Chapter 7
Amara
Ifeel strange tonight. The moonlight spills through the balcony, draping my room in a somber blue hue that casts everything in an eerie, spectral glow.
But it’s not just the melancholy light. Something is different.
As though my eyes are open for the first time, and that I can see this pretty cage, this tortuous world, for what it truly is.
It’s not the shimmer I’ve learned to spot when the Fae weave their illusions.
That I can see plainly now, their tricks laid bare.
No, this is deeper. As if I’m seeing the very essence of everything around me.
Not just the paint, the wood, or the stone, but the imprint they leave on the world, the threads that tie it all together.
I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my hands raised above me.
Slowly, I move them through the air, and as they drift, they leave behind a trail of silvery glitter, like faint stardust. If I look closer, closer still, I can see the blood coursing through my veins beneath the skin, beneath the muscle.
My hands drop to my sides, and a shiver crawls over me.
I see all this with my collar on, so it cannot be magic.
What are they doing to me?
A twist churns in my stomach, and I glance down, catching a movement so strong it’s visible even through my dress.
This may be my first pregnancy, but I know enough to recognize that I’m larger than I should be for how far along I am.
I devour every meal, leaving not a scrap behind while always hungering for more, and I’m endlessly thirsty. Is this because my child is half-Fae?
A sharp kick suddenly jolts me, as if the child is answering my question with an emphatic yes.
It already has a temper, that much is certain.
But with parents like me and Daedalus, it was never destined to be a calm, placid thing.
I smooth my hands over my belly, trying to soothe it, and begin to hum softly. Slowly, the flutters and flips quiet.
The melody has no words, just a tune born of the sounds I’ve heard in moments of stillness: birdsong, rustling leaves, the whisper of the wind. I hum it often to my child, not just to comfort them, but to calm myself as well.
Soon, I’m certain my child has drifted to sleep, but sleep evades me.
My gifts can’t save me here. Even if the collar around my neck didn’t suppress my power, I have no earth to draw from, no Souls to channel.
If I could free Ashen, we would escape with ease, but that would mean flying to the cave where he is imprisoned and somehow breaking the enchantments that bind him, dulling his power as effectively as the collar dulls mine.
I hold on to hope, but I can feel Ashen’s slipping away. I fear the next time I’m allowed a visit with him, I’ll find his cage empty, nothing left but a faint wisp of smoke.
Suddenly, my thoughts are interrupted by the familiar groan of shifting rock. I turn toward the balcony, watching as clouds drift past, but it isn’t the clouds moving. It’s Driftspire. Has it already been that long?
Every few days, the Ithranor gather and channel their magic to move the city to a new location. But where they take us, I never know. That information is not shared with me, nor am I meant to be privy to it.
The thought gnaws at me. If I have no clue where I am, what chance does Daedalus have of finding me? Am I to wait for him? For how much longer? Weeks? Months? Years?
No, I cannot wait for him.
I cannot wait for Ashen to fade into nothingness or for my child to be born a prisoner.
If I want freedom, I must take the bargain Anethesis offers.
Endure the trials, and I will be released.
I drift in and out of tormenting awareness, blinking through fragments of sleep, until the sun finally rises.
Stumbling out of bed, I wander dazed to the balcony, squinting into the sharp morning light.
The sky is flawless, a stunning blue. The rocky islands of Driftspire hover around me, and when I glance down, I see nothing but an endless sea of white, misty clouds.
No landmarks. No clues. Just emptiness. Once again, I’m granted no insight into where we might be, but deep in my gut, I feel it.
I’m even further from Daed than I was before.
A knock sounds at the door, but I don’t bother answering. After a pause, it creaks open, and the maid peeks in, carrying a silver tray.
She doesn’t say a word, just hurries inside with her head bowed, as though even looking at me might curse her. She lifts the dome lid from the tray, revealing a vibrant sprawl of freshly cut fruit. Then scurries out, closing the door softly behind her.
I glance over my shoulder at the platter. Some of the fruit is familiar, but other pieces, bright pink with large black seeds or brilliant yellow with an almost glowing flesh, I’ve never seen before. Could this be a clue to where we are? These fruits aren’t common in the Sundered Kingdoms.
But the thought doesn’t linger. Hunger wins.
I dive upon the platter, scooping up pieces of fruit and biting into the firm, sweet flesh with urgency, half-afraid it might vanish if I don’t eat it fast enough.
The juices drip down my chin, sticky and sweet, and anyone watching would think I was being starved.
If nothing else, I can say my captors feed me well. They even respect the fact I do not eat meat, unlike my Mordorin hosts.
When I’m finished, the tray is littered with mangled skins and scattered seeds, yet the hollowness in my stomach remains. I could devour three more platters like this, and it might not make a difference. This baby is insatiable.
I glance at the water jug, debating whether to drink straight from it, but I decide to maintain a semblance of decorum and pour myself a cup instead.
Taking a seat at the chess table, I notice the board has been reset. Clearly tidied while I was trapped in the maze of mirrors. The game I’ve been playing with the Golden Son is wiped clean. I have no desire to see him, yet I have my first move planned out.
I sip my water, avoiding the chess pieces, trying to keep my hands from reaching for them. But eventually, I give in. Setting the cup down, I pick up a black pawn and move it forward on the board.
There’s another knock on the door, but before I have time to respond, Anethesis glides in, his eyes flickering toward the tray with a hint of surprise.
“I’m glad to see your appetite is strong,” he says smoothly. “I’ll inform the kitchen to double your servings.”
I don’t acknowledge him, but I don’t argue either. At this point, extra portions feel less like a luxury and more like a necessity.
An awkward silence stretches between us, and I lack the patience to draw this interaction out any longer.
“Is there something you want, Anethesis?”
“Yes,” he replies promptly, as if he’s been waiting for permission. I still find his placating demeanor strange, especially coming from my jailer. “It’s time for your next test.”
“Already?” I ask, unable to hide my annoyance.
He steeples his fingers beneath his chin, calm as ever. “I’m afraid so. The sooner we complete these tests, the sooner you’ll be free, Princess.”
I can’t deny the logic, infuriating though it may be. If freedom lies at the end of this, I should be grateful for his eagerness to move things along, especially after weeks of confinement, reduced to playing chess with my enemy.
“Very well,” I reply tersely. “What must I do next?”
“The Test of Threads,” Anethesis says, his voice smooth and measured. “To measure your control over the threads of magic.”
“Magic?” I echo, incredulous. “I don’t have any magic. And whatever I might possess is severed by this.” I gesture to the invisible collar wrapped around my neck.
Without a word, Anethesis waves his hand, and the collar vanishes. I rub at my neck where it had pressed against my skin, glaring at him with narrowed eyes.
“This is bold of you,” I warn.
He remains unfazed, his indifference grating.
“I think you are wiser than that, Princess. You know the limitations of your power, as do we. We’ve been studying you since the moment you arrived.
” He pauses, his jade eyes boring into mine.
“Your strengths. Your weaknesses. And the truth is, even without the collar, you cannot escape Driftspire. Even if you managed to dispatch me and my brethren waiting just beyond that door, where would you go? There’s nothing but sky and mist. A single misstep, and you’d plummet to your death.
” He tilts his head, staring at me intently.
“I don’t think that’s the outcome you desire. ”
I grind my teeth, a wave of fury surging through me. I am so tired of being manipulated by Fae. They’ve haunted my life from the beginning, different shades, different magic, different allures, but always the same in one respect. None of them can be trusted.
“Let’s get this over with,” I snarl, pushing to my feet.
Anethesis shakes his head, clicking his tongue as if scolding a child.
“This test can be completed right here, Princess,” he says smoothly. “Let us begin.”
Anethesis stretches his arms wide, and the walls around us dissolve into an endless stretch of rippling midnight blue.
The furniture vanishes in an instant, leaving us alone in this strange, boundless place.
It feels as though the ground beneath me is shifting, but I’m not moving.
My feet remain rooted, yet I struggle to maintain my balance as this surreal realm swirls and undulates.
A wave of nausea rises, and I clutch my stomach, dry-heaving as the world pitches and rolls like a stormy sea.
“Breathe,” Anethesis says, his tone maddeningly calm. “It will pass soon enough.”
He lifts his hand, and the air ripples.
Before me, a shattered mirror materializes, its jagged shards suspended in midair, each fragment catching the light and splintering it into fractured reflections of my face.
Beside it hovers an hourglass, its golden frame carved with intricate, swirling runes that seem to shift as I watch, while inside silver sand falls in a slow, shimmering stream, each grain marking the start of a countdown I can feel in my bones.
“The Test of Threads,” Anethesis says, his voice echoing around me. “Weave it whole again. Use the threads of magic that bind all things. Your time is limited, Princess.”
Without another word, he vanishes, abandoning me to my task.
I stare at the broken mirror, my reflection scattered and distorted across its many pieces.
My heart pounds. Magic? How am I supposed to do this when my power has always been stifled or stolen?
The collar may be gone, but I’ve never wielded the sort of magic required for this task freely. This is impossible.
Still, I stand before the shattered mirror, extending my hands hesitantly. I try to focus, reaching deep within myself, searching for some spark of energy, some hidden well of power. My fingers tremble, and I press harder, willing the shards to move, to respond.
Nothing happens.
The silver sand slips through the hourglass, each grain a cruel reminder of time slipping away. A knot tightens in my chest. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve failed.
But then, pain.
A sharp sting on my arm makes me gasp. I look down to find a thin, fresh cut stretching across my skin, beads of blood welling up along its line. Confused, I clutch my arm, staring at the wound as my mind races. What caused this?
Before I can gather my thoughts, another cut slashes across my opposite arm, the sting sharper this time.
My breath quickens as the realization dawns.
This is part of the test. The longer I fail, the more the magic will punish me.
And I don’t want to know what will happen when the last grain of sand falls.
Panic claws at me, but I force myself to focus. I stare at the shattered mirror, closing my eyes and trying to feel it, to sense the threads of magic that Anethesis spoke of. I reach deeper inside myself than I ever have before, past the fear, past the doubt, searching for that elusive spark.
It’s faint at first. A shimmer in my mind’s eye, like spider silk glinting in sunlight. I reach for it, and suddenly, I see the mirror differently. The shards glow faintly, connected by invisible threads, their broken edges aching to be whole again.
I stretch my hands over the pieces, willing the threads to bind them together.
Slowly, haltingly, they begin to respond.
The shards quiver, then lift, their edges aligning as if pulled by unseen strings.
A glimmer of hope sparks within me, but my concentration wavers as pain flares again. A fresh cut across my cheek.
I grit my teeth and push forward, ignoring the stinging lines that now mark my arms and face. The fabric of the mirror becomes clearer, its imprint on the world unraveling and reforming under my will. The shards piece together, one by one, like a puzzle slotting into place.
The sand continues to fall, and so do the cuts. A line across my collarbone. Another down my leg. My body screams in protest, but I refuse to stop. I pour everything I have into the mirror, weaving its threads with my mind, pulling it back from its fractured state.
My mind reels with everything I’m not ready to lose.
The life I’ve barely begun to live. It cannot end here, not in this place, far from the people and places that I love.
Not before my child has a chance to feel the soft earth of the Grove beneath their feet or the icy rain of Baev’kalath on their skin.
A fierce rage rises, feeding on my fear, burning away the edges of my panic. Anethesis did not warn me that these tests weren’t just trials of skill but trials of survival, paid for with my blood, maybe even my life.
Damn the Fae and their twisted games. Damn their lies wrapped in pretty words.
I am not a pawn to be played with.
I clench my fists, feeling the slick warmth of my blood on my skin, and let the fire within me roar to life. If this is the cost of their test, then I will pay it, but on my terms, not theirs. They will not break me.
As the final grains of sand slip through the hourglass, the mirror snaps into place, whole and gleaming, its surface flawless once more. Relief washes over me, but only for a moment.
A searing pain slashes across my throat, and the world tilts.
My hands fly to my neck. Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision, and the last thing I see before everything fades is my reflection in the mirror, my face going pale beneath a crimson mask, blood seeping between my fingers as they clutch my throat.
Then, nothing.