passage, the taste of fear still sweet on my tongue. Game on, Your Majesty.