Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
RAVENNA
M y room in Scarlett’s guest chambers feels too quiet after the chaos of battle. I stand before my newly delivered mirror, still in my torn and bloodied dress, watching as silver mist swirls across its shiny surface. My fingers trace the crack that appeared sometime during the fight—small, barely noticeable, but present.
Like a warning.
This mirror has been with me since childhood, a family heirloom passed down through generations of Darkmore rulers. Unlike ordinary looking glasses, it doesn't simply reflect—it reveals . Possibilities, probabilities, paths stretching forward through time like branches of an ancient tree. Blood magic activates its prophetic abilities, allowing me glimpses of what might be, what could be, what perhaps should not be.
But never before has it shown damage. Never has it resisted my attempts to see clearly.
Until now.
I inspect the crack carefully, noting how it refracts the silver mist within, creating multiple images where once there was clarity. Is this only physical damage, or something more symbolic? A manifestation of my own uncertainty, perhaps, or a reflection of the unprecedented changes occurring in our kingdoms?
"Show me," I whisper, pressing my bleeding palm against the glass. The mirror laps at my blood eagerly, but the images it shows are disjointed. Edmund's forces gathering. Mara's face, twisted with hatred. Scarlett—
The vision shifts suddenly, violently . I see Scarlett in her chambers, preparing for bed. But there's movement in the shadows behind her, a glint of steel—
"No!" I scream.
I'm running before I fully process what I've seen. My bare feet slap against the marble floors with each stride. Pain and exhaustion from dealing with the prisoner fade beneath a surge of adrenaline. My heart pounds so hard I can barely breathe, blood magic rising to the surface of my skin.
Not for me, but for her .
For Scarlett.
The vision replays in my mind: the assassin emerging from the shadows, blade raised, Scarlett unaware—
The corridors of her castle stretch endlessly, twisting in ways they shouldn't, delaying my progress. I can’t tell if it’s the natural dream-like chaos of Underland making me feel like I’m moving in slow motion, or the sheer fear of something happening to Scarlett.
I reach her chambers just as a muffled crash sounds from within. Without hesitation, I blast the doors open with my magic, energy burning across my skin as I channel more power than is wise after my earlier exhaustion.
Scarlett is backing away from two men, each dressed in Edmund's elite guard armor. She's in her nightgown, her red hair loose around her shoulders, but her green eyes burn with fury as she searches for a weapon. One of the guards lunges for her with a crystal-tipped blade.
Magic surges through me, dark and powerful. I throw out my hand, and shadows wrap around the first guard's throat, lifting him off his feet. The power comes instinctively, fueled by fear. But the second guard is already moving, his blade singing through the air toward Scarlett's unprotected back.
I don't think. I just move.
The blade meant for Scarlett's heart finds my flesh instead as I jump between them. Pain explodes through my side as steel parts skin from muscle. But I manage to maintain my grip on the first guard, tightening the shadows until his neck snaps with a satisfying crack.
Scarlett whirls at the sound of my pained gasp, her eyes widening in horror. Then her expression hardens into something both terrible and beautiful. She snatches a thick candlestick from her bedside table and swings it with all her strength, catching the second guard in the temple. He crumples, unconscious or dead—I'm not sure which.
"Ravenna!" She catches me as my knees buckle. "You're bleeding—why did you— how did you know?"
"Mirror," I manage through gritted teeth. The wound burns like fire and ice combined. When I look down, I see why—the blade is edged with those same magic-draining crystals. Where it pierced my flesh, black veins spread outward. "Showed me... had to stop them..." I’m panting now, feeling faint from the rapid siphoning of my powers.
"Guards!" Scarlett's voice cracks through the air. Card-soldiers pour into the room, securing the surviving assassin. "Get the royal physician. Now!"
"No." I grab her wrist, the touch sending a spark of magic between us despite my weakened state. "No physicians. I’ll be fine. I just need to rest tonight and I’ll be recovered by morning."
"You're being ridiculous." But her touch gentles as she helps me to her bed, easing me down onto crimson silk sheets that probably cost more than some kingdoms' treasuries. "At least let me tend to it."
I want to argue, but the room is spinning, and the burning in my side is getting worse. I let her guide me to her bed, sinking onto silk sheets that smell faintly of roses and something uniquely Scarlett. Her scent is comforting in ways I cannot articulate, especially as pain and blood loss make thinking increasingly difficult.
"This will hurt," she warns, carefully cutting away the fabric around my wound. Her fingers brush my skin, and despite the agony, I shiver. Magic flows from her touch, different from my magic but no less potent. Where our powers connect, the spread of their poison slows, black veins receding slightly. "Why did you do it? Put yourself between me and that blade?"
I close my eyes, unable to look at her. "Why would I let you die?"
"Why not? Wouldn't it be easier? One less rival queen to worry about?"
"You know why." The words slip out before I can stop them, heavy with meaning neither of us are ready to face.
Her hands still for a moment, then resume cleaning my wound. "The crystals on the blade are interfering with your magic's natural healing."
I force my eyes open to find her face inches from mine, her brow furrowed in concentration as she works. In her nightgown, with her hair falling around her face like a curtain of fire, she looks softer. More vulnerable. Yet there's steel in her movements, precision in her care. This is another facet of the Queen of Hearts—the woman who knows how to tend wounds as skillfully as she orders deaths.
"I'm sorry you lost so many today," I say, needing to fill the charged silence.
"Why did you come?" She doesn't look up from her work. "They weren't yours to protect."
"They were innocent. And they were yours." The words come easier now, perhaps because of the lessening pain, perhaps because of the intimacy of this moment. "I couldn't watch them die. Not when I could stop it."
Her hands tremble slightly as she begins securing bandages to my torso. "You keep surprising me."
"Good." I catch her hand, pressing it against my bare skin just above the bandages. Our magic sparks at the contact. The sensation is like nothing I've ever experienced. "You keep surprising me too."
She looks up then, and I see everything I'm feeling reflected in her eyes—fear, confusion, unspoken desire . Her free hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing over my bottom lip.
"The assassin," I manage, though it's hard to think while she’s touching me like this. "We need to question him."
"Later." She leans closer, her breath warm against my lips. "You saved me."
"I had to." My voice is barely a whisper. "I couldn't bear to watch you die."
"Why?"
"Because I—"
A knock at the door interrupts whatever foolish confession was about to escape. Scarlett pulls back with a frustrated sound that would be amusing if I wasn't equally disappointed.
"What?" she snaps.
"My Queen." A card-soldier's voice. "The prisoner is secured in the dungeons. And... there's something you need to see."
Scarlett looks at me, conflict clear in her eyes. I squeeze her hand once before letting go. "Go. I'll rest here."
"You better be here when I return." She stands, straightening her nightgown. "That's an order from your Queen of Hearts."
I can't help but smile. "I thought I didn't take orders from you."
"You do when you're bleeding in my bed." She moves to the door, then pauses. "Ravenna?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you."
She's gone before I can respond, leaving me alone with silk sheets that smell like roses and the lingering warmth of her touch on my skin. I press my hand to the bandaged wound, feeling the way the crystals' poison fights against me.
Worth it.
She's worth it.
I study Scarlett's chambers while I wait for her return. Like everything in Underland, they're excessive, dramatic, designed to impress and intimidate. The bed is enormous, draped in red silk and black velvet. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across walls painted with scenes from Underland's history—past queens, famous battles, the occasional execution. Roses bloom in vases of gold and silver, their petals the precise shade of fresh blood.
But there are personal touches too, easily missed amid the grandeur. A small book of poetry on the nightstand, well-worn at the edges. A sketch of what might be her parents, tucked half-hidden behind a jewelry box. A collection of polished stones arranged on a windowsill, catching the moonlight.
These glimpses of the woman behind the crown are more fascinating than any theatrical display of power. They speak of depth, of complexity, and of a queen who is more than her carefully constructed image.
The wound in my side throbs, but I focus on pushing the pain back to keep the black veins from spreading further. Our journey to Darkmore will have to wait another day, I realize. In my current condition, I wouldn't make it halfway there.
Time passes strangely in Underland, minutes stretching and contracting like elastic. At some point, Scarlett’s lady’s maids bring my mirror to her room, leaving it atop the bedside table. I'm not sure how long I've been alone when Scarlett returns, her expression grave as she closes the door behind her.
"The assassin?" I ask, pushing myself up on the pillows despite the pain.
"Dead." She sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that I can smell the rose scent of her hair. "A suicide mechanism activated when we tried to question him. Some kind of crystal embedded at the base of his skull. It... consumed him from within."
"Like the corruption in the man we captured at the border." I gesture to my wound. "Like this, but accelerated."
She nods, her gaze dropping to my bandaged side. "How much pain are you in?"
"I've had worse." It's not entirely a lie. The physical pain is manageable—I've suffered more severe injuries during rituals. But the crystal's corruption, the way it fights against my very essence... that's new. Disturbing .
"Liar." Scarlett's hand comes to rest beside mine on the bed, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the warmth of her skin. "The crystal's poison is unlike anything our physicians have seen."
"Mara's work, undoubtedly." I shift slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. "She always was creative with her cruelty."
Scarlett's eyes darken with anger. "She'll pay for this. For the attack on the border, for sending assassins, for hurting—" She cuts herself off, but the unspoken word hangs between us.
For hurting me .
"We need to understand what she's doing before we can counter it effectively." I gesture toward my mirror. "If I could just—"
"No." She places her hand over mine, stopping me. "You've lost too much blood already. Using your power now could accelerate the crystal’s progress."
She's right, of course, though I hate to admit it.
"Then we're at an impasse," I say, frustration evident in my voice. "We need information, but my mirror requires blood to function."
Scarlett is quiet for a moment, chewing on the inside of her cheek while she thinks. Then she looks up, those green eyes bright with sudden inspiration. "What if... what if we used my blood?"
"What?" The suggestion is so unexpected I'm not sure I've heard her correctly.
"Your mirror shows possible futures when activated by blood magic," she says, excitement building in her voice. "What if we combined our magics again, like in the garden? Your blood magic, my heart magic—would the mirror accept that as a substitute?"
The idea is unprecedented. Blood mirrors have existed for generations in Darkmore, and they've always been activated by the blood of their owners. The magic doesn't share.
Except... with Scarlett, it does . Our magics blend and strengthen each other in ways that should be impossible. In the garden, when we touched, power flowed between us freely. During battle, our magics complemented each other perfectly.
"It's never been done," I say slowly. "The mirror is designed to respond only to Darkmore blood."
"But things are changing," she insists. "The roses, the fountain, our magic—everything we thought we understood is transforming. Why not this, too?"
She has a point.
"It could be dangerous," I warn her. "These mirrors are inherently unstable. That's why they're bound to a single bloodline—it creates a controlled connection. Adding a different kind of magic, a different kind of blood..."
"We won't know until we try." She draws a small knife from her robe pocket. Before I can protest, she slices her palm, crimson welling along the cut. "We need information, Ravenna. We need to understand what Mara is planning."
I should refuse. The rational part of me, the queen who has survived through caution and control, knows this is reckless. But the wound in my side throbs, and assassins have already breached Underland's defenses. We don’t have time for caution.
"Give me your hand," I say.
Scarlett moves closer, sitting beside me on the bed. She holds out her bleeding palm, and I place mine beneath it, careful not to reopen my own wounds. Her blood falls onto my skin, warm and impossibly red.
"Now touch the mirror," I instruct. "Just a drop or two of blood. I'll let my magic flow into it without giving too much."
She reaches for the mirror on the bedside table, pressing her bloodied fingertip to its surface. I place my hand over hers, feeling our magic flow together once more.
Our words come too naturally. "Mirror mirror on the wall," we say in unison. "Show us what Mara plans."
For a moment, nothing happens. The mirror's surface remains obstinately reflective, refusing to respond to our combined request. Then, slowly, silver mist begins to form. But this is different from the mirror's usual visions. The mist isn't just silver anymore—threads of red weave through it, creating patterns that remind me of the water in Scarlett's fountain.
Images begin to form, but they're unlike any the mirror has shown before. Instead of possible futures branching out like trees, we see something more linear. More certain. As if combining our magics has somehow clarified the mirror's vision, removing the element of possibility and leaving only probability.
We see Mara in what appears to be a chamber deep beneath a castle—Edmund's fortress, perhaps. She stands before an altar made of those same magic-draining crystals, their surface etched with symbols I've never seen before. Blood drips from her palm onto the crystalline surface, but it's not red. It's black, corrupted, wrong .
Around her, figures in iron armor stand perfectly still, their eyes vacant, their expressions empty. Not soldiers but puppets, controlled by whatever magic Mara now wields.
"She's building an army," Scarlett whispers, horror evident in her voice. "Using those crystals to control them."
But that's not all. The mirror shows us more. A map of three kingdoms—Underland, Darkmore, and Ironwood—spread out on a table. Crystal markers placed at strategic points along all borders. Mara's finger tracing paths of invasion, her mouth moving as she explains her plan to a figure just beyond our view.
"She plans to attack both our kingdoms simultaneously," I realize. "Using these crystal-controlled soldiers."
The vision shifts again. We see a vast underground chamber, larger than the first. At its center is a pool of liquid that seems to drink in light itself. Not water, but something alive in a way that makes my skin crawl. Mara kneels at its dark, bubbling edge, dipping her hands into its depths.
"What is that?" Scarlett asks.
"I don't know." A chill runs through me as I watch my sister commune with whatever lurks in that pool. "Something old. Something that should have remained buried."
The mirror's surface begins to crack further, fractures spreading outward from the point where Scarlett's blood first touched it. Our combined magic is too strong, too wild for its ancient structure. The vision begins to break apart, fragments of images flashing too quickly to fully comprehend.
Armies marching. Crystal weapons glowing with stolen magic. My sister, transformed into something not human. And Scarlett—Scarlett lying motionless on a battlefield, her red hair spread around her like spilled wine...
"No," I gasp as I pull away, breaking our connection. The vision shatters, the mirror's surface going dark.
We sit in silence for a moment, both processing what we've seen. Scarlett's hand finds mine again, our fingers intertwining almost without conscious thought. The comfort of her touch grounds me, giving me something to focus on besides the horrors the mirror revealed.
The dark mirror lies between us, more cracked than before but still intact. I wonder if it will ever show clear visions again, or if this damage is permanent.
"I need to get to Darkmore," I say. "I need to inform my commander of what Mara has discovered beneath Ironwood. Of what’s coming."
"You're in no condition to travel." Scarlett gestures to my bandaged side. "You've used too much magic and it’s late."
"There's no time to wait. If Mara is preparing for simultaneous attacks—"
"Then rushing into a journey that might kill you won't help either of our kingdoms." Her voice softens. "Rest tonight. Let our combined magic continue healing you. We'll leave for Darkmore tomorrow, when you're stronger."
I want to argue, but exhaustion is catching up to me. Blood loss, magical expenditure—my body is reaching its limits, no matter what my determination demands. And Scarlett's right. Collapsing on the road to Darkmore would serve no one.
"One night," I concede. "But we leave at dawn, regardless of my condition."
She nods, seeming to understand that this is a point I won't bend on. "Dawn it is. I'll have everything prepared."
An awkward silence falls between us as we both become aware of our situation. I'm in her bed, wounded but stable. Protocol would dictate that I be moved to my own chambers, that propriety be maintained. We are, after all, queens of separate kingdoms, our alliance new and fragile.
But the thought of moving, of losing the comfort of her presence, is almost nauseating.
"You should rest too," I say, attempting to address the unspoken question. "It's been a long day."
"I'll have a cot brought in," she begins, but I cut her off.
"Don't be ridiculous." I pat the space beside me, ignoring the way my heart races at my own boldness. "Your bed is big enough for both of us, and I'm not going to make you sleep on a cot in your own chambers."
She seems surprised by the suggestion, those green eyes widening slightly. "Are you sure? You're hurt, and I wouldn't want to—"
"I'm sure." And I am, with a certainty that would be alarming if I had the energy to examine it properly. "Unless you're afraid?"
"Of you? Please." She slips under the covers beside me, careful to maintain a distance. "I could have you executed, you know."
"Mm, but you won't." My voice is growing heavy with sleep, the events of the day finally taking their toll. "You like me too much."
I hear her shift slightly beside me. "Perhaps I do."
The confession, soft as it is, follows me into dreams of odd Underland creatures.
But as sleep claims me fully, my mind offers one last image: Scarlett and I in a garden where red and black roses grow together, our magics intertwined, our futures no longer separate but shared.
It should be a nightmare, the loss of independence, the vulnerability to another.
Instead, it feels like coming home .