43. Caspian
Caspian
Laughter slithers through the square, sharp and serpentine, curling between the crumbling stones of Nether Reach. The tower looms behind me, a black spire needled into the gray abyss above, ribbed with spires and lattices.
Today is revelry day. A celebration of Mother’s conquest.
I lean back on my throne overlooking the courtyard. Crafted of shadows, my thorns all jagged points and flickering edges, yet it fits me far too well. The corporeal darkness coils around my shoulders like a lover’s touch, disappearing into a waterfall of inky smoke.
At my feet, Rosalina perches on the first step of the dais, half-turned toward the crowd, half toward me. Her body glows, barely covered in slivers of silver and onyx silk. Her legs are draped to one side. She plays her role perfectly, fingers brushing up and down my thigh, eyes watching only me.
The perfect plaything for a prince.
My gaze lingers too long on the line of her throat, the dip above her hips, the curve of—
I force myself to look away.
It’s a performance. All of it. The throne. The revelry. Her.
Me.
Across the square, creatures howl and cheer.
Harpies dive through the smoky air, trailing ribbons of what might be cloth…
or might be flesh. Goblins overturn wine barrels and guzzle what pours out.
Trolls arm-wrestle on rock tables, shattering them with each blow.
Even the wicked-eyed fae laugh and drink and twirl with a hazy glee.
And at the center of it all, on a pillar of dark stone, rests the rose.
Encased in its bell jar, it draws the eyes of everyone here.
It’s going to be very tricky to draw attention away from that thing.
I sigh and shift my gaze higher. Above me, suspended by shadows, dangles a cage. Within it, the High Prince of Winter.
Keldarion is shirtless. Dirt smudges the hard planes of his chest, white hair limp around his face. A tattered rag clings to his waist. His eyes—gods, those eyes—burn with frost and fury.
He hasn’t looked away from me once.
Playing your part oh so well, I purr in his mind.
The ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He touches the collar that I returned to his neck. Keep it in your pants, Cas.
Funny. Rosie joins in our minds. You both are so funny. Meanwhile, there’s a gargoyle down there who hasn’t looked away from my chest in five minutes.
Only two thin strips of cloth cover her round breasts, and they hang so beautiful and big, her nipples poking through the fabric. I lick my lips. Want me to impale him on a thorn?
Rosalina shifts, turning her back to the gargoyle who finally blinks, drool sliding down his chin.
It’s alright, Rosalina says. He won’t remember much.
No, none of the creatures here will. Not with the lotus flower potion I added to the wine, one of my sister’s many creations. The crowd will remember enough to help with the plan, sure, but the details of this night will always be misty.
Which is good, because I don’t want anyone except for the three of us to recall what’s about to happen to Rosalina.
I clench my fist on the armrest. Shadows ripple and hiss. A horn blares. Another barrel shatters. The crowd screams for blood, for music, for madness.
And I smile, cruel and cold and hollow.
Let the monsters believe I’m one of them.
Let Keldarion pretend to hate me. Stars know he has so much practice with it.
Let Rosalina pretend she’s mine. Because despite everything I’ve done, somehow she still is.
Soon, the game will change.
And I’ll burn this whole cursed tower down.
A hush ripples through the crowd. From a low balcony carved into the tower’s obsidian wall, she appears.
Mother.
Sira steps out in a dark gown, her pale hands resting on the curved railing.
Her hair coils around her head in a crown of braided green ribbons, her eyes catching the firelight like gems. Behind her stands Faustrius, her ever-faithful guard, his broadsword gleaming.
Below her, the monsters of the Below raise their faces to watch their queen.
Including me.
“My children,” she begins, voice like poisoned silk, smooth and unmistakable, “what a sight you are.”
A ripple of cheers, snarls, howls. She waits, unmoved.
“Today, we celebrate the return of our influence, of our precious rose, not for its indulgences alone but for what it means. We are no longer the castoffs. The broken. The forgotten. We are the future.”
The rose pulses beneath its glass. My jaw tightens.
“The princes of the seasonal realms sit on gilded thrones, fat with power and drunk on privilege. But soon, they shall kneel.” Her gaze flicks toward Keldarion’s cage, then returns to the crowd. “Soon, we will take back what was denied to us. Not just revenge but dominion.”
The cheers swell. A goblin tosses a firecracker into the air; it explodes in green sparks. The crowd roars.
“With this rose,” Sira continues, her voice rising above the din, “we shall create others. Children. Brothers. Sisters. An army. Eternal. Ours. Obedient.”
Obedient, I think. To her alone.
She doesn’t want freedom. She wants control. A land of puppets with her fingers on every string.
The crowd doesn’t care. Doesn’t know. The Prince of Thorns twisted her words so prettily when he invited them here. They scream her name, pounding feet and claws against the stone. It’s ecstasy. Frenzy.
She lifts her hand in farewell, already turning from the railing. “Enjoy your festivities,” she says, almost as an afterthought. “My son will ensure everything runs…as expected.”
Then she’s gone, vanishing back into the darkness of the tower, her long train trailing behind her.
Faustrius takes one last look across the balcony down at me. A warning in his glance, or something else. Can he see my eyes no longer shine with green, that there isn’t a single flame bursting around me?
No, he’s too far away.
Then he follows his queen inside the Tower of Nether Reach.
Of course she’s leaving. She always does. This aspect—the drinking, the bodies, the noise—is beneath her. It’s base. Crude.
She never understood how well I play this part.
I drain the goblet of wine beside me and rise from the throne. Shadows lick at my boots and curl up my spine in adoration.
Rosalina tilts her head, lashes low over storm-bright eyes. I press my mouth near her ear. “Be ready.”
Her lips curve, just a flicker. And then I’m standing before my people, going to do exactly what they expect of me.
Drink. Dance. Fuck the night away.
The heir of the dark on parade. And if this works out, every eye in this damned place will be on my Rose instead of Sira’s.