Chapter 17
Lowan is gone. One moment, his fingers were working me into a frenzy, and the next, he’s striding out the door, summoned by the King. Promising he’ll be back. I pace. My head is spinning. What just happened? How can it happen again?
Then I see it—the gown draped across the bed. Green and gleaming, like it’s waiting to swallow me. Lowan’s gone to the King. Which means the King will want me next. Reception, introductions, whatever this evening is supposed to be. My heart kicks. This is really happening.
I drag the dress over my skin, fingers clumsy, hair still damp. My hands are shaking when there’s a knock. An attendant, all smiles and bows, asks if I’d like help with my hair. I nod because I don’t trust my own fingers.
When the attendant finishes, she slips out with a quiet bow, leaving me alone. I drift toward the mirror, drawn by the faint shimmer of candlelight on glass. And I stop. For a moment, I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me.
Her hair—my hair—is pinned high in a regal twist, curls of deep red catching fire in the lamplight.
My skin glows warm, a soft brown kissed with gold, smooth despite the fear coiled in my stomach.
The powder she brushed across my cheekbones makes them appear higher and sharper, while she darkened my already full lips into something lush and almost dangerous.
But it’s the eyes that steal even my breath. Bright. Startling. Vivid green, clearer than I’ve ever seen them. I don’t look like a girl who stumbled through the forest. Not anymore. The sight rattles me. For a heartbeat, I wonder who Lowan will see, then I’m just waiting again.
Lowan doesn’t return. The adjoining door is locked.
I nibble the last grapes off the platter and sip water, but not the champagne.
My stomach is knotted too tightly. Finally, I decide to check on Selene and Zillah to see if they were summoned as well.
At least then I won’t be alone. But when I turn the handle, it's locked.
A cold prickle climbs my spine. Locked in?
I jiggle the handle harder. Nothing. My pulse hammers.
Why would they lock me in? I turn back to the room, scanning—my weapons.
I need my blades. Gone. The realization sinks like lead in my chest. The attendant.
She must have taken them when she fussed over my hair.
I hadn’t noticed—how could I not notice? My sword, my dagger—both gone.
For a moment, I feel hollow. But then I remember: Lowan’s gift runs in me.
Anything can be a weapon. I grab the small knife from the platter.
Meant for cheese, dull and pitiful—but it fits easily into my hand.
I slide it into the folds of my gown, tucking it against my thigh where I can draw fast if I have to.
My old clothes are gone too. All I have are the gauze and silk of this gown.
Trapped, dressed like prey. I turn toward the windows.
Second floor. Not impossible. I could break one, climb out, take my chances.
I drag a chair closer, testing the weight in my hands.
If I smash the glass, I’ll have to run. Immediately. No hesitation.
But what about Lowan? What about Selene and Zillah? If they’re still inside these walls, still in danger—would I abandon them? The thought roots me in place. Before I can decide, I hear it: the heavy clunk of a lock turning. Footsteps. Someone is at my door—no more time.
I slip into the shadows by the bathing chamber, flattening myself against the wall. My fingers brush the cheese knife hidden at my hip. Through the sliver of space between door and frame, I watch—heart in my throat—as the door creaks open. The door closes with a soft click.
A tall man steps inside, armored but not heavily. He doesn’t storm in; he prowls, gaze sweeping the chamber as if he already knows I’m here but wants to make me sweat.
“Miss Donovan.” His voice is low, measured. “I know you’re here. I’ve come to escort you to the King.”
My pulse thunders. Escort me… or arrest me? He doesn’t move further in, only stands near the door as if he’s keeping every exit in reach. His eyes skim the room, sharp and assessing. I stay still, tucked in the shadows, fingers tight around the hidden knife.
He exhales through his nose, almost patiently. “I understand what this must look like. But you must also understand the precariousness of your appearance here. We must take measures. Precautions.”
Precautions? Against me? My stomach twists. But he says it so flatly, so reasonably, it could almost make sense.
“My name is Tambrose,” he adds after a pause. “I serve Queen Calidora. She sent me to collect you. A gesture of good faith.”
I whisper before I can stop myself. “Good faith about what?”
His mouth flickers—almost a smile. “About your friends. They’ve already spoken with the King. If you come with me, His Majesty can explain.”
Lowan. Zillah. Selene. My throat tightens. If that’s true, they’re with him right now. I have no way out. He knows I’m here. I know Lowan was summoned. Didn’t Lowan say the King was known for kindness? Slowly, I step from the shadows.
Tambrose’s eyes catch on me and flare just slightly—surprise, appreciation, maybe even hunger—as he takes in the gown, the hair, the paint across my lips. For a breath, he looks like he’s forgotten his own purpose. Then he inclines his head. “There you are.”
His arm extends, not shackling me but guiding, gentleman-like. “If you’ll come.”
I hesitate, then ask, “My friends—are they safe?”
“Of course,” he says smoothly, curling his fingers lightly against my elbow. “Safe… and already on their way home.”
A chill slices straight through the silk on my skin. Home. My blood runs cold. I’m alone. Tambrose says nothing. Neither do I.
Lowan’s voice whispers through me: Trust your instincts. Guard what’s yours. So I keep my mouth shut, let the silence wrap tight as chains while Tambrose guides me through the corridors. His grip is firm at my elbow—polite, but unyielding.
Every step I take feels louder than it should. My heart hammers, but I force myself to remember what Zillah drilled into me: shields up, always. I draw my magic inward, lock it down until I can almost feel her nodding approval.
I have no blade. No dagger. Nothing but the useless little cheese knife tucked against my gown.
But then I remind myself again—I have Lowan’s gift.
Anything can be a weapon. My eyes dart over every corridor we pass, cataloging possibilities.
A candlestick. A vase. A tapestry rod. My body will know what to do if the time comes.
And beneath it all, I can feel it—the well of power that isn’t just mine, but his too. It’s wild, unpolished, unpredictable, but it’s there. I’ve lashed out before. I can do it again. By the time we reach the throne room, I’ve almost steadied my breath. Almost.
The doors swing open, and the vast chamber yawns before me: high ceilings, cold stone, and only a handful of people within.
The King and Queen sit side by side atop their dais, clad now in black.
She is draped in sheer darkness glittering with jewels, her silver crown alive with fire.
He wears a robe of deep sable, a regal cloak sweeping his shoulders, and a crown more severe, unadorned silver.
Tambrose releases me at the foot of the dais.
The Queen’s eyes find him before they ever land on me.
Her smile curves slowly, indulgently, and far too intimately for a ruler greeting her guard.
Tambrose answers with a flare of his body, squeezing my arm sharply and involuntarily before hiding it behind his usual stone mask.
But I feel it. I hear it. The low rumble that escapes his chest as he takes his place at the dais.
Not a warning. Not a threat. A growl of want.
My stomach twists. Whatever binds him to her, it isn’t loyalty alone. Another guard stands near the King. A few more keep to the shadows. Then the doors close with a thunderous clang. I am alone in the center of the chamber. I bow low, eyes fixed on the floor.
“Metra Donovan,” the King says, voice smooth, commanding. “We finally meet. I have heard so much about you.”
“Your Majesty,” I murmur.
“I understand from your escorts that you have no explanation for how you came to us. No story of your origin. But that you seek help to return home.”
My hands tremble, but I keep my head bent. “Yes, Your Majesty. We were hoping you might have the answers I seek.”
His tone warms, but it feels wrong. “Oh, I am sure we can be of great help to one another. You may rise.”
I lift my chin. And freeze. My blood goes ice cold.
His eyes are not green. Not startling, not kind.
They are pits of black onyx, devouring every trace of light.
His face might have been gentle once, but with those eyes?
It is monstrous. This is not what Lowan’s father described. This is not what I was told.
I school my face to stillness and force my lips to shape words. “Yes, Your Majesty. I can give you as much as I know.”
“Excellent.” His smile deepens, but it is not kind. “I have had a long journey, and I would like refreshment. My guard will see you to your quarters, and then we shall begin.”
A guard steps forward and takes my arm. I allow him to lead me, try not to shake, try to believe I’ll return to the chamber I left.
But as we reach the doors, his hand moves fast—metal flashes.
Before I can blink, shackles snap shut around my wrists.
A jolt tears through me. My breath catches; my knees almost buckle.
The magic inside me—Lowan’s gift, my spark—slams silent as if someone has doused a flame. It doesn’t trickle away; it’s just… gone. Dormant. Untouchable. I gasp, choking on the emptiness. I feel helplessly mortal again. No weapon. No power. Nothing.