by Sara Wolf
I watch the lawguards going through their drills on the lawn of the palace, their swords shining high as they stab them into training dummies. Do they joke that those dummies are witches? Heartless? How badly do they wish to kill me, and others like me? In a blink the dummies become flesh and blood—one of them has Nightsinger’s face. One of the dummies becomes Crav, his little body limp and broken, the other Peligli’s, scratched and bruised. Y’shennria’s bleeding visage on the last dummy.
I won’t let it come to pass. It’s not just my heart that hangs in the balance. I’d forgotten that, gotten so absorbed in my own selfish desire for freedom.
For Lucien. For happiness.
The dummy with Y’shennria’s face echoes her voice; A Heartless only ever burns for one thing—their own heart. And those who burn don’t easily blind.
I want to be human. But what kind of human would I be, without anyone to love? What kind of human would I be, having betrayed so many? I clutch at my locket and speak softly to the floor of the carriage.
“What if I’ve been burning blindly this whole time, Auntie?”
Once we’re out of the city, the beauty of the grasslands is a temporary salve on my wounds. We head in the opposite direction of the Bone Road—east instead of west. Farmers prune orchards exploding in sour cherries and pink plums; bulbous, lettuce-like heads of sugarleaf hang from branches. Storms of unseen cicadas in the grass click and groan at one another. I linger on the windowsill, eager for the wind to blow away the dark thoughts between my ears. We pass so close to a farm that one of children helping with the harvest runs up to the wire fence, handing me a sugarleaf.
ConsuMe her. SliT hEr throaT, mAke her bLEed, the hunger demands. Before I can thank her, she’s gone, deep in the fields again, leaving me to peel the fruit apart and nibble at it. It doesn’t do anything to quiet my hunger, but it helps soothe my nerves, even if I have to wipe away blood tears minutes later. I watch the land flash by—little villages and trading outposts full of dust and dogs, bleached ruins of settlements decimated during the war and abandoned after it. Mass graves stick out alongside the road, memorialized with moss-covered statues of Kavar’s eye. The scars of the Sunless War run deep here.
It’s strange to think that everything I can see would’ve someday been Lucien’s. The Vetrisian nobles and their court are so far removed from the soil, the orchards and grasslands and trees. They couldn’t care less if harvests are hit with bugs, if the potholes of the roads out here get steep and dangerous. The lives of Cavanos’s people are so totally different from the nobles’ perfumed banquets. A single potato means life or death for these people. I said that, and I stick by it. I just wonder if anyone in a position of power in Cavanos will ever really know what that means. Archduke Gavik certainly doesn’t know; King Sref definitely has no clue. Lucien tries. Gods know he tries. But even the suffering in metropolitan Vetris is a far cry from the hard lives of his rural citizens.
Lucien. I try not to think about him, but it’s no use—every time I blink I can see his smiling face at the Verdance parade as I watched him dance.
He’s OuRs, OURS, no oNe else’s, oUrS for the eaTiNg, ours fOr the toUchiNg—
The demented hunger drags me so far down I barely notice when we slow pace. We begin to pass other silk-decked carriages rather than the humble wooden carts and wagons of farmers and tradesmen. The hunting grounds must be close. I spot Charm’s vessel but not Grace’s, and Lord Grat even waves to me as we pass. I find myself searching for Fione’s silver carriage on the road, then chide myself; the time to play pretend is over. It’s better if I stay away from her.
“There’s the huntin’ grounds, miss!” Fisher calls. I poke my head from the window—ahead of us on a flat grassy plain bordering a dark pine forest rests a circle of brightly colored tents. The biggest tent is of expensive gold-streaked flax and no doubt for Prince Lucien. The others are more modest, but made of luxurious material nonetheless. Of course the nobles would bring their finest cloth, even out in the wilderness. Servants decked in the colors and emblems of their respective families busy about the campground doing all the real work: mucking horse stalls, sharpening swords, preparing meals at a makeshift kitchen with a roaring fire—loaves of fresh bread rising over the heat and legs of lamb dripping with grease and herbs. This wasn’t just erected—this camp has been put together painstakingly over the course of some time.
Fisher parks the carriage in a line with the others, and when I get out, none other than Ulla, Headkeeper of the palace, makes a curtsy to me.
“Lady Zera, welcome.”
“Thank you.” I nod to her. “Forgive me—why are you here? Is your domain not the palace?”
She smiles sweetly—and I’ve seen her do it to enough people to know it’s a patronizing smile. “I took this opportunity to leave the palace in the hands of my apprentice. And besides—I’d trust no one but myself to ensure the prince’s first public Hunt runs smoothly. Your tent is the dark purple one, Lady Zera, in the north of camp. Dinner is at sundown, and the purification will commence about a half after.”
“Purification?”
She startles, then settles. “I apologize—I forget you know little of Vetrisian tradition. It was thought in Old Vetris, before the days of polymaths and their knowledge, that a Heartless could smell fear. Thus the Old Vetrisians invented a bathing ritual to mask it with a special blend of herbs and spices. We know better now, of course, but the tradition remains. All participating hunters will bathe in the spring nearby.”
“All participating hunters,” I echo. “Together?”
“Together,” she asserts.
I exhale. “Fantastic.”
Ulla instructs Fisher to take my luggage to my tent.
“Where is he sleeping?” I ask Ulla, but Fisher flashes me a smile.
“Don’t worry about me, miss. I’ve got the carriage.”
Unspoken words fly between our eyes—he’ll be nearby for my getaway—but he breaks contact first and hefts my trunk easily despite his scarecrow frame, disappearing into the crowd. Ulla leads me to my tent, and I spot Fione settling into her gray tent not far from the entrance. She doesn’t notice me, and I make a note to see her one last time before the end, to say good-bye.
Good-bye.
The word, the concept itself, frostbites the soft bits of my brain—the bits in which Fione was my almost-friend. Almosts, I’m starting to learn, are fuller of regret than absolutes—much sadder than certain yeses and nos. Yes and no mark ends and beginnings. But almosts cling, hovering on the boundary, never quite realized yet still there.
Ulla’s words defrost me. “The prince hasn’t arrived yet, but when he does a greeting will be expected.”
“Right. When is the Hunt?”
“It begins tomorrow morning—but fear not. I’m sure Prince Lucien will call his hunters together to discuss tactics before then.”
Morning. It’s not an optimal time to take Lucien’s heart—I’d much prefer the shadows of night. Ulla bids me farewell at the entrance of my tent. The tent is cooler, the deep violet cloth doing wonders to keep the sun out. The trunk Fisher brought in sits at the end of a fur-piled sleeping cot, though Fisher himself is nowhere to be seen. A leather chair and a foldable desk sit in one corner of the tent, a wash basin in the other. It’s simple, and it reminds me of Nightsinger’s cabin. Yet I find myself longing for the dreary, stately dark wood of Y’shennria’s manor, for the kind portrait of Lord Y’shennria, for the calming presence of Reginall and Maeve, for the darkwood diamonds on my ceiling, ready and waiting to be silently counted, soothing my inner turmoil.
I slip outside—Lord Grat’s crimson tent is right next to mine, both of us situated directly in front of Lucien’s golden one. Lord Grat, in a stiff brocaded vest and breeches, smiles and jogs up to me.
“Lady Zera! Look at us—our tents so close, as if fate itself is conspiring to bring us together.”
He sounds ridiculous, and I laugh. “That’s one way of putting it.
”
“It’s strange, though,” Lord Grat muses.
“What is? Not my dress, surely—my tailor told me it will look better covered in mud.”
He laughs. “No, not that. It’s just very odd that Prince Lucien chose this area for his Hunt, considering what this place is.”
“This place?” I look around at the tall, velvety trees in the distance. “What’s so special about it?”
The wind whistles between us, and then he says, “This is very close to where Princess Varia was killed.”
I think back to his words in the dark pipe. Maybe he still wants to be as close as he can get to her, to the last place she was alive.
A bell rings throughout the hunting camp, signaling the prince’s arrival. We make our way to the entrance as everyone does—servants and nobles alike. My mind takes inventory of how many guards are present—royal lawguards, huge celeon, the kind stationed at the throne of the king at all times. But there are only a handful of them—thirteen to be exact, their insect-like mirtas tied up in the stables. The rest of the guarding force precedes the prince, a block of two battalions shining in polished silver armor, light green banners with the d’Malvane serpent whipping in the wind. The thunder of their horses’ hooves shakes the ground, tremors reverberating in my chest.
Prince Lucien rides in on a sleek black mare, his posture perfectly regal, his hawking coat a deep forest green stitched with winding silver leaves. His dark eyes fixate ahead, not once looking at the crowd as he trots the mare through, his long black braid woven with silver threads, and his golden skin flushed with the wind. He’s so incredibly handsome in this moment—the sun glinting off him, only to be reabsorbed by his darkness. Malachite rides beside him, his red eyes hooded, and wearing heavy ceremonial armor, his leg still situated in my clumsy cast. The entire crowd bends the knee, and though I know I should, too, my body is stiff as I look at the prince’s resplendent face. I must turn him into a Heartless if I want to be free. I must turn him Heartless to stall the impending war between witch and human. But the misery of being a Heartless, of reducing him to the witches’ political hostage without any freedom of his own—inflicting that on Lucien, no longer just a spoiled noble boy, but Lucien, Lucien of the piercing gaze and gentle touch, Lucien as the thief Whisper, Lucien of the parade dance, his body pressed against my own, his arms wrapped around me—
“Bow before your Crown Prince!” the head of the prince’s guard bellows, pointing his sword at me. But he sounds so far away, the glint of his sword completely eclipsed as I try to memorize Lucien’s visage as it is now—ignorant, still fond of me.
“I said bow!” the head of the guard barks, his sword nearing as his horse does.
If I take Lucien’s heart, he’ll despise me. He’ll learn what I really am, and he’ll hate me for it, for shackling him to the same hunger-ridden fate.
He’ll hate me.
Lucien’s eyes find mine when the guard yells, his gaze going from carefully guarded to a splintered look of confusion. It isn’t until the head guard dismounts and forces me roughly to my knees in a mockery of a bow do I realize the wetness dripping onto my dress are two silent streams of tears.
There’s a moment that feels like eternity stretching between Lucien and me, in which he looks like he’s going to descend his horse and come to me, but then someone ringing the camp bell breaks it. The peals are frantic. A lawguard sprints to the prince’s head guard, and they share fevered words. The head guard turns to the battalions, raising his sword.
“Bandits seen to the east! Squad Falcon, secure the camp’s perimeter! Squad Robin, ensure the safety of the nobility!”
The battalion splits instantly, weaving into the stunned crowd and ushering nobles and servants back into the camp. I wipe my tears hurriedly and follow the flow of the crowd. As the guards shuttle us to our tents, I spot the mousy, curled hair of Fione, and suddenly I’m shoulder to shoulder with her as the flow of the crowd bumps us together. Her rosy cheeks pale strangely when her eyes find mine.
“You’d think a few bandits would have a brain between them and know not to lurk around the Crown Prince’s hunt,” I joke. Fione smiles.
“I’m sure they’ll learn quickly—one way or another.”
I open and close my mouth in the silence between us so many times I feel like a fish. Fione smooths her curls.
“I’m rather excited to hunt—I’ve never done it before.”
“I have a hard time believing a spymaster such as yourself has never lifted a sword.”
She giggles. “I’ve made it a point to think faster than anyone who might stand against me with force. It’s strange, but I’ve always seen resorting to force as a sort of…failure. A breakdown in my own intelligence, that I couldn’t think of something to avoid such bloodshed.”
“This is where Varia was killed, right?” I ask.
Fione’s smile fades. “Indeed.”
“It must be hard for you, being near this place.”
Her gaze flits over the dark, serrated tops of the pine trees. “Perhaps this visit is long overdue.”
One of the guards forks off, taking her arm abruptly and leading her to her tent. I duck into my own, closing the purple door flap tight behind me and waiting as the guard instructs for the bell to ring out the all clear. Worry festers in me—I can only hope by now they’ve locked Gavik up and thrown away the key.
ThEy’LL aLL diE sCreAming iN the enD, the hunger promises with a thousand voices of rusted razor.
I sit at my little desk, surrounded by people outside and yet feeling more alone than ever before. But I knew—I knew this was what awaited me. This was my fate from the beginning, so the sadness I feel clawing at my insides isn’t justified. I should’ve been prepared for this. I had two weeks to prepare, to harden myself, and I frittered it away pretending to be human instead.
The shouts of the guards, the clank of their armor. Would it be better, I wonder, to turn myself in? I pick up a letter opener on the desk, turning the sharp silver blade over in my hand. Would it be better to walk out there, this blade driven through my heart, showing the guards, showing everyone I’m immortal, hungry, inhuman? Show them I’m a danger—always have been—to their beloved Crown Prince? To them all?
“Zera?”
The deep voice makes me drop the letter opener and turn. There, in the doorway, stands Lucien. He looks winded, as though he ran here. Before the tent door closes behind him, I spot the edge of Malachite’s armor as he stands guard outside.
“Your Highness.” I duck into a deep curtsy. “You should be in your tent. It’s probably much nicer than this, and if the bandits’ arrows find us, I’d much rather only one of us perish.”
He draws close in an instant, his gloved hand reaching out to cup my cheek and his eyes terribly, frighteningly soft.
“If you think you can make me forget your tears with a few clever words, you’re wrong.”
He’s giving me the perfect moment to take his heart—alone, the forest just behind me, the guards distracted, my sword thirsty and waiting, and my hunger thirstier.
TAKE HIS IGNORANT GIFT, the hunger scream-whispers, the distortion gone and in its place an earthshattering volume that makes my whole head throb. SLIT HIM OPEN ON YOUR BLADE AND END HIS MISERABLE EXISTENCE.
My hand trembles toward my sword, but I stop it.
WHY DO YOU HESITATE? FEAR? YOU FEAR NOTHING, ESPECIALLY NOT A SINGLE WEAK HUMAN. HE COULDN’T STOP YOU IF HE WANTED TO. TAKE HIS HEART, TAKE HIS LIFE, HE IS YOURS FOR THE TAKING!
I pull my cheek from his hand, putting space between us. The less he touches me, the farther I am, the stronger my will.
“I was simply moved, seeing your cavalcade of guards. It was quite the beautiful sight in the full sunlight.”
HE MAKES YOU WEAK. BE RID OF HIM.
Lucien narrows his eyes. “You expect me to believe that?”
I EXPECT YOU TO BLEED.
“I expect nothing of you.” I steel my jaw. “Save for the common c
ourtesy of trust.”
“Why were you crying?” he presses.
“I told you the reason. Or did you think that was a joke? I take my appreciation of beauty very seriously, Your Highness.”
“You’re lying.”
It should be so sinfully easy. The jar is sitting right there on my desk, full of deceptive sweets. One stab, one spurt of blood, and all this agony would be over. I drift toward him again, my hand resting on his chest where my prize beats in an erratic rhythm, speeding the closer I bring my face to his, our lips hovering inches from each other’s. My hand tightens on my sword, ready to strike.
PIERCE, the hunger sneers. PIERCE ONCE, AND THE PAIN IS OVER.
Lucien’s breath mixes hot with mine, his eyes strangely conflicted beneath his knitted brows. That same heady rush of adrenaline surges through me as when I first chased him through the streets of Vetris. Happiness.
It happens all at once, like a storm from nowhere. Lucien moves like a dark blur, cradling both sides of my face with his hands, resting his forehead against mine. My hand readying Father’s sword droops, all the strength in my arm sapped.
“I’m not good at this,” he admits softly.
“Playing the heartbreaker?” I laugh. “You seemed good enough at it during the Welcoming with the other Brides.”
“It’s easy to pretend, but the real thing is”—he sucks in a breath—“dizzying.”
“It can’t be real,” I say, making my voice strong despite the aching tug at my locket. “You know that, right?”
“Why not?” His stare pierces, demands an answer.
BECAUSE I’M A MONSTER, the hunger admits with a delighted hiss.
“Because—because I’m barely a noble at all. I’m a step niece, I know nothing about the court compared to you—”
“Do your feelings not matter at all?” Lucien asks.
“I am terrified of my feelings,” I admit, the only piece of truth I can admit. His face falls.
