by Cora Carmack
Aurora pressed her back into the wall, doing her best to slow her breathing. The silver-blue glow of a skyfire lantern cast shadows on the wall. She crouched lower, and quickly strapped her collar back into place. The thud of multiple sets of feet were drowned out by more noises overhead. Before Aurora could wrap her mind around anything but hiding, the shelter door was pulled wide, washing the room in daylight, and revealing a large brute of a man with one thick, inked arm curled threateningly around Jinx’s small throat.
Aurora slapped a hand over her mouth to stop her gasp. Jinx, on the other hand, looked nonplussed, almost bored, despite the fierce grip of the man who held her. Aurora ducked lower as the man’s eyes roved over the room, and she saw that Jinx was careful not to let her eyes wander.
“Brax!” a deep, feminine voice called out, mere feet away from Aurora. The man’s eyes snapped to attention. The woman asked, “What have you brought me?”
Aurora listened as Jinx was transferred down the ladder from the first man to another. After a series of heavy footsteps down the ladder, the room dropped into darkness once more, save for the skyfire lantern.
Aurora peeked around the barrel enough to see the woman. She was medium height, but plump, with womanly curves. Her sandy brown skin had an otherworldly gleam in the skyfire’s light.
The man called Brax cracked his knuckles and answered, “Found her lurking about outside, fiddling with the plants you use to hide this place.”
“Is that so?” Silence hung in the air after the woman’s question; a dangerous intensity wove through the room. Her voice was layered and deep, but precise and crisp. She took one slow step forward, then another, until she was face-to-face with Jinx. Then she tilted her head to the side, her long dark hair sliding over her shoulder, and said, “Now who, exactly, are you?”
Aurora saw Jinx smile in the glow of the skyfire, utterly fearless in the face of whoever it was they had stumbled upon. Jinx shrugged casually and replied, “No one you need concern yourself with. I mean you no harm. I just … have a fondness for plants.”
The woman laughed, the kind of laugh that would have drawn every eye in a room, only the men around her stayed still and stiff at her side, like soldiers waiting for her command. “That’s darling,” the woman replied, circling around Jinx, surveying her like a predator. “I have a fondness for sharp things.”
At her words, Aurora heard several blades pulled by the surrounding men. Her stomach clenched with nerves. She should have been more careful. She never should have taken such a risk.
“Take these, for example.” The woman held up a hand near Jinx’s face. She wore a shiny, red leather glove that was more like armor, tipped with dark sharp points that she lightly trailed down the side of Jinx’s throat. “I took these from a wildcat that made the wrong choice in prey. That’s actually her you feel at your feet. I took her claws as punishment, but let her keep her teeth as respect for one predator from another.”
Aurora hadn’t noticed before, but sure enough, a spotted cat with pointed ears wove between Jinx’s legs, tall enough to rub its cheek against her thigh.
“How intimidating,” Jinx said, an exaggerated shiver in her voice. “A cat! How ever will I keep from spilling all my secrets?” Despite the blades pointed at her, the brazen earth witch bent just enough to scratch the wildcat between the ears. She murmured something that might have been, “Sweet kitty,” then straightened and asked, “Is this the part where I should beg for mercy?”
Skies, Aurora didn’t know how Jinx did it—stayed so calm. She was a mess of nerves, and she had not even been noticed.
Brax, the man who had captured Jinx, took a menacing step forward. “Are you stupid or something?”
Jinx smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Or something.”
Then the earth buckled beneath their feet, and a chorus of shouts rang out as the room began to shake. Roots and plants of every kind burst from the dirt floor and walls. Vines twined around people’s limbs. Jinx swung her arm, landing an elbow to the face of the man holding her. Jinx shoved the woman back into a grasping web of green and yelled, “Now, Roar!”
Aurora leaped up from her hiding place. A large man turned, looming in front of her. His skin was nearly the same shade as the shadows that swathed the room. A vine caught him around the ankle at the perfect moment, and Aurora shoved him off-balance. Jinx was halfway up the ladder, calling for her. Darting after her friend, Aurora cleared the first few rungs in a leap. The plants rose ahead of them, pushing the shelter door up and up, dousing them all in bright sunlight.
Then … something went wrong. The plants around Aurora began to turn brown and dull. They continued moving as Jinx’s magic commanded, but they grew dry and brittle, and they snapped under the strain.
Aurora too felt strange. Her vision flashed with shadows despite the sunlight overhead. Her mouth felt as if a dust storm had rolled over her tongue then settled into a desert in her throat. A gnawing pain began at her temples and the base of her neck. The world started to wobble, the ground tipping from side to side below her. A fist curled around the belt at her waist and jerked her backward. Her fingers broke from the ladder like the brittle vines beside her. Dust flew up as she landed flat on her back, and the pain shattered the remaining control she had over her mental shields.
Sensations swamped her, foreign and overpowering, but even lost in the deluge it was the ache in her throat that bothered her most. Dizziness kept spinning her mind around as she tried to focus. A dark form came into view, and her vision cleared just enough for her to see.
The woman. The one with the claw-tipped, red glove—singular, for her other hand was bare. She was striking, and not just because Aurora felt like the air had been knocked from her lungs and refused to return. She had thick dark hair that trailed past her waist and was decorated with braids and curls. Her eyebrows were dark and straight over piercing brown-black eyes. Her cheekbones were sharply defined, and her skin a gold-touched brown. The woman wore fine clothes made of rich, draping fabrics that flowed around her shape as if at her command. She radiated power.
The dark spots in Aurora’s vision began to stretch and merge, blocking out even the sun that streamed through the open hatch above. When she dangled at the edge of consciousness, the woman bent down toward Aurora’s face, a shrewd look in her narrowed eyes.
“I can make it stop,” the woman said, her voice soft—just shy of kind. “If you tell me who sent you.”
Aurora tried to answer her, but her tongue was thick and dry and useless in her mouth. The woman reached out and pulled away the cloth covering the lower part of Aurora’s face, then tugged at the hood covering her hair. Aurora’s heart gave one heavy, panicked thump, but she was too weak to fight back.
A voice in her head shouted, “Stop!” And she tried to make the word herself.
“Stop!”
The word surprised her, for it came not from her mouth, but from somewhere outside her narrowed vision. She heard it repeated—a deep voice, a man’s voice.
Someone grabbed the woman, dark hands on her pristine garments, shoving her back and away from Aurora. The terrible crushing pressure on her chest eased, but she was hit by another wave of nausea so extreme she rolled to the side and retched. Nothing came out despite the desperate, painful heaving of her stomach.
“Help her. Please, Zephyr.”
Someone pulled on her shoulder, rolling her back and pushing away the sweaty hair that hung across her face.
“Why should I?” Aurora heard as her vision cleared enough to make out the stern, serious face of the man who had once been her guard.
Taven’s eyes were wild and panicked like she had never seen them.
“Because she’s the rightful heir to the kingdom of Pavan.”
Under the will of the goddess, and my own power as a Stormling king, I offer my services to the city of Pavan as its protector and ruler in its time of need.
—declaration signed by King Cruzef Locke
5
Novaya woke to hands on her person, and her magic screaming in revolt. She shoved blindly, and ended up slammed against the rough stone wall for her troubles. Her bones clashed painfully with the stone, and liquid fire churned in every joint.
It was a soldier who held her against the wall—his palm planted on her chest to keep her pressed backward.
In her mind’s eye, she saw that hand burst into flame, and she knew she could do that with the raw magic inside her, was tempted to simply let it out, to pour all her frustration and fear and fatigue into the fire, and burn it all away.
But then the man spoke. “The prince wants to see you.”
Her eyes flicked to the door, expecting to find the dark, sinister form of her only visitor in the doorway. But it was empty. And … open.
She raised her hands in a show of supplication, and the man stepped back, taking away the hand that had felt like a brand on her chest.
Metal clanked, and the soldier held up a pair of iron manacles. “Put these on.”
He shoved them toward her, and she took the irons with shaking hands. They were heavy, so heavy it sapped all her strength just to hold them. She was not sure she could put them on herself, but she forced herself to try, knowing she would prefer her own touch to that of the soldier.
Her wrists were so thin, she thought she might be able to slip them off later when no one was looking, but then the soldier invaded her space, moving a bar to make the manacle openings smaller, trapping her skin right up against the iron. Then he tightened it with a small tool just to be certain.
The soldier used a length of chain attached to the manacles to pull her toward the door. She stumbled, her feet dragging clumsily against the stone. The man was impatient as she regained her balance, but made no move to touch her again, for which she was grateful. She shuffled behind him as they stepped out of the cell, and her heart pumped with manic hope as her bare feet cleared the threshold. “Where are you taking me?”
“Wherever Prince Cassius wants you.”
They shuffled past a few more dark stone cells. She tried to discern if there was anyone else being held down here with her, but if there were other prisoners she saw no trace of them. Nor had she ever heard anyone in the dungeons but the guards who brought her food on occasion.
She stared at the back of the guard’s head and wondered at how callous human hearts could be. How easy it was for a man just to avert his eyes in the face of someone else’s pain or fear. What had the prince told everyone about her? Did they all truly believe her to be the criminal mastermind behind the princess’s kidnapping? Her best friend? Or did it matter to them if she was guilty or innocent? She was not a Stormling, so perhaps in their eyes she had little worth at all.
They came to a set of stairs, and Nova was surprised to find that she was beyond exhausted already. Her legs quaked with weakness as she took the first step.
The soldier jerked on her chains. “Come on. It will be nightfall again before we get there if you move this slow.”
She felt some of her fire leech from her skin into the manacles, and quickly pulled it back. As satisfying as it might be to see him scalded by the chain he held, it was too reckless. There was too much she didn’t know. Even if she incapacitated this guard, she had no idea what waited on the floors above, or if she could even reach them on her own.
She might only get one chance to escape. And she knew timing would be everything.
By the time the soldier jerked her up the last step to the landing, she was near tears from fatigue, and the weakness made her heart swell with fury. At the prince, at this world, at herself. And yes, at Aurora too.
They entered the main floor of the palace, and the familiar sounds of her former workplace and home slowly came back to her. They were near the entrance to the kitchens, and she could hear the clang of pots and the murmur of voices. The smell of fresh baked bread made her stomach clench painfully. When had she last eaten more than a few scraps? She could not recall.
A gasp stopped her escort in his tracks, and with far too much effort, Nova tipped her head up to survey the scene.
She saw the familiar face first, and it took several long moments for her mind to recall just how she knew the young serving girl who stood slack-jawed in front of them.
Renia. They’d shared a room together. Nova used to lie in bed listening to Renia prattle on about the details of her romantic life. It had always been a grand distraction for Nova, who had no desire for romance of her own. Not with her secrets. But listening to Renia had been a glimpse into another, simpler life.
Those days felt so far away now, like they existed in another world.
“What are you looking at?” the soldier sneered.
Renia quickly concealed her horrified expression and ducked her head. “My apologies.”
The soldier tugged on Nova’s chains, and she stumbled forward. Her eyes met Renia’s as they passed, and the girl quickly averted her eyes.
Nova could not blame her. If the situation were reversed, she would have done the same, desperate to stay safe and keep her secrets unknown.
She kept her chin up on the rest of their trek through the palace halls, refusing to cower. The world, it seemed, kept moving as it always had despite her absence. It was alarming to know that her life could be upended so completely, and yet all the people she had once known continued on in the same day-to-day drudge.
Finally, after another set of brutal stairs, the soldier led Nova to a part of the palace she knew all too well—the royal wing. Nova eyed the soldier with confusion and distrust as she was led down the hall to the rooms that had once belonged to the Princess of Pavan. The soldier opened the door and shoved her through.
The first thing Nova noticed was the plush carpet beneath her feet, so soft against her calloused, broken skin. She almost wanted to give in to the urge to collapse, just so she could feel that kind of softness all over her skin. Then there was the smell—the scent of ink and old books and fresh air teased her senses and brought tears to her eyes.
For a moment, Nova could see this room as it used to be. The windows had always been open, the room washed in sunlight and teased by a breeze. Aurora used to leave books on every surface, piles of stories she had read and read again. The memories stole what little breath she had, and pulled painfully at her heart.
Now the room seemed stale, as closed off and cold as the man who had apparently claimed it as his own. The quaint writing desk Aurora had used had been replaced by a large desk of gleaming, dark wood. Behind it the prince sat, his back to her, facing one of the many bookshelves that held the princess’s books.
He turned, his dark hair disheveled and his eyes sunken and dark.
“Sit,” he ordered, his voice a whisper, but filled with command.
The prince waved a hand at the soldier, who stepped from the room and closed the door.
They were alone, and Nova had no idea what was happening. The prince’s visits to her cell had slowed of late. Based on the number of storm sirens she had heard, she assumed he was busy with the Rage season.
The prince stared at her through the silence, his mouth a slash of frustration. They sat so long that Nova’s fatigue began to pull at her attention. The chair she sat in felt so soft in comparison to stone. She thought she could slump there and sleep for days. Not even her fear was a strong enough opponent to overcome her exhaustion.
“Do you think she’s still alive?”
Nova blinked. They’d been through this before, when the queen had broken down over her fears that Aurora had been killed by her kidnappers. Nova had never been able to get word to her of Aurora’s true intentions.
“Is this about the queen? Is she well?”
Cassius’s frown grew flatter, his gaze hard.
“That’s none of your concern. I want to know if the princess is alive. Am I wasting my time searching for her?”
Nova shook her head. “I do not know.”
His jaw worked, teeth clenching, and h
e took a deep breath.
“The circumstances of Pavan have changed dramatically over recent weeks. I have put as much time and attention toward the search as I am able, but a time is approaching … the time is here when my priorities have been forced elsewhere. If you know anything, if you care at all to see your friend again, you will tell me what you know now before it is too late.”
The last was said in an exasperated growl. It was clear the prince was obsessed, and that obsession had worn down his regal facade, letting the darkness inside him show through.
She observed him carefully—the clench of his fists hinted at how close he was to the edge. She did not care to know the depths of this man’s depravity. Nor did she want that for Aurora.
Nova had had much time to wonder over the days and nights whether she had done the right thing in assisting Aurora’s escape. Goddess knew she’d sat too often in the dark, grappling with the possibility that she might have helped her truest friend into an early grave. For what could the wildlands be for a girl without storm magic except for a death sentence? She hoped—hoped with every spark of fire that burned beneath her skin—that her friend was somewhere happy and whole.
Her own weariness had her counting the days, wondering when Aurora might return, and if she could undo all the damage that had befallen Pavan in her absence. But as someone who had walked beneath the crushing weight of a dangerous secret, she wanted Aurora to have a life free of lies, free of peril, free of the Locke prince. Forever.
And so she told him one part of her truth. “I do not know for certain, but in the dark of night, when worries press too close to ignore, I fear the queen is right. Aurora Pavan is gone. For good.”
* * *
The first few moments after the declaration of Aurora’s true identity were like the calm before the storm, and then the silence broke with a cacophony of voices and a flurry of movements that only made Aurora more dizzy. She felt like she was dying—as if everything inside her was shriveling up like old fruit. And her thoughts were a jumble—some not even her own—as she tried and failed to rebuild her mental walls.
