CH. 9 The Princes Pet
When Hegar barges into the servant quarters, I'm in the middle of arguing with a broom.
"It's not my fault you can't sweep straight," I hiss, pointing at it like an insulted general. "You lack discipline."
"Drew," Hegar says flatly from the doorway.
I jump and twirl around, the broom clattering to the floor. "Hegar! You scared the filth out of me. What now? Did your Prince finally decide to execute me for existing?"
"Not yet," he mutters. "He wants to see you."
I blink. "He remembers I exist?"
He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You're in your... day form, right?"
I look down at my hands — wrinkled, lovely, wart-studded perfection. "Yes. Why?"
"Good." He crosses his arms. "If the Queen or anyone else asks, you're my distant relative. Newly arrived. Training under me as a magic apprentice."
My mouth drops. "Relative? Apprentice? Hegar, we've known each other for three days. You can't just claim me as family—"
"Would you rather be executed as a witch?"
I think for half a second. "Cousin Hegar it is!"
We make our way to one of the inner courtyards. The air is thick with jasmine and arrogance. The Prince waits beneath a marble archway, his black coat gleaming under the moonlight. He's idly flipping a dagger between his fingers when we arrive.
Sorien's gaze flicks up at once. "Who is this?"
I freeze. For a terrifying heartbeat, I think he's recognized me — the woman who accidentally watched him mutilate his brother. But no, his expression is merely one of irritation.
"A new face," he says. "A relative of yours, Hegar?"
Hegar bows slightly. "Yes, my Prince. A distant cousin. My new apprentice. She's... gifted."
"Gifted," Sorien repeats slowly, eyes narrowing on my warts. "In what way?"
"Herbalism," Hegar says smoothly. "And... frog identification."
"Frogs?" Sorien echoes, voice flat.
I beam. "Yes! Very important work. Can't have your frogs misidentified. There's a whole species crisis."
Hegar shoots me a warning look that could melt stone. I shut up.
Sorien stares at me a moment longer, his lip curling faintly. "How unfortunate for you, Hegar. You've inherited your cousin's... face."
I grin. "Thank you! I'm told it's hereditary."
That actually gets a snort out of him — the smallest sound, half amusement, half disbelief. "You're an odd one."
"I try."
He shakes his head and waves a hand. "Enough of that. I want you to fetch the other one. The girl from the parade — the servant you brought with you."
Hegar stiffens. "My Prince, she cannot."
Sorien's gaze sharpens. "Cannot?"
"She's... allergic," Hegar says carefully.
"Allergic?" Sorien repeats, his tone dangerously calm.
"Yes," Hegar replies without missing a beat. "To sunlight. The poor thing burns under it. She can only come out at night."
There's a long silence. Sorien stares at him, unblinking. Then — a scoff.
"You're serious."
"As a plague," Hegar says.
Sorien exhales sharply through his nose and mutters something under his breath that sounds very much like a curse. "Pathetic. A fragile servant, a cousin with warts, and a brother who can't keep his trousers on. Truly, the Moon favors me."
He turns, his cape swaying dramatically behind him. "Enough distractions. Come. Both of you."
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"The grounds where the Trials are held," Sorien says. "If the King dies, this is where the Seven Challenges begin. I want to see the place again."
Hegar falls into step beside him, and I follow, trailing behind like an ugly duckling in a ballroom. The palace quiets as we pass — the distant hum of noble laughter giving way to the echo of our footsteps.
We walk into the open arena at the heart of the palace gardens.
The moonlight makes everything too sharp — the carved stone pillars, the silver-tiled floor, the seven circular platforms rising from the earth.
Each bears an emblem carved into its surface: a sword, a scale, a flame, a crown, a chalice, a beast, and a mirror.
Even I feel the hum of power in the air.
"The Seven Challenges," Sorien says quietly, as if to himself. "Each one tests a different virtue — courage, wisdom, strength, purity, loyalty, faith, and truth."
I blink. "Sounds tedious."
Hegar gives me a warning nudge, but Sorien just huffs a bitter laugh. "Tedious, yes. And rigged. Each Prince must complete all seven to claim the crown. Fail one, and you die. Fail none, and you win the throne — and the Moon's blessing."
"Charming," I mutter. "So basically, a family tradition of murder."
Sorien doesn't deny it. "The Moon doesn't bless without blood."
He steps up onto one of the stone circles — the one carved with a mirror. His reflection shivers faintly on the polished surface, but something about it is... off. The reflected Sorien looks slightly older, harder, crueler.
He doesn't notice. I do.
The air around us feels suddenly heavy, charged. My witch senses twitch in warning.
"Hegar," I whisper. "This place reeks of magic. Old magic."
"Yes," he says quietly. "Older than the royal bloodline itself. The Challenges weren't made by men."
"Who then?"
"The Moon."
Sorien looks back over his shoulder. "If that's true, then she'll judge us all soon enough."
He steps off the platform, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. "Enough for tonight. Hegar — keep your cousin out of trouble. And keep your fragile little servant alive."
With that, he strides off toward the palace, shadow stretching long behind him.
As soon as he's gone, I turn to Hegar. "You lied beautifully. I'm proud of you."
He sighs. "I'm not sure if I saved you or doomed us both."
"Oh, definitely both." I smile, watching the moonlight ripple over the seven circles. "But isn't that what makes life exciting?"